The Button: Part 1 - Sorry Linearity Is New
Part 2 -> Part 1 - it's not that difficult is it?
Getting the hang of this now.
Isabella initiated the drink with Dean. She had thought it best to get on with her life mid toilet break on a Wednesday afternoon. These normative instructions were frequent. She had come to think of them like pimples, eventually one would be succulent enough to pop. She thinks she fancied Dean, she could convince herself in time, sure. Love was like a slow cooker, a hammy metaphor to tide her over.
The drink, as we’ve described, was a damp squib. Dean Jenkins wasn’t a genius; there was no savant lurking in the depths of his psyche. The aptitude tests that came as part of the application to Lumora were fine, if unspectacular. A lab technician assistant with requisite qualifications and a need to pay rent. He worked a simple, mundane nine-to-five. And he was horny. Oh, so horny. Maybe that’s slightly disingenuous. It wasn’t as if he was a bad person. It makes his death all the sadder. He had a good heart; he certainly didn’t harbour half as many worries and insecurities as our Isabella. So, after the comment to his colleague, he felt bad. He decided he wanted to help, and he thought he knew exactly how to do it.
The next day at lunch, Dean wandered over to Isabella’s desk, his white coat swishing in weird synchronisation with his gait. She felt her cheeks flush, because she knew a lab assistant would have no reason to come all the way up to the seventh. She started to rip a nail off her little finger and pushed her tongue around her mouth to make sure it was clear of sweetcorn from her sandwich. She needed tits and teeth for this.
‘I really enjoyed last night. Could I see you again?’
Isabella was bowled over. The cheeks kept flushing, her heart started to thrum. Her obsessive thoughts snaked out little hands, to fondle and jiggle the idea that Isabella might have hit it off romantically with someone. The chime of wedding bells started to rise, she thought about kid’s names and where to live; as to benefit from the best possible catchment area.
She got ahead of herself, because that’s what control is to someone like Isabella.
That evening Isabella took an Uber over to Dean’s house. A pleasant new build in an unremarkable part of town called Great Ashby. If houses came with screen protectors, like phones did, Dean’s would still be stuck to the double-glazing. She didn’t think she would sleep with him but wouldn’t rule it out. Her handbag still had the rape whistle of course, but now also boasted a prophylactic. She was a full spectrum girl. She rang the doorbell and then gave a little start as the garage door rolled open. After the clunking had finished, Dean poked his head out.
‘In here, got something to show you.’
Whistle ready to go, she gulped and ducked under.
She gave him top marks for how clean and tidy his garage was. The floor was immaculate, pristine white and almost pearlescent in its finish. Where a car should have been, instead were two plastic chairs and on the one closest to Isabella was a small black device, slightly smaller than your average phone, with one singular ruby red button.
We’ll give you the conversation here exactly as it happened, if you so wish. Best for you to form your own opinions.
‘Dean, I thought we were going to get a Chinese, why are we in your garage?’
‘We will. Sweet and sour king prawn balls, beef and black bean and a chow-mein, all on me. But I wanted to show you something.’
‘That, you mean?’
‘Yes. This is the button. I think it can help you.’
‘Dean, is this from the lab?’
‘Yep. It’s what I’ve been working on.’
‘What is it? Like a universal remote for my telly? I have two of them. They don’t work. I also read about the infrared radiation if you have too many remotes in your house, studies show—’
‘—It’s for that. Right there. I lied about last night; I wanted to enjoy it. But I couldn’t. You were just so… worried about everything. This can help.’
‘Oh.’
‘No, I mean I like you. I want to like you. I do. But you said it yourself, you’re unhappy and petrified of getting sick from what may or may not happen to you. That’s what the button’s for. It gets rid of all that.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘How did they explain it—erm—yeah, like the recycle bin on your computer. You know where you ctrl A and ctrl delete a bunch of stuff.’
‘I drag.’
‘Not the point. But yes, imagine that, but for your brain. This button does that, for your mind.’
‘And I just press it?’
‘No, you take it out for dinner, of course you press it.’
‘But it’s red.’
