Do You Want to Live Forever?
Simon started at the sound of banging on the front door of his journal. He was not used to visitors these days; not since the flatulence problem had become so bad. He hastily pushed his book of Tony Blair bondage photographs out of sight, struggled to get up out of his chair, painfully snagging his long beard on one of the arms in the process, and made his way to the door.
He opened it cautiously and peered through the gap. Nearly filling the frame was a large, heavy-set man in a tight-fitting, shiny suit.
‘My employer wants me to have a friendly word with you,’ he said, though his brutal features displayed little evidence of amity. Simon immediately knew who he was. He had been sent over by the developer – the one who wanted to tear down Journalspace to make room for the more profitable sites such as Myspace. But first he had to get the tenants out, using whatever means of coercion he wished.
‘Go away, young man,’ he quavered, his voice trembling in an only partly affected combination of fear and senility. ‘I don’t want to buy any, whatever it is you’re selling.’
‘Don’t play games with me,’ sneered the man, pushing his way past Simon and into his journal. ‘You know perfectly well what I’m here for. My employer wants you out of here. And if you have any sense you’ll take the offer that’s being given you.’
Simon closed the door and stared defiantly back at him, dropping all pretence. ‘I was born in Journalspace, and I intend to stay here until I die,’ he declared boldly, though somewhat ill-advisedly. ‘You can’t make me leave. I have my rights. I paid my pro access.’
The man didn’t reply immediately, but with apparent absent-mindedness picked away at the plaster of the wall with a dirty fingernail. Bits of loose HTML code crumbled and fell out onto the floor. ‘Why should you want to stay, old man? The whole place is dropping apart.’ He put a cigarette between his lips, then took out a box of matches, which he opened. ‘It’s a fire hazard. One loose spark—’ he took one of the matches and struck it ‘—and the whole place would go up.’ He lit his cigarette and blew some smoke into Simon’s face, while holding the still-burning match between his fingers.
A thin beading of sweat broke out on Simon’s forehead as he watched the match, as if hypnotised. It was poised just above his rare collection of signed pictures of Kristin Kreuk being spanked by a leather-clad George Clooney. They were irreplaceable.
Then the man drew back the match, and, laughing callously at Simon’s expression of relief, blew it out. ‘It would be so easy for an accident like that to happen. Why, an entire archive of comments could be lost in a single, tragic mishap. I suspect a lot of tenants would leave if something like that happened again. Why take the risk? Why stay on? What is it that makes you fools hang on in an old dump like Journalspace anyway? It’s so inefficient. We could fit in half a dozen Myspace tenants in this journal alone.’
Simon held himself proudly erect, unable to avoid including some sexual innuendo even at a moment like this. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but I prefer the more outré, nay, bohemian life at Journalspace, with its rambling outbuildings and twisting, darkened corridors. Yes, the structure may be crumbling, the services erratic and slow, with occasional unexplained crashes in the night, but it has a presence and an identity that somewhere like Myspace never will. It has a true sense of community. We hold each other in respect. We are artists – thinkers. People of creative spirit.’
‘How about psychotic stalkers?’ asked the man, sitting down and leaning back comfortably in Simon’s armchair.
‘We have those too!’ shouted Simon defensively, not without a certain frothing at the mouth. ‘We have the best! Where else would you get people erecting journals for no other purpose than to ridicule or insult other occupants?’
This merely seemed to amuse the man. ‘Hollow words, Simon. You know perfectly well that Journalspace is losing all its tenants to Myspace. The young especially. All you have left are the old and eccentric.’ Before Simon could speak out he raised a hand and continued. ‘And don’t tell me there are still young people here. Those who haven’t already left have dual tenancy; you know they do. They admit it in their own journals. Sometimes they are too embarrassed to say so, but they do nonetheless. You know it’s true.’
Simon did know, and bowed his head. There was a glint of defiance in his eye, however. ‘All the more reason for me to stay,’ he argued. ‘Most people living in Myspace are teenagers. There’s no place for someone of my age there.’
The man smiled widely. ‘Hasn’t it ever struck you as odd, Simon? That everyone is young at Myspace?’
Simon eyed him suspiciously, wondering what he could be hinting at. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Let me show you something.’ The man got up and went over to the desk, where Simon’s computer stood, and in a patter of keystrokes brought up the Myspace home page. ‘Ever read the terms and conditions of Myspace occupancy, Simon?’
‘No,’ replied Simon cautiously, on his guard now. ‘I’ve never had occasion to do so.’ But he moved over to look at the monitor, and started to read a section that the man was pointing to.
‘Condition 15c. U pledge ur mind, ur body and ur soul 2 Myspace 4ever. LOL.’ he read out. ‘So what? Those are the normal conditions for any software agreement. It’s the same for Microsoft Windows – well, apart from the spelling. It doesn’t mean anything.’
The man gave a superior smile. ‘Did you read it properly? Your mind and body forever?’
Simon blinked, then laughed at the apparent absurdity. ‘My body forever? Do they have a cryogenics department?’
‘Ah, you still don’t see it, do you, Simon. And I thought you intelligent. Well, moderately intelligent.’
Simon flushed, and mentally reviewed what had just been said. ‘Mind and body forever? You mean… everlasting life?’
The stranger laughed out loud. ‘You’ve got there at last. That’s the reward. Eternal youth. That’s why everyone at Myspace is young. That’s what my employer is offering you. Never to grow old. Of course, your brain and sexual organs will atrophy after a while, but you won’t notice. You will be one of them; you’ll enjoy it. Myspace tenants aren’t aware that they don’t have any brains left – that’s the beauty of not being able to think. It’ll be like being one of the Eloi in a world where the Morlocks don’t exist. Come now. Don’t say that the idea isn’t tempting.’
He leaned forward. ‘Go on, Simon,’ he urged. ‘It’s the last time you’ll be given the offer. Don’t be a fool. Journalspace has no future. Go over to the Other Side, Simon. Go over to Myspace.’
Simon slid down into his computer chair. He knew the veracity of the stranger’s words. He had seen the evidence. People disappearing. People coming back again, but… changed. Different. No longer human. How many real people were left at Journalspace? His shoulders slumped as he realised the futility of resisting the takeover. He stared at the glowing screen. The entry fields were just waiting to be filled in. All he need do was to type a few words and his cares would be over. He raised his fingers over the keyboard.
NOTES
I don’t know if anyone reading this remembers the highlight years of Myspace. Well, I don’t know if anyone will read this at all, but bear with me. If you are reading this, that is. Though I didn’t join myself, I was well aware of its reputation for being mainly tenanted by young people – though this would change over the next few years. Could there be a sensible reason for this, such as its being popular with young people? Or was there a more sinister, more ridiculous reason? I think we all know the answer to that.
The line ‘Why, an entire archive of comments could be lost in a single, tragic mishap.’ was a reference to such a loss at Journalspace earlier in the year, one that still haunts those who backed up their entries (now there’s a metaphor to be toyed with) but failed to back up their comments. In my case it was a particularly sensitive matter, as there were entries where the bulk of the text – certainly the bulk of the amusement – was found in the depths of the comments boxes. But ironically, a search I made before reposting this vintage piece revealed this:
In 2019, Myspace famously lost over 12 years of user data, music, and photos during a botched server migration.
Well now. It looks as if their chickens came home to roost. Eleven years after the tragic demise of Journalspace, but it just goes to show that justice will catch up with you if you go round threatening senile old fools who want to stay in their decrepit dwellings.
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