Multi-Tasking

 

By Mike Treder

 

“I read a good book today.”

“A novel?”

“Yes.”

“Hmph,” he snorted, “I haven’t read a novel in ages. Short fiction, yes, but who has time for novels? There are too many important non-fiction books to read, not to mention – “

“But, Dad – “ I began.

“Not to mention,” resumed my father in his usual authoritarian style, “articles, essays, opinion pieces, reviews, current events, and world news. If you don’t stay ahead, you’ll fall behind, and things are moving too fast to allow that. You don’t want to fall behind, do you?”

“No, of course not,” I sighed. After being my father’s son for nearly 60 years, why was it still so difficult for me to have a simple conversation with him?

“Well, then, spend your time pursuing useful knowledge instead of reading novels. That’s my advice.” He nodded conclusively at me, as though his point was obviously won.

My father was a brilliant man, a well-known and highly respected economist. His people skills, however, left something to be desired. I smiled at him, in spite of my frustration. He gazed back at me.

I saw myself in his face. The same blue-green eyes, high forehead, sweptback blond hair, strong chin. His nose was not as prominent as mine, even though mine was reduced from its former proportions. Befitting his position, Dad allowed himself to look a little older than most men. He had the hairline and wrinkles of a man of 40 or so, while I preferred to look 25.

“But that’s just it, Dad. I do spend time studying all those other important papers and books and immersions. My interests are not necessarily the same as yours, but I’ll bet I spend as much time or more than you do with non-fiction, and I also choose to spend time reading novels. You could too, if you weren't so stubborn about it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, multi-tasking.” He shook his head. “I suppose I am too old-fashioned in that way. I still like the idea of being there myself instead of in some synthetic astral presence.”

“Well, in practice, it’s really no less real than the conversation you and I are having now. It’s all about perception. Today, for example, I was able to read a novel – I usually read one every day – and attend that NORML conference in Washington on prison reform, and I had my regular two graduate classes, one at UCLA and the other at Oxford, and I spent my usual seven hours working at the homeless shelter in Harlem. On the way here to see you, I assimilated my experiences. Shall I tell you what I did yesterday?”

“Uh, yes, in a minute. Let’s order first.”

The holographic waitress appeared beside our table. She was lovely. I stored her image for potential use in a future erotic immersion.  Dad ordered a cheeseburger with jalapeno peppers, fried onion rings, and a chocolate milkshake. I ordered pizza with Italian sausage and pepperoni.

“And to drink, sir?” asked the beautiful blond apparition. I decided on a root beer float.

After she vanished, Dad continued, frowning. “But is it really the same as being there? I mean, how could it be?”

I paused meaningfully before asking him, “I’m sure you must have experienced VR sex more than once in your life. And is that really the same as being there?”

“Uh,” he cleared his throat, embarrassed. “It’s…it’s just as real, that’s for sure.”

“Of course it is. Now let me ask you another question. Is studying a digital article on the economic relationship between the EU and Pan-Africa really the same as holding an actual piece of paper and reading it through your eyes? Answer that.”

“Oh, well, of course it’s not the same. You know perfectly well that it’s better. It’s much faster and you learn more deeply. It’s…” he paused and I smiled at him, raising my eyebrows.

He went on, “And I guess I could concede that reading a novel digitally is probably just as…as satisfactory as holding the book in your hands. Okay, you’re right about that. I’ll admit the reason I don’t read novels is not that I don’t have time. It’s just that I don’t enjoy them as much as non-fiction.”

“Okay, fair enough. That’s a legitimate reason.”

A bot rolled up to our table and placed our orders in front of us. “Will there be anything else?” it asked in a pleasant male voice.

“Yeah,” said Dad, “let me have some ketchup.”

The bot produced a bottle of Heinz from inside its cabinet and placed it on the table. “Enjoy your meal, gentlemen.”

“Thank you,” we both answered, without even considering that we were addressing a non-sentient entity.

Dad picked up the bottle and tried to pour some ketchup on his plate. Nothing came out. He hammered fruitlessly at the base of the bottle. “Why is it we can put a hotel on Mars but we can’t get ketchup to come out!!”

            “Smack it on the 57,” I suggested. 

Finally, he finally grabbed his knife and stuck it into the bottle to start the flow. “Reading an article or a novel or even having sex is one thing,” he said, “but attending a meeting is another. Where did you say you went today, to a conference somewhere?”