‘Official button rouge, thank you.’
‘Red buttons are always bad.’
‘This one isn’t. No boom.’
‘Hmm, it looks funny. Is it one of those that needs a double press? Like does it get stuck down?’
‘One press, traditional style, classic technique.’
‘Is there a ping?’
‘A what now?’
‘You know, like an alert. It could subscribe me to a newsletter. I don’t want spam. Next thing I know I need to enter my card details and then I’m in a pump and dump crypto scheme and owe HMRC a packet.’
‘Calm down. It’s an isolated-mechanical-one-simple-push scenario. A tactile response for your fingertip and unless your nerve endings are shot—and don’t worry, I know what you’re like, they’re not—then you’ll know when it’s done.’
‘But then what happens?’
‘The instant the button is pushed your mind will be free. No more chatter, no more worry and all anxiety will be drained away.’
‘Where does it go?’
‘What?’
‘I’ve always wondered about losing weight or Wi-Fi. Like, is it in the air we breathe? Or are there just invisible words and calories floating through the sky. Fat sentences. Greasy little adjectives. Look, right above me now, grammar fried rice. Can it get stuck in my lungs, is that what hay fever is?’
‘Which one?’
‘Eh?’
‘Which one do you want me to laugh at first?’
‘That’s not fair. I’m worried.’
‘So, push the button.’
‘But that’s what I’m worried about.’
‘And when you push it, you won’t be. Ta-da.’
‘I don’t get it. My mind will be empty, yes, but what will I think?’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘I want to think about the button right now, to tell you the truth.’
‘Only dreams and aspirations after you push it. What do you want? What excites you?’
‘I wanted to go on holiday to Ibiza but then I found out there was two sides to the island. The party-night-club-drug-fucky-festy side and then the tapas-white-lineny-shirty-sangria part. I was overwhelmed.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Week at home. Crisps and Bridgerton.’
‘Blimey, so okay, you push that button and you’ll just book the holiday and see both parts of the island. Rent a car, probably.’
‘Sounds expensive. And is it a good time of year now?’
‘See.’
‘See what?’
‘All of that extra stuff. All the baggage like sand between your toes. Poof, gone with a single push.’
‘Forever?’
‘No, not quite. See, it’s like clearing your gutters out. All the crap and gunk will slowly build back-up.’
‘I live in a flat.’
‘Flats have gutters, don’t they?’
‘Don’t know. Now I’m worried I’ve neglected mine, cheers.’
‘Christ.’
‘Kidding, kind of. So, I’ll need to push the button again?’
‘In-time, eventually, sure.’
‘Not a one-simple-push scenario then, is it?’
‘You’re impossible.’
‘Charming, I put my nice tights on for you.’
‘I’m trying to do you a favour, I had to pull some strings to get it out of the lab.’
‘Dean, did you steal this?’
‘Borrowed it.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘Of course it’s safe. Look here on my phone, we have all this data from our tests, can you see that? A near zero percent likelihood.’
‘What’s that for?’
‘Potential, hypothetical complications.’
‘Such as?’
‘You won’t care when you push it.’
‘I care now, tell me.’
‘Fine. Infection, bleeding, nerve injury, DVT, PE, death, dural tear, CSF leak, bowel/bladder/sexual dysfunction, paralysis, oesophageal injury, pharyngeal injury, tracheal injury, injury to the nerves of the voice box resulting in a soft voice or a hoarse voice, dysphagia, non-union, persistent, or recurrent symptoms and further surgery.’
‘PE? Like at school? Physical Education?’
‘Pulmonary Embolism.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Blood clot in a lung artery. Nasty way to go.’
‘No, I mean the button, sounds dangerous.’
‘Don’t press it then, forget it, we’ll just get Chinese and call it a night.’
