2084: Orwell Was an Optimist

By David Barlow

It’s not so far off as you suppose.

In our looming future, marketing has finally turned the tables. Once upon a time their appeals were shaped to a target audience. In 2084 Americans strive for the mentality that ads hand down. Commercials are the favored part of any show, fieldtrips to the mall teach kids how to shop, and the RealiTV complex keeps everyone suitably distracted.

It’s an election year and the Presidential Sweepstakes offers voters a chance to win a bundle. Hit president and former all-pro quarterback Dick Durgan appears a shoo-in but ad maven Michael Raker uses his wiles to back the ultimate stunt candidate.

In a society that aspires for glorious middle, useless academics and elitist intellectuals have been farmed out as park-dwelling sweepers compelled to keep our streets spic-n-span. Raker props before the country a cantankerous bookworm known simply as The Professor. The ornery little man sounds the alarm that Rome is burning. The public can’t get enough of his wacky rants.

Issues plaguing today’s America are turned to eleven and overflow onto the floor. 2084 is an ad for the overgrowth of advertising, a book about the death of books, a playful warning on the perils of ignored warnings, and an epilogue on our fix-it-later fiscal policies. All conveyed in visual terms to mimic the nonstop internet video that subdivides our attention. Buckle in and feel your jowls draw back as you fly through the hyper-next ADD world waiting just beyond tomorrow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Barlow
• Release date: Mar 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310481994

David Barlow

Author, novelist, screenwriter, poet, fiction (and other keywords) David Barlow grew up in the cushy suburban digs of Ridgewood, New Jersey. Graduating up there in his class at Emerson College with a BFA in creative writing he pilgrimaged to Los Angeles for the script business. Skittering through several big Hollywood near-misses David plied a trade in writing copy, PR, and professional collateral. All while honing that edge for prose, verse, etc. Some time now those efforts have been enjoyed from the wilds of New Hampshire.

Book preview

2084

Orwell

was an

Optimist

a satire of American culture,

politics, and media

© 2012

David Barlow

for Jessica

without whom

so little is possible

Part A: Primary

Part B: General

Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Part A: Primary

Factotum: A man sports an outsized metal microphone mounted on a flexi-coil rising from the center of his chest. Skin waxy, his eyes not quite right, he is however dressed in a fine suit. And has plenty to say.

Presentation Activated.

//

Hello! I am a narrator. I’ve been engaged to offer the following in fullest detail brevity allows. I am endowed with certain veracity and a knack for where events unfold. I can upon occasion participate under the specified rules. Please let this not imply any sort of oracle. I have no control over what follows, no agenda to serve. Only a duty to convey I submit with all fealty.

My task is straightforward; present the society in which I’ve lived. Prevailing stereotypes may not tell the whole story, that swath can be widest and best. The character of America if you will. A tip: When assessing unfamiliar eras a candid portrait gets left behind in its mounds of marketing ephemera. What says more of a people than its advertising? We do have weightier matters to attend, a rare juncture in history pits the world’s most powerful man against one who may be the least.

Upheaval can begin with a piddling turn, though I’d hardly concur. Welcome to New York City. Shoppers scuttle, professionals do lunch, new diligent parents out on maneuvers, plus those denizens who never do much but forever rush to do it elsewhere. Visually they present (as nowspeak puts it) metabolism-challenged.

Times Square has been overtaken by glasswall theaters, the popular stages front busy streets. Stars from cancelled realiTV shows continue the drama 24/7 on the entrancing side of a one-way mirror. Pedestrians stop to watch, others may catch a recap on the evening news. Please note the beautifully tended streets. Cars, taxis, and peopleballs remain overdue for a wash but utopian cleanliness commends the sidewalk. A broom gets pushed by a man in a ratty sportcoat (yes, elbow patches). When a hotshot rushed by flipping his 40oz slushpuppy splat on the sidewalk, the rumpled man was on it with a submissive and articulate thank you.

Past this custodial tableau rushed Raven, an ever-late mom leading her boy. They joined queue for a shop called The Spankery where children incur a discipline certificate to relieve busy/obliging parents. The only chaperoned he looked undaunted by what looms. Beside, the tweedy man scrubbed a cornerstone tagged MAYBE! The boy watched diligent work. Hello, he announced. Mom pulled him in. Don’t talk to them Binky, he may say something clever.

Raven was overtaken by a beauteous object in the adjacent window of a hoity import store, Ch-Ching’s. A spray of fiberoptic filaments roiled as if within currents. Bailing on The Spankery she revved up her haggle and led Binky on in.

