The Mechanical Muse

Chapter 1 (Part 1)

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." - Arthur C. Clarke

Lying is a part of human nature, as natural as breathing or walking: not the sort of dark lies that ruin lives, but small ones that grease the wheels of the world. I know I've told plenty—everyone knows Aunt Sandy's carrot cake matches her name, but if you told her that she'd either have a heart attack or smack you with a rolling pin. Isn't it better, then, to tell her the cake's texture is like a pillow (she thinks it means softness, even if I mean that the texture's reminiscent of what I imagine choking down goosefeathers to be like), and be charitable? In a way, lying is polite, if it helps everyone.

I hoped my Eros matches would agree. The Southern California University dating pool wasn't small, which meant any incremental advantage I could gain would reap that much reward. I definitely was a solid 5 foot 11—5 foot 10 and a half without shoes, but by the time I'd end up there with a girl my mission was accomplished—but nobody would notice an extra inch. Round numbers felt more elegant anyway. Fleshing out the rest of the profile was a harder task. What assets I thought I offered, a gentle soul and a sprightly wit, had not yet attracted anyone. Every few days I would check the app, see no responses, and edit my profile again. I was sure there was a magic formula somewhere.

"Are you really still playing around with Eros again? Admit it, Chris: you're addicted. And desperate," Valdez, my roommate, said as he entered the room. He peered over to take a look at my screen, but he didn't have to: he knew there was nothing else I'd be doing at 10 PM on a Saturday night.

"I'm not desperate! Is it a crime to want to go out on a date or two, meet somebody nice, and hold hands while sitting in the olive grove?"

"It is if you have a bad profile. Here, let me fix this," Valdez said, yanking the phone from my hand. He scrolled up and down a little, frowned, and gave it back with a shake of his head.

"This is, well, you'll get mad at me if I say 'you're boring,' so I'll say the profile is boring. What sort of guy posts a picture with his mother on a dating app? 'A boy's best friend is his mother' is a quote from Psycho, and girls don't want psychos. Where's a picture of you skydiving, or drinking in Bali, or doing anything, you know, fun?"

"Show me your profile. I dare you," I retorted. Valdez had a bit more going for him than I did: he was an economics major or what I would pejoratively call a "business bro," he actually went to the gym instead of promising to for New Year's but never actually going, and he had the panache to sell what he had as something more than "better than average." We all thought we were better than average, but he had the hubris to admit it. Maybe that was the trick.

Valdez laughed. "You've seen it before, and what's the point? You see my Instagram stories. You know how many parties I go to. The proof is in the pudding, my guy. So let's see... what do you think suits you more, leopard-skin or tiger-skin?"

"What?"

"Pick one, Chris. Which do you want for your loincloth, your sole item of clothing as you pose languorously on a satin couch, a martini in your hand?" Valdez asked, typing frantically on his phone.

"You're mocking me again and I don't like it, but tiger-skin."

"The deed is done," Valdez declared, turning his phone to show me a picture of myself, lounging on a satin couch, wearing nothing but a tiger-skin loincloth and a bit more chest hair than I thought I had, holding a martini and looking at the camera with what I'd best describe as a "Come hither" look. There was a glass coffee-table with a pile of magazines on it, which combined with the iron-wrought lamp behind the couch put me as close to being on the cover of Esquire as I'd ever be.

"Looking sharp, eh?" Valdez asked rhetorically before I could snap myself out of admiring this Chris Marley that was clearly still me, but possessing some spark of charisma I never knew I had within myself. "I'm thinking that would be a good cover photo. Really leaves a good first impression—makes them wonder what's underneath the loincloth, if you get what I mean." I scrutinized the photo again, looking for something I could call amateur, but there was no blur or jagged edge. It was seamless, as close to that sort of real life I'd ever get.

"I never knew you were this talented with Photoshop. And so what: you spent hours handcrafting this image of me, meticulously drawing in every chest hair? That's some dedication to help a brother out."

"Of course not: I'd never be that nice. I'm just a bit nice. It's artificial intelligence. Anything I want, at a moment's notice, it gives to me. How does a stein of beer sound, or a glass of wine? Red or white?"

"I'm always partial to a Zinfandel," I said, never having tasted alcohol in my life except a sip at Aunt Sandy's dinner table.

"Zinfandel it is," Valdez said, typing something in again, and there I was, still posed on the couch as if I was part of the furniture, only this time holding a glass of Zinfandel. "And how about a little swirl of the glass, and a sip," he said, making me dance like a marionette on his phone screen. Valdez's Chris Marley took a sip, and then another, still maintaining his calculated casual demeanor, and put the half-empty glass on the coffee-table with a satisfied smirk. I bet he got a lot of chicks.

"What is this, some sort of classified government technology? And who trusted you with this out of all people?"

"It's sorcery, Chris. Magic. Power beyond your wildest dreams. It could be yours, too, if you want." Valdez was always this dramatic when he thought he could lord something over you, but at least this time he had some reason to gloat: it was impressive.

"Of course it's not sorcery, it's just some sort of computer science technology thingamajig. I'm an English major: the most technology we use is Microsoft Word. But this looks fun. How do I get my hands on this? Is this a website, a program that costs me money—"

Valdez laughed again, deeper this time. "You have so much to learn. My supervising professor, Prof. Pineda, can tell you all about it. She's always looking for new researchers. Go to her office tomorrow at noon, she'll be there, and you will have all your questions answered."

"Do I really have to do schoolwork on a Sunday?"

"If you want an Eros profile that will actually work, you have to. Look in a mirror—look at the picture! Do it for him. It won't cost you a penny." Valdez sat down in his swivel chair and spun to face me, arms crossed, as if he'd won an argument I didn't know we were having.

I checked my phone to look at the photo of macho Chris he had sent me. There was certainly something unfamiliar in how natural my smile was, how casually I posed: it looked real—heck, it may as well have been real, if I didn't know that I would never be able to pull off such a look. I could have sworn he winked at me. I didn't think he did, though I'm sure a few button-presses later he could, if I wanted him to.

Well, I did say a few white lies never hurt.

"Tomorrow at noon, you said?"

"Tomorrow at noon. Welcome to the cool kids' club," Valdez declared, grabbing my limply outstretched hand in a muscular handshake.

Shakespeare said something about the course of true love never running smooth, but I don't think he said anything about a wee bit of artificial artifice. I couldn't fall asleep quickly as I normally did: it wasn't the incessant clicking of Valdez's mechanical keyboard (now I knew what he was always doing up so late), but the frantic thoughts of what I could do, where I could be, all within the bounds of my computer screen. I'd read once that the blue light from screens was bad for sleep, and even though the glow of his phone was still in my mind's eye, like an anglerfish's lure, somewhere within myself I must have found the willpower to fall asleep, knowing it would bring me closer to the following day.