#yeah i like to think they’d have matching memoirs

[appalamutte]

you’re sixteen-years-old, moseying through your local bookstore when you come across it.

you’re not usually into nonfiction, especially not memoirs, but the man on the cover is familiar. laughing over his shoulder with his eyes closed, relaxed in a turquoise button-up and jeans, standing with his back to the camera at a counter cluttered with leafy vegetables and mixing bowls.

from seeds to supper, the title reads, and his name is eric bittle-zimmermann.

you deliberate for a bit, picking it up and reading the blurb, the reviews printed on the back sleeve, the first page. the very first words of the book are hey, y’all! and your friend walks over at that point, and they see him and say—“oh, i used to watch some of his videos.”

so you buy it, because your friend said you should, and later that night you’re already deep into the stories of peach cobbler recipes and learning how to differentiate between living and surviving when they send you the link to the guy’s old youtube channel. it hasn’t been active for a few years, but that doesn’t matter because oh my god are there so many videos. years of videos, almost a decade’s worth, starting all the way back in the early 2010s and you get sucked into them all, laughing at the funny ones and tearing up at the emotional ones, watching as the guy slowly grows up from high school to college and beyond.

you switch between reading the memoir and watching the videos over the next few weeks. you see his video on introducing his boyfriend and you read the chapter on maple-crusted apple pie and how learning to love is a lot like learning to lattice a pie, slow and patient and sometimes messy.

you see his cooking challenge video featuring all of his friends from college and you read the chapter on homemade bagel bites and how family doesn’t have to be a four-course meal you’ve had reservations for all your life. sometimes, family is just frozen bagel bites and sriracha sauce crowded around an uneven table.

you see his two-part wedding vlog posted in 2019, nearly 10 years ago, and you read his chapter on red velvet cake and how the brain can get confused, something to do with all the nerve endings getting tangled up, because when love reaches the same heights fear does, you end up fainting into your then-boyfriend’s arms.

then, you see his final video on the channel, a farewell to his subscribers and a glimpse as to what’s next. it’s short and simple, just his husband and him sitting on a couch together, a toddler between them. and you read the last chapter of the book on chicken tenders and how a seed in the garden never knows it’ll grow into a supper worth loving. it just knows it’ll grow into something, and that the growing takes time.

(a few years later, when you’re twenty and in college, you’re downtown with some friends and come across it. you still aren’t into nonfiction that much, but that one memoir always stuck with you, sitting on your shelf back in your dorm. and this one, with the guy’s back to the camera, tall and steadfast, standing in the middle of an ice rink, an emboldened number one across the back of his jersey. the name is familiar.

melting ice, the title reads, and his name is jack bittle-zimmermann.

you pick it up.)

[ecotone99]

[SF] The Road to Hell is Through Kentucky

“Criminal Record?”, asked a highway billboard of James as he drove by. It was only after he’d passed it and cranked the radio up contemptuously that the sign’s red-lettered answer registered: “No pardon - only job! Call us!” A moment later, he was coating his borrowed ride in limestone dust with a wide 180, moving the transmission to protest as he turned. He steadied, facing the sign’s rear in silhouette, as the early evening sun stung his eyeballs. He grabbed his mom’s sunglasses from the console and got back up to speed.

A text alert sang out from his days-old phone as he pulled up across from the billboard. Seeing its preview from his lock screen, he sighed at the thought of reading it all and turned the engine off. Hey James, your mom gave me your number. I knew you and Tim were close and it was good to see u today-

A message from another world. One where driving high was a fact of life, and if people perished, God must have needed another angel. He wondered why they didn’t speak of God’s need for their man-slaughtered victims too - wouldn’t they need less reforming in heaven anyways? At least Tim had only killed concrete, and himself, and good on him for avoiding the condescending treatment by dying. That, and Kentucky. If only James had had the privilege…

He called the billboard’s number in a hurry.

“New Pathways Employment Services - how may I help you?” the exotic-for-Kentucky woman chirped.

“Uh, hi, yeah, uh, I saw your billboard and called about work. I have a record.”

“Great! So, I just need some information from you. You’re calling from where, sir?”

“Kentucky. Richmond’s where I’m closest to for big cities-”

“Good, good. Just needing to know which office to transfer you to, you’re good to hold?”

James checked his battery. This new thing was a tank.

“Yeah. Can you not play music though?”

“I’m afraid that’s automated, sir. I’ve heard worse holding music myself, though. Good luck with the position!”

“Thanks. You t...fuck.”

James flicked the phone to speaker and let it sing jazz in the passenger seat where his suit jacket lay crumpled. Even the birds were quiet, like an audience of kids for a transistor radio ball game.

At least you got invited.

And at least he got to see Tim’s parents, who actually gave a shit that he was still sober and had bothered to come out.

“Hello?” a man asked from James’s phone.

“Oh, hi,” James answered, seizing the phone and switching it off of speaker. “This is the Richmond office for New Pathways?”

“It certainly is! I am the HR coordinator here. You’re interested in working for us?”

“Yes. I could use that, yessir.”

