If you could go to a doctor and have all your personality imperfections ironed out forever - would you? A disorganized, lazy person could be turned into a type-A super-doer. A wallflower could be instantly transformed into a confident and outgoing life of the party type. A pessimist could be reborn an optimist. Or all of the above. Forever and ever. All from a simple, painless and affordable procedure with EZ financing available.
Would you do it?
THE ZAP is a 22K word novella I wrote a couple years ago about a world where all your personality faults can be 'fixed' with a simple outpatient procedure, told from the point of view of a grumpy guy who refuses to take the easy way out. He consideres it "plastic surgery for your personality." But when he meets the girl of his dreams and she hints that she would be a lot happier if he would just get "the zap" he's faced with a dilemma of identity and integrity.
Obviously this is a story inspired by the idea of "quick fix self-help" and how desperate some of us are to change ourselves at the most elemental level. From medication to psychotherapy we all are obsessed with attaining happiness somehow. But what is happiness anyway? Is it a byproduct of human self-actualization or is it just a chemical reaction in our heads?
I had fun writing this. If you get a chance to read it, I'd love to know what you think.
Here are the first couple chapters and the PDF and epubs are available for download on this link...
The Zap - A Novella
First two chapters below...
The Zap
by
Mike Samonek
1.
Everyone called it The Zap, but the scientists who invented it had named it Neuro-Electro Synaptic Modification. It was a simple outpatient procedure. They hooked some electrodes up to your head, pushed some buttons on a computer, and in a half hour you could be a whole new person. And if not a new person, certainly a 'better' one.
A disorganized, lazy person could be zapped to become a type-A super-doer. A wallflower could be instantly transformed into a confident and outgoing life of the party type. A pessimist could be reborn an optimist. Or all of the above. Forever and ever. For about the cost of a subcompact car. Financing was of course available.
According to the commercials which ran in what seemed like a continuous loop, the process rearranged basic elemental communications structures in the brain to help certain sections communicate better with each other. Or not communicate with certain areas at all. Like the places where self-doubt lived. Or insecurity. Or addiction. Or cynicism. Bitterness. Envy. Pettiness. Or any number of other of the wonderful things that make us human.
I was not, you'll soon see, a fan of The Zap. To me it was cheating. A shortcut to self-improvement. It didn't count. I'll always have respect for the fat guy who worked his ass off to get down to a pair of 32's. The guy who goes in for the lipo? Not so much. And who doesn't love a set of nice natural boobs over a pair of bolt-ons?
The Zap was ostensibly plastic surgery for your personality.
I mean look. We're all messed up in our own little ways, right? That's what makes us who we are. Going to a shrink to work through your shit? I get that. I respect that. Maybe you get a little pharmacological help along the way. Who am I to judge? God knows I enjoy self-medicating as much as the next person. Okay more so. All right, by most definitions I'm a functioning alcoholic. So what? I'm a good natured drunk, I pay my rent, and I don't have a whole lot of regrets, so what's the harm?
I know that I could go down to the doctor's office and get a Zap and never crave another beer again. Or shot of whiskey. Or joint. Or Xanax. I could be free of all these pesky addictions. I could become a model citizen. I could be the person my mother thinks I am. I could be just like everyone else.
Two problems with that. 1, I like my addictions and 2, I hate everyone else.
≤≥
2.
When I was 22 and just out of J-school, I was asked by one of our professors emeritus to write an opinion piece on where I thought America was going as we hurtled breathlessly into the 1990's. I did it mostly because I was young and full of confidence strictly because I'd never known what failure felt like. Yet. The professor flipped over the article I wrote titled, “Is It Now Yet?” He had some insane connections and before I knew what was happening or how, my piece ran in Playboy, back when the magazine still had a purpose.
It was extremely well received. That one article got me a book deal and a staff job at Rolling Stone. Cable was really taking off and all of a sudden there were a lot of talk shows that needed guests, so my agent would book me on anything that would ask. I don't think any show I went on had a million viewers at any given time. But I was on a lot of them and people seemed to like my self-effacing manner, so I became a regular on the basic cable circuit. Meanwhile, I published a string of articles that people cared less and less about until eventually – for whatever reason – they didn't care at all.
Both of my books met a similar apathetic fate. The first, “New Improved Context,” was 383 well-researched and caustically presented pages on why I believed the then decade-old CNN was bad for our national psyche and how the 24 hour news cycle would eventually be our ruination. America, I suggested, does best when you're not looking at it. Non-stop news, I argued, was the equivalent of being stuck on a endless car trip with he entire country. It would lead to a spiral of self-loathing and rage. And god forbid I wrote - quite presciently, I might add - a second, competing 24 news source were to appear as the battle to maintain ratings would lead to, well, the mess we have now.
But despite being right, no one cared about it. It was too academic for the people who liked my cheeky, self-referential Playboy article and too cheeky and self-referential for people who actually read books about The Media.
But it was, I think, the last good thing I wrote.
That was seven months after “Is it Now Yet?”
I was 23.