Unruffled by the snub our bedraggled man huffed his glasses buffing them on a lapel, a time-worn move rendered obsolete by eTacts. Spectacles as they were known persist mainly as overlarge shades behind which one finds celebrity. Intelligent contact lenses not only enhance vision but offer inboard access to ads and entertainment. In this mode they cast a faint blue sheen on the eyes, an unwanted sprangle engineers had yet to resolve, those sticky moments everybody knows you’re just not with them anymore.

So appeared the peepers of a passing pedestrian. Her name an agreeable mouthful, Stephanie Oliapolos presented no more ethnicity than the writhing light-fountain in Ch-Chings. A minor-league reporter for one of the web’s seven sanctioned news outlets she had a human interest story to cover in the park. A sweeper last night died of acute irony. Such snippets leaven the public’s daily diet of mayhem and disappointment.

Despite my authority I confess being unaccustomed to prospects of an audience. Let us then assume a few story-telling verities. Listeners get distracted;

A modern mind hungers for what’s next, leaving now half-eaten on the plate. Boredom is not subjective, people vote with their attention. Be this right or wrong matters not so much as it leads the democracy of my era. Audience drift reduced to 4.7 seconds. My pace shall therefore attempt to exceed these lapses. Hold tight as we put Stephanie on hold.

Central Park remains a jewel from a less jittered age, even if mudbrown winter desolates. Complicating this a hooverville of shanties overtook the grounds. As their plastic tarps crinkle in the wind we see they are built exclusively from books. Flaking, moldy, stacked though with a tasteful eye for brickwork. Tomes became an unlikely construction material during endgame of the digital revolution, when hardcopy got rendered not just obsolete but hissingly ungreen.

Occupants of these wordy hovels warrant a quick digression.

America long waged war with its intelligence, to lay out the historical sweep leading to modern convenience asks a chronicle itself. Suffice the cerebral elite and their leftfield disdain grew so skilled alienating the public, consensus was achieved. Never more would high-falutin smartypants bigtalk honest working joes. Subversives no longer dupe consumers into thinking ads were out to git ya. A constitutional amendment was ratified to solve the mess, ushering in The Age of Mental Equality. Scholars & intellects entrenched atop society finally and forever got the heave-ho. A sloppy transition with much stirring oratory on one side, combat the other. In the end concessions were granted. Mandated to scour the streets spic-n-span, brainiacs could retain their precious books and squat with them rent-free in public spaces. In quick order ghostly libraries the nation over were emptied and converted to serverfarms. Everyone enjoyed increased bandwith for gaming and such. Sweepers came to accept their fate and after decades did so with a diligence almost annoying. With the FDA prozacating the water supply, almost was about it.

I have seen the future, and it is average! So typed a hip blogger working the angle once reserved for pundits. Though patriots find the allegation flaccid a so-so country won’t always win. A diverse genepool allowed USA to pop out plenty of eggheads, many lavishly employed in the digital sector. Coders occupy a unique gray-zone between having it all and zilch. Wealth enables the consumer dream, a heaven more tricked-out than airy notions of afterlife. Outlier intelligence made them every opposite of cool, geeks roundly derided by all. A tricky fate.

Otis Helmers was a top coder for Guise, the everywhere social networking site. As with many professionals, career demands left Otis drained and apathetic. Such men get drawn to a character opposite as she seems to possess all he lacks. Raven qualified. Whether he really wanted that stuff, well, Mr. Helmers was a dutiful family man. An upstanding member of the community if it would have him. Otis was locked in.

Raven loved wildlife. She never met any, except the testy beaver the Jammers paraded around the sidelines. Her children made up for this. Dyspeptic teen Hawk envisioned parlaying a sports career to more intimate performance. Sensitive 9-year-old Bull sometimes went by Binky. And lil Bunny just six who Mom hoped would outgrow a recent aversion to Lil Miss Heartthrob shows they once attended at Esteem Centers in Jersey.

Otis loved his kids and wanted more for them, if they do themselves. Ambition is a two-edged sword; who ain’t game to make more moolah? Too far ahead though gets you the stink.

The Helmers place featured the newest anything. Otis bought a five-sided kitchen table to accommodate his clan. For dinner conversation most families content on a wallscreen, Otis could afford and sorta loved the latest wizbang. Emanator strips in the ceiling dropped before them five soft-screens, volume within implied missing depth as seeming planes display select content from the Bard. Each Helmers could earbud to their own source but Otis saw dinner as family time to bond over shared reactions.

