The Real Joe Sanders Wakes Up

Joe looked down at his fingers and waggled them as if waving at himself. Odd. He sniffed his fingertips. What is that? Celery? He scanned through his day, noting meals, handshakes, even objects he’d pointed at. Nothing stood out. So, why was his hand numb, and why was this numbness creeping up his arm?

He’d woken early, before his alarm, which happened about thirty percent of the time. Brushed his teeth, showered, chewed through his usual coffee and bagel. Took the train into town. Lunch meeting with a client—a new client. Self-Realizations, Inc. He sat up, pinching his dead palm, leaving tiny white crescents.

His client, Max DeVoss, hired his firm to publicize his new breakthrough philosophy. Joe tried to explain the difficulty of effective publicity for an idea without a tangible result or product to hang it on, but Max insisted.

“People will buy,” Max told him. “They’ll have to.”

“Mr. DeVoss, I understand how important this new—“

“Not ‘new’, Mr. Sanders.” He leaned forward, his eyes wide. “Timeless. Universal. Evolutionary, you might say.” He said the last with his hands up, fingers spread wide.

“Yes, okay. Timeless.” Joe shifted in his chair, straightening his silverware on the cloth napkin, glancing around the restaurant. “But you must understand that the average person isn’t looking for something new. Not really. He may think he is, but what he really wants is the familiar, packaged to feel like a new experience.”

Max chuckled, a secret behind his eyes. He shook Joe’s hand across the table. “Oh, you’ll do, Mr. Sanders.” He waved the waiter over. “And lunch is on me.”

Now, hours later, Joe sat in the dark and stared at the dead meat stiffening at the end of his deadening arm. He fumbled and located his cell phone on the nightstand, and dialed his assistant.

“Frieda. Yes, I know what time it is. Would you come to my apartment, please? Yes. Yes.” He shook his head, glancing up at the ceiling. “Yes. I promise. Okay, twenty minutes. Thanks.”

He crawled out of bed to his desk and logged onto the laptop, opening the software files Max had left him with after their meeting. He scanned through various folders, most still unfamiliar: proliferation projections, strategic alternatives, expected vs maximum sell-through rates, until he found market repercussions. He opened it and read.

With over six billion potential customers, Self Realizations, Inc has the opportunity to change the face of not only the existing market, but the face of society itself. We interact with certain pre-conclusions, accepted boundary sets, which help us define our world without reevaluating every factor each time we encounter something new. We meet a new person, and assume basic behaviors, basic shared understanding, because of our patterns of past experience. This shortcut, if you will, Mr. Sanders, allows human beings to function on low-level autopilot. We are rat-brains. We are automatons, reacting to environmental stimuli like bacteria in a petri dish, eschewing thoughtful interpretation and truly creative solutions.

Joe paused, rubbing his eyes, and flipped on the desk lamp. He continued, his limp arm folded into his lap. He scratched an itch on his scalp, dismissing a lingering tingling under the skin.

Self-Realizations, Inc has harnessed the power to help each of us become who we truly are. Who we pretend to be becomes irrelevant. We will communicate without words, without lies or innuendo. We shall all evolve to the next level in the blink of God’s eye! Humanity has, in a moment, become more true-to-self than ever before. We will become our own Creator.

“What the fuck?”

As you read this file, your limbs are becoming heavier and less-responsive, your brain activity is increasing, interpreting planted signals. It is reforming how it translates reality from the sensory input it’s been limited to until now. You are Becoming, Mr. Sanders. I anticipate our next conversation will be enlightening, indeed. To both of us. I will see you very soon.

“Oh, you’re gonna see me all right, you batshit weirdo.”

Joe stood to cross to the wardrobe and stumbled, his bare feet dragging on the thick carpet. His arms refused to rise to block his fall and he hit hard, the brunt of the impact bruising the side of his face, jarring his neck. He moaned, but his arms offered no response, and his legs limited themselves to feeble kicks and twitches. A dark stain seeped through his silk pajama bottoms and into the cream-colored carpet between his thighs.

In his mind, Joe thrashed and screamed, cursing Max DeVoss and whatever drug he’d used to incapacitate him. Convinced Max DeVoss’s scheme revolved around some kind of blackmail, expecting the door to open and a bevy of prostitutes and photographers to roll in, Joe planned his retribution. He fantasized about taking the tire iron from the trunk of his Porsche and beating Mr. Max DeVoss to a bloody, pulped mass out in the desert then leaving him for the carrion feeders. He imagined laughing as he drove away, brushing bits of blood and bone matter from his sleeve.

As Frieda knocked on his door, her voice muffled through the security steel but the concerned tone coming through, growing frantic, Joe’s body settled into the thick pile. His eyes blinked, pupils dilated but unseeing, communicating the series of dark yet satisfying ends to one Mr. Max DeVoss to his stiffening brain. The neurons still fired, faster with each minute, the growing patterns wild and green, the cortical networking unprecedented. His breathing had reached levels compatible with deep yogic meditation.

Max climbed over the iron railing outside Joe’s bedroom balcony door, slipping inside, quiet but for the soft rustle of his clothes as he moved. He knelt next to the body on the floor, checked vital signs, and nodded.

“Hello, Mr. Sanders.” He patted his shoulder. “When you’re ready, we’ll begin training for your new life.” Joe exhaled, his breath whistling through his lungs with the force. “Yes, I know you’re quite upset at the moment. We have time, and you’ll calm. You’ll see what unimagined potential I’ve opened up for you, my friend.”

Max stood and walked to the front door, listened for a moment to Frieda on the patio. He opened the door, and swept his arm to welcome her inside.

“Frieda, I presume?”

She stood firm, her hands on her hips. “Who the hell are you? And where’s Joe?”

Max chuckled, and repeated his gesture. “Why, Joe’s in the bedroom. We have something remarkable to share with you, my dear.” He smiled. “Come in.”