The Aggregator

Tina once joked that instead of collecting things, I collect people. I suppose she had a point. I have spent my entire life cultivating an understanding of them. A study in fascination and revulsion has compelled me to spend my life’s work collecting every last detail.

It’s quite simple, too. And it has made me more money than God.

When we started Ahamkara we were young and pollyannaish, no idea we were on the bleeding edge of the InfoTech revolution. A few years after the content marketers bought us out, we had fermented into volatile, flammable old hell-cats. Tina took her money, walked away and never turned back. If I’m honest, I’d say I miss her. If I’m honest, I’d say I couldn’t care less if she has dropped dead.

People don’t interest me anymore. Over the years I have seen into all of their lives behind a mainframe. A modern-day priest hearing all of their confessions without the pleasure of punishing them with 100 Hail Marys or even better, 20 self-flagellations. Problem is some of them would enjoy that one.

Like for instance, tonight. I scan the bar with my one of a kind techspecs, a lovely latest version, I may add, with vintage cat eye glasses ala Audrey Hepburn, as I sip my martini. Each person I look at instantly pulls up their aggregate profile on the inside of the lenses. I know their name, address, age, profession, marital status, religion, education, sexual preferences, criminal record, common contacts within six degrees of separation, assets, debts, investments, favorite things, greatest fears, hobbies, I.Q./E.Q., medical history, shopping history, travel history, family member’s names, pet’s names, passwords, well you get the idea.

And it has all become quite a yawn. People have become predictable to me. I’ve had a difficult time having conversations with them because the one thing they all share is they all lie. Every last one of them.

The old lady waiting in line at the grocery, the little boy in the park, the closeted gay man hitting on me at the party, my “friend” having brunch with me on a Saturday morning. All of them.

I see a middle-aged man down the bar looking my way. Harold Spalding, 56 years old, Everett address, engineer, high blood pressure, married with two children and a dog named Princess. Techspec, whom I have named Audrey, tells me Princess is the most popular dog name. I love when she adds these trivial facts. Much more interesting than Harold.

I spy him get up and head my way. Oh Harold, please. It is not going to happen.

“May I buy you a drink?” he asks as he slithers onto the barstool beside me. I give him my haughtiest expression. Think Bette Davis in All About Eve.

“Harold,” I bark, causing him to lean back gob smacked. “Shouldn’t you be home having dinner with Felicia and the twins?”

It takes a few ticks for him to respond. I relish these moments.

“Do I know you?” he whispers.

“No, but I know all about you,” I drawl as I tip the martini glass for a sup. It is then that I see him across the crowded room. Or rather, not see him.

Sitting in a booth, head facing down, bent over the table, pen to book. Lost in his own world. Audrey doesn’t have a thing. Not. A. Thing.

It’s like looking through those glasses of old where they just had photochromic lenses. I gasp. This has never happened before.

My first thought is Audrey needs to be rebooted but when I look back at Harold, she goes back to sharing everything about his dismal existence. I look back at the man in the booth and again. Nothing, nada.

My heart skips a beat. Is this possible?

“Are you alright?” I barely hear.

“Excuse me,” I reply as I grab my cocktail and swivel in my stool to stand up. The tulle of my Tadashi Shoji dress brushes against him as I slide past.

I don’t even hear what Harold calls to me. I’m like a cougar on the prowl. No one else exists in the room except him. I walk to his booth and stand there examining him. He doesn’t even notice my presence.

He has long hazel hair that falls to his shoulders and is parted down the middle. The right side is tucked behind his ear. He is wearing a green jacket over a plain white tee. He wears jeans which I’m glad from this angle are not torn or distressed. Wasn’t Socrates the one who said, “through your rags I see your vanity?”

He wears no jewelry (not married?) and no noticeable tats. I tilt my head to look under the table at the tan toe bug of his boots. Not bad, I think.

“Anything interesting?” I ask in a mellifluous pitch I haven’t heard escape from my maw in decades.

He covers the open pages with his sizeable hands as he looks up at me. He has heterochromia, the left eye is blue and the right one is brown. I slightly gulp.

“May I?” I ask gesturing to the empty cushion across from him. I sit down and lean in before he can even answer. He places the attached bookmark ribbon of his discreet book into place, shuts it, then secures the elastic closure with a snap. It reminds me of a little black dress I bought in a quaint boutique in Chelsea many moons back.

