Scrooge Makeover

“A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens reimagined by Theo Stojanov

Thanks for the card! Nice to hear from you, old friend, it’s been a while! We're okay, the daily routine predominates. I work from home mostly, which somehow means that I am expected to take on additional household tasks. "I'm not a stay-at-home dad" say I to my wife, in defence, but my pleas are ignored. “You can at least clean the bathroom.” And life goes on, day by the day. The epic things are happening elsewhere, far away. Currently in Eastern Europe. Over here, holidays pepper our quotidian monotone with various obligations to meet the social expectations set by the economic bracket we identify with. Christmas is less about Christmas than it is about how many and what kind of present quotas are met. Formal petitions to Santa prepared by the kids have assured the Yuletide arbitrator that we've all been “good” and deserve none of the crap that others seem to be dealt, as reported in the news cycle. Somewhere on the periphery lurks the nagging notion that celebrating Christmas might be offensive to non-Christians; or that Hannukah might be objectionable for people who are not Jewish; or that “Happy Holidays” is an affront to those who are unhappy. In a market economy, social progressivism is a mixture of a new year’s resolution and a software update. There’s a new one every year, it’s full of bugs and promises, and it is accompanied by a sense of impending obsolescence.

So, we donate cans and socks and small hotel shampoo containers that we’ve squirreled away from some trip long ago to homeless shelters, as offerings to the Moirai, the Sisters Fate, with the atheist superstition that such acts of kindness would spare us from slipping off the social ladder and landing amidst a food bank waiting line. A prayer is offered almost subconsciously, because we are told it is the “season of giving,” a received social norm that for some pesky reason refuses to be deconstructed away. Back to the routine, time to pick up the kids for piano lessons. Did the homeless Santa at the corner take piano lessons too when he was young, I wonder? “Up yours, man!” he says, staring straight at me. Well, with that attitude he probably got what he deserved, I conclude with some relief. The piano lessons were probably inconsequential to his current socioeconomic situation.

At the piano lesson my phone rings. The teacher, a French exchange student named Tony, throws a disapproving glance in my direction. A few minutes later the damned thing rings again. “Shit, I thought I’d turned it off” I groan and pull it out of my pocket in frustration. This time I set it to airplane mode. The piano lesson proceeds as usual: my 9-year-old can’t sit still and my 7-year-old refuses to cooperate. I feel a vibration in my pocket with a text message alert. What the fuck. I don’t recognize the number, but after ascertaining that the phone was indeed on airplane mode and on silent, I search a reverse lookup directory to find out who exactly is trying to harass me. Maybe someone hacked me.

As the spinning wheel gives way to results, my face goes blank. It’s the number of a friend who died some years ago, under freaky circumstances. After visiting the dentist she’d gone out for a jog around the central cemetery and collapsed of heart failure meters from where she was eventually interred. A travel agent, she rarely travelled beyond the kilometer radius within which she lived, worked, and ultimately expired. The message reads: “I am dead, but you may yet avoid the path I tread.” This is some seriously messed up shit. Summoning my inner skeptic, I tell myself that this is definitely a phone hack.

Later that evening, after putting the kids to bed, I set about my usual pastime of catching up with social media. A string of creepy texts has been assailing me throughout supper, all from the same number. “Expect the first visitor this evening”, “When the bell tolls one”, and other such rubbish. I attempt to block the number, but the messages keep coming through. I try a different strategy. I am going to ignore the messages and indulge a lineup of tiktok videos about silly Canadian politicians instead. I fail to notice the low battery notification, and my phone suddenly powers down. Reluctantly pulled back into the physical world, I take this to be my cue to orient myself towards bed. My wife has been asleep for an hour. I sluggishly reach towards my charging cable when the phone vibrates in my hand sending an electric shock up my arm. A new text. The vigorous vibration causes me to involuntarily drop the phone. From the ground, the cracked screen lights up with all of the previous texts combined into a single message:

Though I am dead,
You may yet
Avoid the path I tread.
Await the first visitor this evening
When the bell tolls one
Two more then will follow
Before the night is done.

I feel someone is watching me through the darkness of the living room. Trying to make myself smaller on the couch, I become a two-dimensional character in another’s plot. Even though I do not remember setting an alarm, the supposedly dead phone flashes one o’clock past midnight and then the screen flickers out.

