The operation had been a success. Moreover, it had been painless, just as Dr. Mayfield had promised. James had been skeptical, seeing as he was going to be awake as they cut into his brain. (James was well aware the brain had no nerves, but the skull surely did.) But Dr. Mayfield had been correct—James had felt nothing beyond a slight pressure. And now, with the chip implanted, James would never feel anything unpleasant ever again.
* * *
The first time James used his new power was the following Friday, during his company’s quarterly earnings review. The chip functioned flawlessly—eight hours of meetings passed in the blink of an eye—and James left the office wearing a large grin. His cube-mate and closest thing to a work friend, Alan, noticed his buoyant disposition.
“You did it,” said Alan accusingly as he followed James to the elevator. “Didn’t you?”
“I did it,” said James brightly.
Alan shook his head. “You’re insane.”
“Can a person be insane in an insane world?” mused James.
“Putting a goddamn microchip in your brain is a start. You’re a human lab rat.”
James laughed. “You coming to happy hour? Let me buy you a drink.”
James didn’t usually attend work happy hours, and Alan’s eyebrows registered his surprise.
“Can you drink with that thing?”
“Let’s find out,” said James.
An hour later, James and Alan leaned against a bar, surrounded by co-workers. The restaurant was packed with jubilant 9-to-5ers anticipating the coming weekend.
“I just can’t believe you did it,” said Alan for the umpteenth time, but quiet enough for only James to hear.
“What did I have to lose?” said James.
“Beyond your life? Nothing, I suppose.”
James grinned. “We lose that anyway.”
“Aren’t you worried what you might do? You know, while you’re zonked out?”
James shrugged. “Instinct is more than enough to get me through a business meeting.”
Alan threw back a shot of whisky. “What if this thing clicks on while you’re driving? Will you crash?”
“Consider, Alan, that every other species on the planet manages to function just fine without consciousness,” said James. “Why should humans be any different?”
While Alan clearly remained unconvinced, James knew better than to fear his newfound power. Never again would he have to suffer through life’s menial indignities. No more meetings, no more commutes. Never would he have to sit through a job interview, or jury duty. It would all pass by unnoticed. The remainder of his life would consist only of those moments he wished to experience—the extraordinary.
Shelly from accounting approached the bar near James, causing Alan to abruptly end his admonishments. James had always had a crush on Shelly, and at the scent of her perfume, he felt his heart begin to race.
* * *
Almost a year ago to the day, James had arrived at Dr. Mayfield’s office following his latest setback. Defeat was the story of James’s life: 42 years old, single, 14 jobs since college. Following the passing of his parents, James had found little to look forward to in life. Sure, there was the occasional win: a holiday bonus, a stiff whisky, a warm wind on a spring day. But for the most part life was prolonged bouts of boredom, of sadness, of pain. It was stomach bugs and migraines. Grief, loneliness, anxiety, depression—it was all enough to make a person want to turn off their mind entirely.
The Google search had returned over a million hits. The first page was dominated by pharmaceuticals, as was the second. Pages three and four recommended therapy. But the deeper James went, the more intriguing the results became. Page five suggested yoga. Page six pawned new-age remedies. But it was page seven that had truly piqued James’s interest—news of a microchip that would “soon transform modern life.” But it remained an experimental technology. And given its intended purpose, it would be difficult to test—only human candidates would suffice. James copied down the phone number.
“It is really quite simple,” explained Dr. Mayfield, the first time James had called him. “The microchip is activated by cortisol. When your levels of cortisol rise, the chip sends your conscious mind to sleep. When the cortisol levels return to normal, you regain your faculties. Negative stimuli trigger cortisol, ergo, bad experiences are erased from your conscious mind. But as I’m sure you are aware, the chip has not yet been approved by the FDA. It may never be. But it is within your rights to request it, should it interest you.”
For months, James considered the surgery. He asked himself what he would miss, should he get the chip. Was it life’s boring minutiae that gave it its meaning? Would a life without lows become a life without highs? And then of course there was the risk that the installation went wrong—there was no guarantee he would survive the operation. But in the end, James felt the potential rewards outweighed the risks. Forty empty years stood before him. The thought terrified James. It may as well have been an eternity.
“You’ll need to think of a passphrase,” explained Dr. Mayfield over the phone after calling James to inform him that he had been selected as one of ten finalists to go forward with the procedure. “Something nonsensical, something you’d never hear in common conversation. ‘Ketchup cartwheel sunrise. Mailbox spin shoe.’ If the phrase is spoken out loud it will reset your chip. You’d then be free from its influence permanently, unless you had us turn it back on.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” said James.
* * *
Following the happy hour with Alan, James did not regain consciousness for two weeks. When he did, he awoke in a strange bed. To his surprise, Shelly was beside him.
At his movement, Shelly stirred. “Hey there,” she mumbled, still half asleep.
The sight of Shelly caused James’s pulse to quicken. He knew he would lose consciousness if he didn’t keep his nerves in check, and so he closed his eyes and practiced the breathing exercises he had been taught as a child. In time he felt a warm hand on his neck.