The second book I wrote, “Marginalized Man” was a mess of ill-conceived essays about the pain of being a white middle class American in a post-cold war globalist world. It was supposed to be a self-mocking joke, taking the piss out of my literary “peers” who's writings seemed to imply that working in a cubicle for more money than most human beings will see in a decade is some form of spiritual failure and psychological torture. I don't think anyone got the joke. Also there's the fact that by then I had veered rather decisively into substance abuse and wrote the entire thing while heavily intoxicated or hungover. Reading it sober later I realized it was terrible. The publishers agreed and refused to publish it and quickly printed a collection of my articles up to that point just to fulfill my contract. No one bought it and that was the last I heard from The Book People.
Before my literary star faded from view completely, I camera tested to host an “alt” variety show on MTV and somehow got the job. It was called “Nice Show, Buddy!” and ran late sunday nights. No one watched, but we were inexpensive filler so they let us keep doing it for a couple years. Then we didn't do it anymore. I was 26, and a burgeoning alcoholic. I moved to LA and the rest is the disaster I now call life every single day.
I was still miraculously considered culturally relevant enough to get paid a pittance to write three articles a week for a pop culture and politics website called The Stickler. My blog was called “And Now a Word From The Aging Gen-X'er.” It was as awful as it sounds. I was ostensibly the butt of an joke. I regularly made it clear that I was in on it and “okay” with it, but part of being in on the joke was the tacit awareness that I was being made fun of by people younger and much cooler than me. Or something. Irony has gotten very complicated over the years.
The kids I worked for were vicious, awful, snarky people who trafficked in sex tapes and Schadenfreude. The head one, who I'd only ever spoken to over video chat, was a Texas trust fundrepeneur who lived in Florianopolis, Brazil at age 24 . He was constantly starting up business concerns with money given to him by his parents. That is when he wasn't DJ'ing, sleeping with Brazilian models and doing an unlimited supply of pure cocaine, of course. The fact that he owned the blog I worked for put me at odds. I wanted anything and everything that pertained to this entitled douchebag's life to fail. That meant the blog had to fail for me to be happy and to win. But if the blog failed, I'd be out of work again.
I decided to root for the blog's continued existence and success, but in exchange I had to wish him erectile dysfunction and chlamydia. Just to balance it out.
I remember when I first noticed the effect The Zap was having on how my work was received. I was in my kitchen, hungover natch, reading the comments under my latest article on my ancient laptop. I was expecting the usual healthy mix of “lol!” “So true,” and “You rock” from my fans and the “lusr” “#oldmanfail” and “EABOD” from the haters. The haters really bugged me at first. I couldn't get what I had done to garner so much hostility. But then I realized that these people didn't just hate me, they hated everything in their path. No matter how innocuous or inoffensive something or someone was, they instinctively hated it. I almost respected their ability to focus so much rage and antipathy on so many targets. I only really had enough malice in my heart to hate one thing at a time. Quietly, to myself.
I noticed that there were almost no replies from haters. And the fan posts were more and more positive and upbeat. It was the Zap. Everyday it was claiming more and more Former Humans and turning them into pod people. To be honest, I prefered the trolls. I thrive on conflict, even from anonymous assholes I've never met.
Internet flaming wasn't the only thing taking a hit. Bars were closing at a shocking pace as people no longer had any reason to drink. Science had made them happy, well-adjusted people who unlike me didn't need alcohol to socialize, or relax, or leave the house. Fortunately, my local dive-pub was weathering the storm.
I had liked to think that my neighborhood would be largely unchanged by the Zap. I lived in a fairly bohemian area on the artsy East Side. At first, it seemed as if the craze would elude us completely. Folks who had gone in for the proceedure were mockingly called "betters" for the smarmy, superior attitude they came out with and people in my area held “NO BETTERS” parties and trendy restaurants had signs indicating that Betters would be seated in a special section formerly reserved for society's previous outcasts, smokers. Betters were considered phonies, bogus, frauds. We all agreed.
At least we all agreed at first.
One particularly painful transformation was Kelly at the coffee shop. Kelly was a cute rock-a-billy chick with Betty Page bangs and some kick ass ink. She was probably the most cynical person I had ever met. She trusted no one, believed in nothing. She approached every moment in life as if it were an antagonist. And I loved her for it. I had been mustering up the courage to ask her out. She could spiritually destroy me, which made her even sexier to me. I finally decided I had waited long enough. Next time I ordered coffee I was going to ask her to catch a show at Echo with me. By the time I finally got the nerve, she had done it. She was smiling. She never smiled. That's how I knew it was over. That she was gone.
I told her I was disappointed in her and she just smiled and told me that that was normal and that the doctors at the clinic had told her to expect that sort of reaction from insecure people. But, she insisted, the procedure was the greatest thing she'd ever done. She planned on going back to school, as education wasn't a lie after all. She told me that she really, really thought the zap would do me a world of good. “It'll just get you on track to being happier,” she said. She just wouldn't stop smiling. I was bummed out for like two months.
No comments:
Post a Comment