Prowling the fridge he retrieved some distressed Scottish leftovers and set it under the scanner. What’s the micro-count George? His digital valet measured the deepfried pizza. Frankly Otis I wouldn’t eat it.

Domestic robots remain an optimistic dream, most homes boast a central brain/fun center. These digital servants were given human names and a role in the household. Had one the means for a higher-end unit with advanced personality modules, the family may treat it as a pet, perhaps more. The Helmers kids were in some ways closer to George than their parents, and encouraged him to tell dirty jokes at dinner they can’t get bagged for.

Hurry up Otis, Raven urged, the commercials are coming! Her husband sat down before their portal to all things virtually wonderful. Chow time.

Striving, once a backbone of the American Dream. Who enjoys confronting all they won’t achieve? The country grew grumpy, or at least medicated. Instead of income a more attainable beacon guided selfworth, the instant empowerment of shopping! Consumers needn’t wonder, they needn’t wait, they simply have to have. Most are checked by a credit-limit but Emperor Yow made sure there’s plenty of that to go around.

Vast sprawls of hype feed a cult of consumption. Some cried foul at ads in bra cups, on communion wafers, under casket lids. Progress cannot be denied. Sheer prevalence achieved a tipping point; the view appealed to in these endless pitches became just what America wanted. Too smart rated no better than too dumb, what mattered was you got it. Just what it may be resists analysis though odds are it’s on sale.

On five screens hideous humanoid slimers blob this way. There ain’t much time! a muscled voice warns. What will you do? A few sweaty holdouts congregate in the ruins. Toting a flamethrower a beefy hero swigs a bottle of Electric Juice. If my calculations are right, by midnight anyone with an +80 IQ will wanna munch our brains. Foxy black chick pumps shells into her shotgun. How we know that don’t include you? A longblonde turns to him worried. Slugging back Electric Juice he spits at his pilot flame, it sizzles brief colors. I ain’t the only one rooting for my stupid. Staring... You! His flamethrower rages at the squealy mutants. or Reed Rockstone. You! The longblonde confronts her husband now gelatinous and vengeful, with tears she torches him! or Amy Sharp. You! Foxy black chick wastes a slimer then grabs Reed moshing him like cooperation ain’t required. or Coolata Moore. You! The inevitable sidekick dies his inevitable sidekick death. or Brick Rivers. In... The Equalizers, IV!

Hawk was psyched. That feelie’s awesome, I’ve seen it twelve times! George knew to sound down audio once his masters spoke. You’d make a great Reed, Raven enthused. Bull asked if Hawk ever played Coolata Moore which they found funny. Bunny wondered if you can be a slimer. Mom tisked, What a thing to say! Dad was less cagey. Only if you’re convicted of a federal offense honey.

Achieving singularity made the ad biz everyone’s hip older sibling. It prefers a large target, hello glorious middle. Asian auto firms complied presetting digital bumperstickers, My kids be average student at the Alimentary.

Sociologists may call it the greatest shift in collective values since demise of the Catholic Empire. They didn’t. There were no sociologists. Stuffedshirts never contributing any practical value now scrub-a-dub. Infiltration of commercial space on the american psyche slipped one media-point at a time into every idle moment until spending-history spelled your name. Women got drawn more deeply into the netherworld of brand-relationship. Any who protest were subject to more advanced persuasion, lured off to the glamorous field of mystery shoppers surveying best boutiques. Always prone to blunter measures men went along with just about anything that began with a bogo.

Their unstinting need to cheer a favorite team took a compelling turn when fantasy sports merged with financial products. Pro athletes sold stock in their career which fans could invest one game or season to the next. Great stores of enthusiasm went to selecting a sweaty mutual fund fans could ride to personal fortune. The mortgage got yoked to a surehanded catch, a clutch three-pointer, or the more intimate fouls in splorf. It made for passionate spectators and more than a little heartbreak when the bemuscled bluechip choked.

Ads over, the Helmers returned to StarDate. Female contestants compete for ex-athletes in hopes of spawning a future champion! An ominous jock stands with superhero poise, his cape billows on a studio stage. A female voice cooed Roid Gunn won three Manhandler Trophies, was a Big Johnson pitchman, and made many a gal the envy of her block!

