The Cerebral Catalyst

Belt up, said the voice from behind me. It was unnerving. I was used to emergency exits left and right, to blow in here for top-up, to cabin doors to manual, to powering jets, to the bottom of my stomach sinking into the seat as I clutched hold of the armrest and to whoosh! But this was different. Did these things even have seats, let alone belts? My backside sank into a natural groove as I strapped the "seat" belt across my hips. Barely able to sit up on my hands, I gasped as my eyes watered. I shook. My head pounded. I breathed quickly.

It was a lousy opening, but getting there by carpet had saved me $10,000.

My budget would now stretch to a celebrity sibling lookalike romance. As Alfredo Maradona, I was to meet and fall in love with Valentina Travolta.

— Alfredo, would you say you were: —

a.) mediocre,
b.) average
or c.) second rate as a pro-soccer player?

— Valentina, would you say your acting and dancing career was: —

a.) overrated by John
b.) overshadowed by John
c.) overlooked by John?

These questions remained unanswered. As interfacing spectres of our former selves, we had other things on our "minds."

She was, quote, American, unquote, who turned out to be Belgian Flemish with a liking for “fan” fiction, British spelling in Harry Potter and doing air quotes with her virtual “fingers.” Back in "first" life, she said she had a website: The Omnipresence of "Unnecessary" Quote Marks.

— The name's Alfredo. You'll have to excuse me. I'm running away from British class society. My Northern Globish is as culturally loaded as your own Americanese, if you know what I mean.

— Valentina.

— Your "real" name?

— Almost.

— You?

— No.

Valentina and I “engineered” our meeting at a soccer riot outside the chip store. I bought her a pack of Liberty fries. She was an amalgam of all the other avatars I’d had before. I think I was "attracted" to her. I felt my pupils “dilate.”

Moving aside the bloodied “hooligan” and the broken glass on the bench I phished tentatively. Did she dig on Osama? One person's "terrorist" is, after all, another's cliché.

— Do you do any 9/11 conspiracies?

— Here’s where I go with it. The double whammy theory, she explained, as she blew out air in attempt to cool down the hot chip between her teeth.

She had promised she’d try to quit it with the air quotes while we "talked," but was failing marvelously. I'd always preferred them to italics. It was much harder to "do" Renaissance monk. The “66-99” thing with the fingers. Piece of cake.

— See. They “shot” Bobby Kennedy too. They shot him so we knew that the first one was no “accident.” They bombed Nagasaki for the same reason.

— Pappy’s “Oil” War, Junior’s “Oil” War.

— Exactly. The first tower. The second tower.

— So what about the Pentagon?

— There was the other commercial jet they "brought down" somewhere over Philly.

Before I could answer, a cyber cop pulled up. In blue braided biker and black leather highway patrol look and shades to protect his eyes from the dazzle of his “cool” motorcycle, he spoke to me in incongruous British Bobby.

— Excuse me sir. I’m afraid you’re not at liberty to discuss this topic further. Under the rules of play it states quite clearly we need conflict and resolution by now. Conflict and resolution, sunshine.

As he droned on, I checked out the bike. It must’ve cost a lot of virtuadollars. I’d have to see about trading in the “American” for one of those. She was “pretty” and all, but a Sleazy Rider.

— Officer? Can I just...?

He looked at me like I'd just flicked shit onto his knickerbocker glory.

— Do you know my favourite quote, son? He asked, ignoring my interruption.

— I can't wait for you to tell me, I said, about a thousand percent less sarcastic than I'd intended.

"I'd rather live one day as a real man than a 1,000 years as an avatar."

Valentina left me standing in the rain. I had a profound sense of visceral disgust she couldn't possibly understand. She rode off on the back of the Sleazy Rider without a bye or leave. That was 5,000 virtuadollars gone just like that. Damn!

Before going back to sleep, I switched back into the conventionally “real.” I'd try again tomorrow.

______________________________________
Phil Doran is a (UK) performance poet/comedian/teacher/father/writer. He has published work in Zygote in My Coffee and has also self-published a book of 60-odd short stories. More poems and fiction on www.thespaghettifaction.blogspot.com.

posted 04.29.08.

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