“Well - you’re in luck. We call ourselves research, but really, that does us a disservice. We got federal funding, we got pay for you, obviously, and we’re even helping out this beautiful country.”

“Amazing! So - what needs to happen on my end?”

“We would just have to meet up in person to go over a few things. Confirm your record - maybe a first for you - and make sure you are up to the task as a participant.”

“I’m up to anything. I need the work, obviously, but I’m also glad if other people can be helped.”

“So are we...so are we. And we will. How is tomorrow, the Monday then, for you, uh…”

“James. James Alexander.”

“Alright, Mr. Alexander. You name a time, and we’re over at 584 McArthur Road here in town.”

“I can do noon.”

“Beautiful. You have yourself a good night then, Mr. Alexander.”

“Night.”

The sunset was warm as James slumped in his seat to smile at it.

/

New Pathways’ office building loomed like a new law firm; the glasswork must have used up a small beach. James braced himself and walked through into its drafty lobby, where a young man in the middle of the lobby glanced up from his typing to ask James:

“How can I help you today, sir?”

“I’m here for a noon appointment with New Pathways, with your HR person.”

The secretary kept typing at half-speed with one hand and pushed a separate button with the other.

“I’ve let Mr. Wilson know you’re here. Would you care to take a seat, and grab yourself a water or a coffee if you’d care to? He’ll be down right away.”

“Yeah, sure, sounds good.”

The seating area was an island of clutter off to the side of the bare foyer. Its resident coffee pot was burned to a crisp, and the seating was sparse. Still, James helped himself to coffee and picked up an old Psychology Today to read in a patterned armchair.

“Psychopaths Among Us! The New Norm?” read its title on top of a photograph of a pretty woman holding a mask of her face. James cracked a smile. Happily, as the title story soon told him, there was no literal danger of increasing psychopathy among humanity. The more pressing challenge was children raised right acting wrong and not understanding what they’d done wrong quite well enough. The article’s last segment had a picture of a priest, sans mask, talking about the importance of community - though quickly clarifying that this did not need to come from a church. His unpictured fellow, a school principal, expressed the same sentiment.

“Mr. Alexander?”

James dropped the magazine to meet the HR person, who seemed younger than James even, and had an honest-looking face.

“Yes…” James stood for a handshake, “You’re Mr. Wilson, the HR guy?”

Wilson smiled.

“Something like that. It’s good to see someone reading those things. Are you a psychology buff?”

“I took some in college. I like how they can present it so simply, you know? It’s different from reading however many news articles on my phone that have different conclusions…”

“I hear ya...are you good with some stairs?”

“Lead the way.”

The second floor was denser, save for a couple expansive board rooms. Wilson led him to a modest office at the very end of the hall.

“Have a seat wherever you’d like!” Wilson said with a flourish, giving the option of two whole chairs. James sat down in the straight-backed one while his interviewer settled in behind his desk.

“So…” Wilson began with a smile, “I am so excited to have you with us. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of questions, but I felt like a brief introduction to what we do could be helpful to start - I’m guessing you saw the billboard?” James nodded.

“That’s quite an approach to branding. How many other desperate bastards have ended up in here?” That won him a laugh.

“We have had a few. Though - and this may sound like a lot at once - you seem more promising than most. That’s not me being intuitive or flattering you, full disclosure. We work with the criminal justice system and have read the basics of your case, as well as the kind of man you’ve been since.”

James bristled. “Well I’m glad at least you think I’m promising, based on that. No other employer has cared enough to see the change. ‘Recovered felon’ is really only a badge of honour in movies.”

“I know. Whereas for us, it’s a big deal.” Wilson clicked his pen and scribbled a note on a clipboard. “Have you ever heard of H-A-T-T?”

“That’s not a familiar acronym. Is that a therapy? A procedure?”

“Yes and yes. I’d be concerned if you knew it, so you’re likely not a liar. In short - it is about transference of feelings with a clear goal in mind.” It was James’s turn to laugh.

“You can do that? Chemically? That seems neurologically impossible and/or dangerous for both parties…”

“Don’t forget how we actually used to put people on antidepressants, James. The limits of what works and does not work are always changing...”

“Well, fuck me. That does sound useful. Outside of how it could be abused. Seems like a short walk to dystopia from a world in which that’s possible.”

“You’re not wrong.”

James eyed an old-school portrait above and behind his interviewer. There was a likeness there, though the painted figure had a chest full of war medals.

“Is that guy a relative?” James asked. Wilson smiled.

“He was my father.”

“I’m sorry...when did he pass?”

“Two years ago.” Wilson turned, pen in hand, and pointed at his Dad’s likeness.

“He’s maybe even worth discussing here. This is what I mean. People I’ve interviewed thus far wouldn’t even have asked that. How do you suppose someone who wears all those medals ends up dead in his 50’s? It’s not a trick question.” And still, there was no good answer to it.

“Is it stereotyping to assume he killed himself?”

“Yes...but as usual, you’re not wrong. He had a mini-Rwanda type situation back in Yemen, where there was ethnic cleansing happening and the UN were cowards.”