Audrey tells me the book is a Moleskin Classic Notebook, based on notebooks distributed in Paris during the 19th and 20th centuries and a favorite of artists, writers and thinkers. The company is based in Milan and was founded in 1997.

“Artist, writer or thinker?” I ask as I playfully stir my olive stick. What is wrong with me, I immediately think, after the words fall out of my mouth like marbles across the table. I try to sneak a peek at the front flyleaf ‘In case of loss’ notice to see if I can catch a glimpse of his name and contact information. His finely sculpted paws obscure my view.

He looks around the bar, out the window. Nervously? Maybe he is military? I blink a command for Audrey to access top secret files. I had established a back door in military intelligence years ago to bypass all restrictions through a zero-day attack. Nothing turns up through facial recognition or a biometric scan of heartbeat and brain wave patterns.

He isn’t young or old, white or black. I’m thinking 30 or 40 but at different angles he could be 20 or 50. Definitely younger than me. His skin could be Asian, African or Native American. I command Audrey to access International files with no success. He is a true riddle wrapped in an enigma.

“Do you have a name?”

He looks at me. I mean, really looks at me. The me, me. You know. The one you see when you look into the mirror when you are alone?

He pulls his hands away from the cover of his book and on the front is written, “Justaname.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. He breathes deeply, intentionally.

“My name’s Joan,” I offer. He breathes again.

“What do you do, Justaname?” I try to ignore the warm tingle creeping up my spine. I haven’t felt anything like this in so long, I am both excited and afraid.

Suddenly Audrey comes to life and a text scrolls across the eyepiece. I read in awe.

“I live.”

A forgotten memory, far and deep inside me, bursts open like a thousand mandalas before my eyes.

Now I’m the one looking around the bar, out the window. This must be some prank. I find it hard to believe, but I can’t deny something real is happening to my entire body. It has gone electric.

“Do I know you?” I whisper.

“No, but I know all about you,” appears across the screen.

If I had pearls on, I’d clutch them. Instead, I grab my neck and demand, “what do you want?”

He leans across the table and reaches for my hands. I let him take them as he pulls them down to the table and reaches into me with his gaze.

“How much?” I ask

He tilts his head in question.

“How much? For the book?” I ask again.

Audrey responds, “Are you sure you want it?”

“I’ve never wanted something more in my entire life,” I admit to him and myself at the same moment. I’ll give you $20,000 dollars.”

“Is that what it is worth to you?”

“More, but I’m a discerning woman. You may need money and I need that book,” I laugh. “You met the right woman tonight, Justaname. You sure did! Just give me your bank info and I’ll have it wired to you right now.”

He leans over the table and smiles at me. The image takes my breath away. I’ve seen this man in my dreams.

Audrey comes to life again. “If that will make you happy then, yes Joan. But I don’t have any bank info, it will have to be cash.”

“Oh, it has to be cash?”

He smiles again and nods.

This night is worth every penny. I feel young again. Alive. Hopeful.

“Hold on right here,” I decide as I collect my purse and scoot out of the booth. “I live right across the street and can get it for you in a jiff,” knowing that I have more than enough in the safe in my house.

I run home like a girl newly in love, even skipping at one point. All kinds of thoughts run through my head. Maybe Justaname is an alien like David Bowie in The Man Who Fell to Earth? Perhaps he is an angel who needs to get his wings by melting my heart?

When I returned to the bar, I am breathless. I run to the booth and dive into the seat. I pull the money out of my bag and hand it to him. We stare into each other’s eyes for I don’t know how long. It could be a second, it could be a thousand years.

He stuffs the cash into the pocket of his coat and stands up. He walks over to me and touches my face. I look up at him as tears began to stream down my cheeks.

He reaches to the stem of Audrey and pulls her off of my face. I haven’t used my regular eyes without techspecs in years and feel naked, but strangely empowered. The world looks brighter and I can see a halo of purple light around Justaname.

He hands me his Moleskin then leans down and kisses my forehead. Then he turns and leaves.

It takes me a while to recover. When I do, I open the book to where he has bookmarked it and read a haiku.

“There is no story

On the long street where I live

That will go untold”

On the opposite page is a drawing of yours truly sipping on a martini with scribbling under it.

The first line reads, “I invented my first algorithm aggregators, Joan and Tina, in college.”