The phrase distribution model brings visible relief, as Greg returns to a vernacular familiar to this crowd. I can see, on their faces, that these people beside me want so badly to believe that Greg is correct, that there might be a solution to this problem—which, ultimately for them, is the problem of their guilt—that doesn’t involve an increase in their taxes, a blow to their business and savings accounts.
Greg tells us we can take off our helmets. We do, and his model/mom disappears. Once again, he’s alone onstage. He still wears the bodysuit, that was real. A blueprint of it appears behind him, complete with dozens of complicated inserts. The words The Suit™ appear on the wall.
Greg explains about the sensors and the unprecedented data they’ll be used to create. He explains how the data will be used for scientific research and medical advancement. The diagnostic possibilities are limitless. The Suit™’s capacity for early detection could increase average life expectancy by years. He explains the buy-in options, that workers will be paid more for wearing The Suit™ in conjunction with helmets. He explains that The Suit™ can be worn by anyone, anywhere, and for any length of time. That the sky is the limit on how much money a person might make. He explains that a person can even wear The Suit™ while working another job, if so inclined. That a person can wear it to sleep.
The awed silence in the room has come to an end. People snap photos and some record video. They type into tablets, laptops, and phones. I imagine the tweetstorm beginning to rage.
Greg says, “Now I want you to reach out and grab your neighbors’ hands.”
The audience responds in all seriousness, turning themselves into a set of paper dolls. They grew up with shit like this and aren’t embarrassed. My sweaty palms meet other sweaty palms.
“Feel the connectivity,” says Greg. “Feel that deep human frequency. Listen to it hum.”
I try to move quickly, but I’m caught in the flow of human traffic, people beelining for the bathroom, or better cell service in the lobby, or a cocktail bar on Carmine Street that was reviewed in last week’s “Tables for Two.” Wendy catches my eye and steps in my direction before being intercepted by a cheek-kissing acquaintance. Even from five yards away, I can see her cringe at the transfer of microbes to face. It takes all her strength not to wipe the mauve imprint with the sleeve of her sweater. I know because I know my wife.
When I reach the front row, she’s able to escape the attempts of another aggressive schmoozer and pull me backstage. We land in a green room where bottles are popped, Greg’s being toasted, and the Rocky theme plays from someone’s phone, which has been placed in an ice bucket to amplify its sound. Lillian pours champagne into plastic flutes, spilling most on the floor. She winks as she hands me mine in lieu of a hello. I put the flute down and push past the handful of Communitiv.ly employees who mill about Greg. “It’s like I’m a tiger,” he says, “and the stage is my cage.”
Wendy follows me into a de facto dressing area, floor messy with what must be Greg’s rejected performance-wear: leather pants, fur blazer, knee-high biker boots. She gestures to the discards. “I had to convince him the Keith Richards look doesn’t work when you’re five-six and don’t play guitar.”
I think she expects me to laugh, that her coworker’s clownish lack of self-awareness can unite us in snark as it has in the past. She looks nervous, like she sometimes gets with strangers: back stiff, chin to chest, voice trailing at sentence’s end.
“The speech was something, though,” she continues. “You must admit he’s got presence. The audience ate from his hands.”
She forms her palms into a bowl to illustrate what she’s described.
“Reasonable mainstream,” I say. “It’s good. And that suit.”
“You mean The Suit,” says Wendy. “The Suit TM.”
“Right. TM.”
“It’s brilliant, don’t you think?”
I’m not sure what I think. It’s been a long day. I know that The Suit™ may kill the UBI. It may end unemployment and eradicate the concept of personal space. It may be the decisive tool that turns millions of humans into consumerist cyborgs. It may cure cancers, diabetes, and ALS. It may take capitalism to its logical conclusion, the last stop on a journey that began when the first Egyptian sent silk up the Nile, and ends here, in this green room, as the weight of Greg’s most recent bowel movement is AirDropped to the cloud. The reach of this product seems to be without limit, and whether this is a good thing—an even tradeoff for the complete annihilation of the ad-blocking software that protects our fragile, American souls—is better left for the artists of the future to decide.
All I know for certain is that, right now, I don’t care. Maybe tomorrow, in the elucidating light of another sun-bleached morning, I will wake to the throb of my conscience. I will remember Ricky’s body in the open casket, and I’ll remember the fear on Donnell’s face. I will recall Donnell’s need for funds, and his even greater need for Ricky’s SD bracelet. But here, in this moment, I’m looking at Wendy, and all I selfishly see is what the object on my wrist means for us: debts erased from the ledger, amends made to her dad, a chance to let the guilt and resentment rise like steam, leaving us stripped and clean; the way it opens our future like a long-clenched fist that has, without warning, softened its grip.
I say her name and touch her chin. I try to gently nudge it upward so her eyes meet mine. She shakes me off and steps back. I fall forward and try again to stroke her face, but she pushes me away. A hiss whistles through Wendy’s teeth.
“Sorry,” I say.
She lets out a breath, acknowledges her overreaction. She