“Shit.” “Indeed. And he didn’t write a memoir or end up telling middle schools about it, he just ate a gun one day. Unnecessary guilt. Doesn’t much matter to the brain if it’s unwarranted, right?”

“Right.” The coffee was scalding. James set it down.

“And that’s kind of where this all started for me. I was so goddamn pissed that someone like him would die when other people can’t feel appropriately guilty for anything. Not that you’re one of those, so far as I can see.” Wilson stood up and went over to the window, overlooking an empty park and streets full of traffic. “And I figured, what if people were to feel what they were supposed to feel? What could that look like?”

“You have my interest peaked, at least.”

“And as it turned out - I’ve worked in ‘agencies’ for years - I wasn’t the only one with that idea. Scientists have been working on feelings transference for a while, and the possibilities are endless. They’ve gotten people who languished in therapy for years to feel less guilty about stuff that paralyzed them for years...” James grabbed a stress ball of the desk, and used it as prescribed for once.

“So this is early stages stuff then? I haven’t read one news article even about any of this.” Wilson turned around and came back to his seat.

“Those are the good results I mentioned. The others...complications are likely, if not inevitable. Just like how a kidney transplant can be worse than none, so, too, can poor matching be awful - for both parties.” The notepad went untouched. Wilson was zoned in like a goalie at match end.

“And, really, that’s where we get to your case. We can keep making efforts at better matches with our procedures, and we will. But there is a population of society with less to lose and more to gain on this stuff.”

“Talk about an ex-prisoner’s dilemma…”

“Only your outcomes here are better than the original prisoner’s dilemma, I swear. What if I told you you could make a guilty piece of shit feel guilty for what he did? Reform him, preclude him from recidivism and thus from modeling criminality to his kids and the whole bit? That’s within reach, James. That is precisely what we are researching.”

“Goddamn…”

“The downside, and there is a real one, is that you would have to feel terrible things. Experience terrible things. And that shame and guilt or whatever is appropriate for the offender would be siphoned out of you into them, if you were a match.” James’s stomach dropped and he scratched at his armrest.

“‘...experience’?”

“Through VR. Very good VR. It makes use of brain matter from the original offender, while the transferee wouldn’t get the VR - they’d receive the physiological results of your experience via intraneural transfusion. And to you, your crimes would be 100% real until the whole process was complete. There would be no sense of self or even free will, per se - just you doing awful things. You’d feel similarly to how you felt when you killed your friend three years ago, to a much greater degree. That’s how we would be using H-A-T-T in this instance.”

“Fucking hell. I haven’t been through enough already to pass it on to someone else?”

Wilson sighed.

“If only. There’s a critical difference between contrition which obviously transformed you to be better and the kind of precursors to contrition that another person would require. And with getting you to experience new things too, there would be no limit on how much we could incentivize someone else.”

“That’s fucked up.” Wilson laughed.

“And isn’t the status quo? Isn’t broken people going back to broken families and expanding them while blaming the system? Isn’t 15-year-olds in the suburbs acting like how only terribly traumatized youth used to?”

James leaned forward unwillingly from the growing sense of weight.

“I don’t know if that’s a burden I’d want to bear…”

“We have no evidence that you would need to bear it past the procedure, though. We have more research into healing than re-incentivizing people, for obvious reasons. And, also, I lied.” James shot up out of his seat -

“Wait, WHAT? What…”

“On that first billboard you must have seen. There is a pardon at stake here. Not a chance, not conditional, but the real deal. You, free, with the potential to be a social worker or psychologist or whatever you want. Just think of that.”

James slumped down and eyed his coffee, awash with ripples from his near-outburst.

“Who’s the worst person I would have to be? Don’t tell me I have to be a serial killer.”

“You do have to be a serial killer, yeah. The alternative would be getting you to commit a bunch of more minor crimes which wouldn’t hurt you in the same way. We couldn’t map those to objectively awful actions the same as we can with famous murder cases - any robber could have secret good motives, after all.”

James tried his coffee again. It seemed stronger and more bitter, somehow. The mug at least made pleasant chiming noises as he drummed on it with his fingers.

“So there’s no way I will remember being Ted Bundy or whoever. I’ll just be Ted Bundy, then end scene, and I am me again, and Joe Pseudo-Psychopath is now Joe Repentant?”

“That’s close to it, yeah.” James looked at Wilson Sr. for a while. He still looked happy in his portrait, noble and American.

“I can do it with conditions. If I’m going to be on anything other than general anesthetic, I need to be confined for a few days afterwards. I break out in track-marks from any drug.”

“Absolutely. We have safe housing and medical as well as security staff.”

“And I want updates on whichever poor bastard ends up feeling what I felt, even if I don’t get his name or anything. I do not just want to be a lab rat.”

“Of course.”

Wilson’s right hand clasped his left. He didn’t blink very often for someone who thought so fast.

“And I guess naturally this is an ‘I talk I die’ kind of thing?”

“Not quite, though you would end up back in prison with no one to believe you. We have you on that one breach that no one else knows about, and would not hesitate to share it with your parole officer.”

“...Where can I sign?”

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