‘Sorry, no, I’ll do it, I’ll do it. I’m just scared; I’m always scared. Every day when I wake up, I’m terrified by what I did the day before, what I have to do that day, and what’s coming up tomorrow. Fear wrapped in anxiety rattling through my brain. Little pigs in blankets of doubt, self-loathing and regret. I eat; I’m fat. I relax; I’m lazy. I work; I’m bored. Being in the moment is like having your fingernails removed by the claw of hammer. What comes next? How can I agonise over that, obsess over the tiny details until I’ve burnt any source of joy or relief in the present and shifted everything over, kicked the can down the road and then stepped in shit as I traipse my way, reluctantly, toward it. You don’t know what it’s like, to be removed from existence, a second out of sync—’
‘What happened? Are you okay?’
‘I pushed it. When I was ranting, I just pushed it.’
‘And?’
They started making out. Isabella dropped her handbag with a clunk, and they did it right there on the pristine floor. When they were finished, they ordered Chinese and watched a film. Isabella felt new but it was more than that. It was as if she could see the world for the first time. Experience it with all her senses. The frankly average takeaway blew her taste buds away. The Fast & Furious film made her laugh and cry in ways she couldn’t comprehend. And Dean was no porn star. Still, the sex was the best she had ever had.
With one press of a button Izzie had arrived for the first time and as the evening wound to a close she found herself with one singular thought in her mind.
‘I don’t ever want to go back to how I was.’
‘Isabella…’
A curt hand, the debut, ‘Call me Izzie.’
‘Izzie, I don’t know how long it will last. That was the first time anyone has ever pushed it.’
That Dean had lied to her didn’t upset her, wasn’t shocking. Before she would have been liable to lob a king prawn ball at him; smatter his white hoodie with sweet and sour sauce. But now she just laughed. Unburdened with needless considerations, free of worry, Izzie was left with just a clear vision on how to proceed.
‘I’ll need to take the button then, won’t I?’
‘Huh. Are you joking? I’ve stolen prototype medical science worth millions. To help you!’
‘To sleep with me. Let’s be real.’
‘Whatever. The point is, it’s my cock on the block if it’s not there tomorrow morning when they start work.’
‘When does it release?’
‘Release?’
‘The shops, when can I buy one.’
‘Christmas. A Christmas, I think. Maybe the next one, if we get it through human trials and approval.’
‘And how long will this last?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But not till next Christmas?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I just don’t know.’
‘I’m keeping it then.’
‘I’ll lose my job at the very least, but you don’t under—.’
‘Not my problem.’
Dean was exasperated, offended even. He got up and stamped his feet, waved his arms and shouted. All needless huffing and puffing. He had the button safely locked in his garage. Izzie wasn’t in the mood for a fight, or a theft, life was good. And besides, she could play the long game. Here was a man that had thought with his dick. Now that was taking a nap, the cognitive function had clearly returned to his brain. His own button, in a way. Izzie chuckled to herself. She didn’t need to convince Dean now. She only needed to wait until his dick woke up.
After that second date, Izzie enjoyed a week of bliss.
She’d wake up fresh as a daisy. Before, as Isabella, she’d barely go ten minutes without worrying about something. Each morning a new batch of alarms would start to blare. Don’t be late for work. You haven’t been to the gym this week. Did you rinse the Tupperware?
For a time, she thought that Dean had got it wrong. The button was a one time, one push scenario. She would see him watching her in the staff canteen, somewhere between afraid and professionally curious. She even got fruity with it, leaving little post it’s on his lunch tray as she walked by. Fancy Ibiza? He kept his distance; it made Izzie laugh. As if he worried that she’d erupt like an unlucky blighter from Alien, the button bursting forth from her chest. She felt great.
Her skin improved, her weight levelled off, she laughed more, slept better and even started to crack jokes. Yakult’s went unopened in her fridge; she wasn’t as anal about the time she left for work in the morning and didn’t feel the pressure to stay on after home time. Weirdly though, some days she did. Because she felt like it. And that was the secret to feeling free and easy. There wasn’t a method to any of the madness. There wasn’t a method to freeness. It was taking things as they came. Living in the moment, yada, yada and all that jazz.
It lasted a week, as we said.
She had needed the toilet, sometime around three in the morning. Half-asleep and unwilling to turn the light on she had flopped onto the porcelain and started to go.
