Death in the Simulatorium

I walk in a half-skip, racing the cars, then barrel full-hog down the sidewalk.

“What a day to be alive!”

I grab the shoulders of a sullen stranger and shake. He protests, I release him. I chase him with my words.

“I’m ready to live!”

The reason I am happy is the most good reason that there could possibly be. I am going to my favorite place in the world, which is the old simulatorium. What is a simulatorium you ask? For those so uncultured and uninitiated, and unable to separate the good things from the smuck, I present to thee a concept. Pay money, plug in, live many lives.

I stride the final block, and stand in its glory. This fine establishment stands between a vape parlor and sex shop. Both seem to be withering from the competition. The sign reads, in plain text, “SIMULATORIUM”, under which is printed, smaller, “State-legal”. A sign flickers “Open” in neon, and Christmas lights border everything. If one were to sidle up to the window, one would be treated to a 1/1000th scale version of the city. A miniature of the megatube train circles the whole deal. My current location is marked with an arrow, but instead of saying the usual, the text reads “EXIST HERE NOW”. I open the front door.

“Hello Ludja, fine work on the window display.”

“Yes my friend, it is good to see you. My best customer!”

Ludja is a semi-burnout, now reformed, and an upstanding shop owner. His parents are from Europe somewhere, and I was told his name means something deep and philosophical in another language. I told him what lugee means here in America.

“I think it’s time for another life, Ludja.”

“Yes sir! We just happen to specialize in that here”

Ludja loved that kind of joke.

“Excellent.”

Ludja works fast and with the grace of a surgeon. He hooks me up to the machine with much deftness. Into my ears go sort of tubes, metallic but comfortable. Over that, he places an oversized fish bowl, kind of like a thing you’d go underwater with, but opaque. A thick cable runs from the back of this. Then, hands and ankles are clasped into the reclined chair. This part could be disconcerting for a first-timer, but for freaks like me it just breeds excitement.

Muffled, I speak.

“I think I’m ready to live, Ludja”

“What’s that?”

“I SAID I THINK I’M READY TO LIVE, LUDJA”

“Your wish is my command, sir.”

Like that, I am immersed. Have you ever shone a light through your finger tip, and been surprised at your own translucence? Being birthed is like being the finger tip.

A blur of doctors, nurses, bottles, breasts. Car seats and crying. Childhood breezes by. Some are of pleasantness, candy, loving parents. Parents that love each other, even. Car trips, small boats. Putting up tents in backyards, and in the campgrounds of neighboring states.

One would think that adolescence and its attempts at romance would get easier with repetition, but one would be wrong.

The lives are varied, but things recur. You can’t know it until you wake up (i.e., die) but many of the “characters” of life recur. Your closest friends may become your siblings. Your frat brother in a new life may be your dear mother. You may meet your nemeses on the playground, your wife in your highrise cubicle, but they will find you, if you don’t find them first. And when you look back from a tunnel of light, speeding towards this afterlife, you will see that they are recurring. And you will know that it is good.

Death never gets easier. I wake up crying every time. Ludja venerably keeps this between us.

“Welcome back, sir.”

I gasp for breath, my brain not comprehending language, barely handling sound in general. When the helmet comes off, I frantically pat at the nape of my neck. I grasp a heart shaped locket, squeeze it. Unhooking it from my neck, I hold the necklace out in front of me. I breathe easy, let my shoulders down, and look around. I look to Ludja.

“That was a big one!”

Ludja says, “I can tell, you took forever. Nearly 17 minutes and 35 seconds this time.”

“I was 94 when I died, surrounded by loved ones. I was some rich executive. What a wonderful story.”

“What a wonderful story.”

I walk sullen and slow the three blocks back to my one room apartment. When I open the door, lights turn themselves on, and the TV springs to life. The program is a late night sermon; a preacher preaches a gospel generally anti-technology.

“This unholy use of electricity! Never should it have become that man plays god. Never was it supposed to be that man would be creator of worlds, the master of a universe, all in an afternoon no less! Take warni-”

As soon as the remote is found, I mash buttons. The channel changes to ESPN5, and it’s a monster truck rally.

“Damn!”

I throw the remote into the couch. Surveying the room, it feels unfamiliar, and uninhabited. I am experiencing impaired perception, nauseousness, listlessness. Minor side effects, all temporary of course. My gaze stops on the plants near the windows.

“All dead!”

I gasp and trundle to the group. I cradle a dead brown leaf in my hand.

“I watered these over the weekend, and it’s just Wednesday!”

I peer at the wall calendar. It is flipped onto July, but I know for a fact it’s May. I must have done that accidentally at some point. I analyze the area around the plants, weaving my gaze like an animal. Under the table I feel heat coming from the radiator.

“Damnit!”

I write a note to myself to call the maintenance people about this. Sleep comes on suddenly (another side effect), and I am out, unceremoniously sideways on the floor.

Sleep is complete like death. No dreams are dreamt, and eventually dawn cracks a new day. My phone rings, it’s my mother. I let it go to voicemail.

“Sweetheart, I am really worried about this simulation stuff. Our neighbor Barbera’s son has been acting very strange, and just last week he up and vani-”

I slam the button that stops the message. I take the locket that is always around my neck and kiss it, and rise to meet the day. Rising to meet this particular day, includes but is not limited to: calling out of work, going to see Ludja.