Otis didn’t like this show. Before bidding, contestants get introduced. A fawning young gal with a hot social quotient and the credit rating to prove it! impressed Hawk. I’d give her triplets. Bunny squirmed. Daddy will she kiss the big scary man? Bull said she sure will. Otis put his foot down. Let’s go somewhere else for dinner. Bull bummed. Why don’t we have a nice conversation? That’s enough Bull, Dad disciplined. Eat your chocolate burger.

George measured the moment. A vampire goes in a bar to ask for a mug of hot water. The barkeep says you guys only drink blood. The vampire twirls a tampon saying it’s for tea. Hawk guffawed. Raven’s moodhair went. Bad computer, she scolded, bad!

Toggling up Otis changed his family’s programming. Like all valets George was configured with a shortlist of preferred media outlets. Personalizing the nozzle on the great digital firehose rated a highly selective art. One’s chosen collection -- a Bard -- drew from TV, internet, cable, radio, satellite, etc etc etc. Assembling a Bard spoke volumes more about one’s nature than any heartfelt profile on Guise. Among limitless choices, next up for the Helmers was a news site called the Nodule.

Reality be not so important as reality is perceived. Among USA’s seven sanctioned news outlets the Nodule rated seventh, which may overstate performance. Sketchy sponsors, daily hits set new lows as did ad rates. Anchor Stump Risney once oopsed an on-air belch, causing such hullabaloo (ratings bump) it became a recurring editorial. That prompted the regrettable tag, The Nodule, Don’t pass it up. So credibility dipped.

The Helmers wandering here was significant, for in time the entire country would see the clip. On the lighter side of the news a sweeper died last night when his paper palace collapsed atop him, uttered Stump. Stephanie Oliapolos filed this report from Central Parrrrk.

Inconvenient but their field reporter must hold her microphone. She stood in the muddy greensward. Oh look at her, Raven crowed, that is some hair!

Beside her stood a codgered little guy with rangy beard and overtaxed swaths groping an extensive head. Shaggy eyebrows made him owlish, his nose sealed it, plus glasses. His whole presentation a passive defiance of modern order. Teeth to his credit were still there, none of the gnarly gum shrinkage common among his flannel peers.

Stephanie said can you tell me what happened. He summoned himself. Clarence Vocci got crushed under his collected knowledge, he lamented. Talk about a guy knowing too much, she countered, what was he like? He staggered at the enormity. Despite life’s blows Clarence remained an optimist. I find this miraculous.

Respect for a fallen comrade broke through even his beard. A curious mind laboring without need of answer is the last person to lose. Cringer sincerity triggers sympathy and chuckles, they reliably combine to awwe! With determined quaver he went on. They should be held up as examples for everybody rushing around with a rusty bucket over their head. Tears traced his cheeks running for cover in the bushy thatch. Sorry Miss, I hope we’re not live.

That may’ve been it, lighthearted filler bottoming the news. The sod touched something. How gruff drew back underlying softness, ashamed of the heart he can’t hide, it proved a magic formula. The vurb took on life of its own.

Video-blurbs surpassed Gutenberg as history’s largest communication shift. Nearly a century now viral vurbs bagged staggering numbers. Launching career, upended opinion, selling just about anything. The owly sweeper’s clip got tagged the Rusty Bucket.

Even the President’s career was launched by a viral vurb. Most women were introduced to Dick Durgan by the uncorking he offered his wife in the champagne romp after HyperBowl LXXXVI. A story made compelling by her next-day divorce request.

The sweeper’s little rant charmed all who saw. In this way he came into the eyepiece of the faceless forces ever needing a next big thing.

The future. A constant companion leans over today at ever more pitch. New tech spurred tomorrow until the present vanished beneath us. A famous wit might say the more things change the more sameness appeals. Famous wits in short supply USA relied on observers like the President, who famously lamented innovation had got old.

I myself prefer a simpler approach, though my neutrality on this and all subjects I affirm. The future always is preferable for it’s the now in which we eternally arrive.

Nothing says now like an ad. For centuries contoured to a target-audience. A far superior model contours the audience to the ads. Some might claim consumer monoculture a giant step back, a dark-ages holy church is replaced by holy product. Them prone to such claims weren’t allowed out in public anymore, not without a pushbroom.

And who be the Great Oz behind the drapes operating these levers? Well their eyepiece, chief creative director at Kravenfort Group, looked to leap. Running a venerable ad house may be another man’s pinnacle but why sell soapsuds when you can hawk the White House? This ambitious fellow named Michael Raker just saw something amazing.

Mineshafts of