“You okay?” asked Shelly.
“Yeah,” said James, without removing his palms from his eyes. “I was just trying to remember our first date.”
“Remember? It wasn’t even two weeks ago.”
“I know. Just, what was I like? From your perspective?”
Shelly considered the question. “I don’t know. Normal?” She laughed. “Normal enough that I wanted a second date.”
“But was I funny? Charming?”
“You were… solid. You were kind. Polite.”
“But not funny?”
Shelly considered the question more fully. “You know, come to think of it, James, I’ve never heard you laugh.”
James called Dr. Mayfield later that day and explained his concerns.
“James,” said Dr. Mayfield with avuncular patience, “what you are describing to me is a chip functioning properly. While it is true that happiness can spike cortisol, you have to weigh that against the bad times you are seeking to avoid. But you can always deactivate it with your passphrase and resume life as nature intended.”
James hung up the phone.
He sat in silence.
He said nothing.
* * *
“Have you decided on a passphrase?” asked Dr. Mayfield, mere hours before the operation was to take place. It was the first time James had seen him in person. He was a small man, with generous white sideburns but no mustache or beard. Thick glasses doubled the size of his beady eyes. He had a slight accent, but James couldn’t place it. German, maybe?
“I haven’t been able to settle on anything,” admitted James. “Nothing seems meaningful enough.”
“Don’t take it too seriously,” said Dr. Mayfield. “It’s just a safeguard. Here, I’ll help. Give me a noun.”
James looked out the hospital window, where a sliver of daylight moon shone faintly in the midday sky. “The moon,” he said.
“Okay. And where is the moon?”
“Above.”
Dr. Mayfield smiled. “In your passphrase.”
“Right. The moon is… under.”
“Good. What is the moon under? Remember, something outrageous, now.”
“The moon is under… water,” said James.
“The moon under water,” repeated the doctor. “That will do nicely.”
* * *
James spent a pleasant summer with Shelly. It was the healthiest relationship he’d ever been in. He was happy and calm for months on end, and didn’t lose consciousness once… until he was cut off in traffic on August 4th.
James came to three days later. But something was off. The world seemed too bright. Too abrasive. It was as if he had become too sensitive to life. He made himself coffee. He watched the news. There was a story about a school shooting. Fifteen children had been killed. James felt his pulse quicken…
More time passed, and James could not tolerate even the smallest of discomforts. He would flicker in and out of his mind like a lightbulb gone bad. At the slightest provocation he’d disappear, lost in his own subconscious, for durations lasting anywhere from minutes to days. A mosquito bite, a paper cut, a stubbed toe, and poof! Gone.
Shelly would appear and disappear before him as if from a dream, never seeming to sense that something was wrong.
But James had grown too used to a life without pain to abandon the chip. He decided he would keep it—at least for now—even if it meant missing out on some of life’s more extraordinary moments.
* * *
Winter came, and James went away. He went away, and he did not come back.
* * *
Months passed.
* * *
A
n
d
y
e
a
r
s.
* * *
“Look at those colors!” exclaimed Shelly.
Beside her, James said nothing. If he was moved by the sunset, he did not show it. But James rarely spoke. Maybe that was one of the reasons their marriage had been so successful—thirty years and counting.
“As a child I thought it unfair that the sun got to sink into the ocean, but the moon never did,” said Shelly. “My father said it was because the sun can swim but the moon can’t. ‘You don’t want the moon underwater, Shelly. It would drown.’”
In a flash, James was in the present. He looked down at a wrinkled hand. It took him a moment to recognize it as his own.
The evening was chilly. Unpleasantly so. The wind bit at James’s sallow cheeks. He felt sand between his toes. A cramp made its way through his side. His knees ached. His head hurt. Heartburn. A lifetime’s worth of ailments suddenly demanded his attention, and he felt every single one.
And then he felt Shelly beside him, her weight leaning against him. It was nice. And then he saw the sunset they were watching—really saw it.
Sensing a change, Shelly pulled away from him. She looked into her husband’s eyes, her brow furrowed in concern. “Are you okay, honey?” she asked.
James avoided her gaze. He swallowed hard, a process which seemed to him both familiar and foreign.
“Yes,” croaked James. “Why do you ask?”
Shelly put a hand on either side of James’s face, wiped away two tears with her thumbs. “Thirty wondrous years of marriage, darling, and I’ve never seen you cry!”
J.D. Strunk was born in Boston, Massachusetts, grew up in northern Ohio, and has a degree in English Literature from the University of Toledo. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Saturday Evening Post, The Louisville Review, The Coachella Review, Palooka Magazine, MoonPark Review, Allium Journal, New Plains Review, and elsewhere. He was a finalist for The Bellingham Review’s Tobias Wolff Award for Fiction, and his story “Fresh Coffee” was nominated for Best American Short Stories. He lives in Denver, Colorado.
Instagram: @jdstrunkwriter