I had just taken a big bite of my pizza. It tasted deliciously fattening; obesity, of course, was a thing of the past, at least for those who accepted the free treatments. I used my napkin to wipe some of the spicy tomato sauce from my chin. The napkin instantly became clean again. After swallowing, I answered, “Washington DC. A conference on prison reform, sponsored by NORML.”

“Yeah. Well, now, how can you be sure that the you that is attending that conference is the same you that is working at the homeless shelter in Harlem? It just doesn’t sit right with me.”

“I know, Dad, it seems strange, at least until you try it. I guess the two or more me’s who are in those different places are actually not quite the same person. They are, after all, having different experiences, at least for a short time.

“When I’m in two places at once, I usually don’t maintain simultaneous awareness. It’s just not worth it. I mean, it’s counterproductive. I can synch up during the day as often as I want to, and sometimes I do, especially if I’m attending two or three different events that day that are especially interesting to me. But most days I’ll just wait until a convenient time to assimilate and review everything at once. It only takes a few minutes.”

Dad’s tall glass was empty. He picked up the frosty metal container that held the rest of the milkshake and gave himself a refill.

“And another thing,” he said, “how can you be sure that the people you’re seeing at the conference are the same people you spoke to the week before or you’ll talk to the week after?”

“That’s an easy one to answer. They’re not the same people, any more than I am the same person I was a week ago. And a week from now you’ll be a different person than you are today. It’s all a matter of experience. You know that as well as I do.”

“Philosophy. Words. Phenomenology. You academics are always talking about ideas as though they were the same thing as life itself.” He paused expectantly, as if waiting for me to pick up my side of the argument.

“No, I’m not – hold on a minute…” My phone was ringing. It was Sanji, one of my wives. I clicked my teeth together twice to answer the call. Sanji’s beautiful countenance shimmered into place in front of my eyes, projected there by microscopic nano-imagers. “Hi, sweetheart, what’s up?”

“Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt you while you’re with your father, but I just had to tell you the good news!” Her dark eyes flashed with joy and excitement.

“Did you get it? You got it?” I asked, as excited as she was.

“Yes!”

“Wonderful! Oh, that’s great, I’m so happy for you! Hang on, let me tell Dad.” I clicked my teeth once to put her on hold. Her image disappeared and I was back in the restaurant.

“Sanji got the assignment! She’s going to Titan! Isn’t that great?”

“Yes, that’s fantastic! Titan! Just think of it! Tell her how proud I am of her.”

“Just a minute, Dad.” I clicked back to Sanji.

“We’re both just tickled pink by your good news. What would you like to do tonight to celebrate?”

“Oh, let’s see,” she lowered her eyes demurely, “how about if just you and I find a nice little deserted tropical island somewhere?”

“Mm, sounds perfect, sweetheart. I can’t wait. I’ll make all the arrangements. Let’s meet back on line in, say, two hours? Is that okay?”

“Two hours is just right. See you then, love.” She blew me a kiss. I gave her a final big smile and clicked off.

 “Isn’t that something, Dad? She’s going to Titan! I know, in a few years we’ll all be able to go there any time we want, but first the AI’s have a lot of work to do setting up the gear, and in the meantime there’s plenty of hard science to tackle.”

Dad put his hand over mine. It felt warm and loving. “I’m so happy for you both. But won’t you miss her?”

“No,” I laughed, “she’ll still be here in person. It’s just one of her virtual personalities that’s going on the trip.”

“Oh, of course, I should have known,” chuckled Dad. “The world is changing so fast, it’s hard to keep up. And here I am, lecturing you about not falling behind. What an old blowhard you have for a father!”

 

Two hours and ten minutes later, Sanji and I were walking hand in hand along a white sand beach, watching the sun slowly sink toward the ocean and feeling the warm surf gently lapping at our feet. We would swim together, naked, then make love in the sand. Miraculously, no bugs would bother us, no sand would get in our mouths, and no one would see us there. We were alone in our own private paradise. We would enjoy a delicious dinner and a magnificent bottle of wine, and then we would fall asleep in each other’s arms beneath the shimmering stars. It was a virtually perfect way to celebrate.

 

Meanwhile, Sanji visited her mother in Delhi while I had dinner at home in Greenwich Village with my other wife Anne and our son Eric. Later, Sanji would spend time with her other husband, Li, in Beijing and I would attend a demonstration in Jerusalem for peace between Israel and Palestine. All in all, it was a good day, fairly quiet and uneventful. I wonder what tomorrow may bring?