Don’t clip it short, that’s how you get a UTI. What if you had broken your little toe just then, stumbling around in the dark. Is the balcony door locked. What if you can’t get back to sleep. What if you sleepwalk. What if you go up and over and crash down below into the bin shed. Rubbish. Filth. That’s you.
‘Fuck.’ The word came like a bullet.
The thoughts came with a headache and cotton mouth. Like a hangover that pulled at your skin so tight a breeze would rip it open.
She couldn’t get back to sleep that night, tossing and turning as if she could shake the thoughts loose, the obsessive hateful images would sludge out onto her silk pillowcases, like rancid earwax. But they remained. By the time the sun broke above the gloomy cloud cover, they had grown. Isabella was back and she was back in a big, painful way.
She was the first to arrive at the lab that morning and waited in her car. Dean himself had been plucking up the courage to approach Isabella, sorry Izzie, to enquire about the possibility of registering interest for another date. She had been right; the dick was starting to take over again. We’re not completely comfortable with the sexual desires that course through the brain, so maybe we’re doing Dean a disservice, but when you had shown a pretty lady kindness, when you had gone further by expunging all that plagued her, why couldn’t you have a meal and another special cuddle?
‘Can we meet up again? Tonight?’ She blurted out to him in the middle of the carpark.
It being exactly what Dean wanted to hear, he didn’t listen properly or drink all of Isabella in that morning. She was drawn, a bit rough. Her palms cupped her elbows so tightly that her knuckles began to whiten. He missed that. He also didn’t pick up on the desperation in first, her tone and second, her eyes.
‘Of course. There’s the new film—’
‘No, my place. But Dean—’
‘—Yes?’
‘I need it again.’
Dean wasn’t too far up his own arse that he thought she meant him. But Isabella caught the disappointment in his eyes, saw those same eyes take her in. Now he saw it, now he understood. If he didn’t know better, she might have been a drug addict. People had been talking. But either way, this woman was in pain. It’s the reason why he agreed to smuggle the button out down his pants again. It was the only place they didn’t wave the security wand over. And that’s where it stayed all the way to the penthouse’s front door.
‘Where is it?’ No hello, no kiss on the cheek. Isabella was crawling the walls by seven o’clock that evening.
Dean didn’t answer with words. He simply nodded his head forward, gestured to the package in his package.
Misunderstanding him she replied, ‘I’ll do whatever you want, if you just tell me where it is.’
Safe inside with the door shut, he clarified.
‘Get it out. Give it to me now.’
He studied her; she was a harrowing sight. Her tongue kept licking at her lips, but it was her eyes that panicked Dean. At first, he thought it a trick of the light. But no, they had sunk deep into their sockets, darkened by webs of crimson, veins pulsing like worms beneath the surface.
‘Are you okay?’ The best he could manage.
‘No, I’m not fucking okay. I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but I want to kill myself, not because I’m depressed. Depression would be a walk in the park compared to this. No, to shut the fucking thoughts up. They hurt. Why do they hurt, Dean?’
Without saying a word and never taking his eyes off her flickering flesh, Dean shoved his hands down his pants and produced the button. It was warm. It was damp. He flicked a pube from it before placing it in her clammy palm.
She pressed it.
A moan slipped out of her, not sexual, but medicinal, like soothing a burn. She stepped back, then again, like a headrush from a cigarette, until the shoe cabinet ushered her down. Slumping until her chin rested on her chest, she went still. Hand’s splayed and leg’s parted like the red sea, she didn’t look up, didn’t speak. Dean wasn’t sure she was breathing. Her head sagged and the button lay next to her. It was only when he made a move toward it, did she spark into life. Her quiet, imperceptible breaths became big hulking gasps of air.
‘Do not touch it.’ She snatched it up and pushed the button another three times.
When she was finished, she had a smile as wide as a rainbow and the rings around her eyes started to fade, the worms burrowing deep. Her mouth felt sugary and happy. Now her eyeballs had a wet glassy sheen to them like someone had forgotten to rinse the suds off.
Izzie was back. Isabella had been banished. But John, he was coming.
PART THREE coming next time. BIG OLD JOHN!