On cue, and very theatrically, an anthropomorphic shadow separates from the corner of the room. As it floats closer to the window, the streetlight illuminates what looks to be a bearded mermaid hovering over my coffee table. “Well aren’t you going to say ‘hello’?” asks a contralto voice. My lips are glued together. “Okay darling, I’ll speak first” continues the shadow. “I am the ghost of Christmas past. More accurately, I am a transdimensional being and I am here to go over some anterior eventualities before I delete them from your life’s cloud storage. I can tell by your slightly drooling lips that you are confused. My earlier client wet himself when he saw me, so don’t worry, you’re doing okay. We are going to go over a couple of expired probabilities and figure out whether they are worth keeping. Come closer and let’s take a look, shall we?” The bearded mermaid waves me over and I find myself floating up, next to her. “Don’t stare. That’s a microaggression, you know,” she scolds. Embarrassed, I look away. The phantasmagoric being produces a large, gaudy gold and diamond-studded phone seemingly out of nowhere and beckons me even closer to look at the screen. “Closer, I said!” she commands. I obey with a mixture of dread and curiosity. Her scaly bare breasts smell like cinnamon.

Leaning overly close, I look at her phone held up by webbed fingers with long manicured nails. On the screen I see a younger version of me dressed in a tuxedo, holding hands with another man at a wedding altar. “This is you and your husband, Justin Freuland.” “Husband?”, I inquire, “That might be a mistake. I dated a Justine Freuland once.” “Are you sure?” asks the mermaid. “Pretty sure.” “Well, never mind that, I am just a conduit. Any resemblances to events or persons, imaginary or otherwise, are filtered through my own current dimension and are entirely coincidental” she explains and snaps her fingers. Justin becomes Justine, but we’re both still wearing matching tuxes.

As she swipes through the album, it looks like in that parallel reality I did pretty well for myself as some kind of senior manager in the gaming industry. I have a nice car (zero emissions), a brightly lit office, and I’m a fitness enthusiast. Sometimes I go vegan, sometimes keto. It really depends on the prevailing politics. Soy lattés. Eventually, Justine and I get a divorce and we have no children, but I’m always hooking up with interns. Justine is miserable for a while but then goes into municipal politics and becomes a powerhouse mayoress. I travel a lot. There’s me pretending to hold up the tower of Pisa. There’s me pretending to hold up the Eiffel tower. Countless photos of food explain the gradual rounding of my face. Clearly, I seem to have eased off my fitness routine. Presently, the amphibious being is swiping through some revealing photos of a particularly hot tall redhead that my other midlife reality is dating, when the swiping abruptly stops. “Oh my, look at the time. I have to get to my two o’clock” declares the bearded mermaid. Over the course of nearly an hour she seems to have become pregnant, and her large swollen belly is about to burst. She closes her eyes, puts a finger up in the air, and forces out a large pile of round jelly eggs the size of tennis balls. “What are those?” I ask, slightly disgusted. She picks one up and bites into it as if it were an apple. A gelatinous liquid dribbles down her chin. “Those are unlived possibilities” she replies. “Can you send me those latest pics before you go?” I ask, remembering the redhead. “No darling. You chose not to live that life, remember? Ta ta!” The bearded mermaid disappears in a flamboyant puff of vapour, leaving behind the faint smell of fish and cinnamon.

Back in darkness, on the couch, I toss and turn but cannot wake.

Someone is shuffling about in the snow outside. At precisely two o’clock in the morning, an elderly white-haired man puts his face to the window and scans the interior of the living room. Upon seeing me he waves energetically and points to his wristwatch. Must be time for the next visitation. I wave him in. Passing eerily into the living room through the closed panes, enters Bernie Sanders complete with mittens, scarf, and earmuffs. If it’s going to be a socialist politician, couldn’t it at least be someone local, like Jack Layton for example? Even my reveries are touched by global American culture. “Layton was busy tonight”, the Bernie apparition replies, in direct response to my thoughts. “He is trying to get through to young Justin, but it won’t do much good, if you ask me. The problem is a rather breathtaking lack of self-awareness I’m afraid.” “And you must have something to do with the Christmas present, I presume?” I am a little bolder this time, the Bernie likeness is much less threatening. “He presumes”, mocks the apparition, and sits down on a chair next to the couch. “I like people to think of me more as an Angel Investor who provides small startup lives with valuable advice. Now get comfortable” he motions along the length of the couch with a mittened hand. Taking out a pad of paper and a pen, Bernie puts one leg over the other and assumes the authoritative posture of a psychoanalyst. “We have to balance the books a little. Do a little cooking if you know what I mean. Wink-wink? But seriously, let’s get right down to it. Are you regular? A regular bowel can increase your lifespan portfolio by at least three to four more years after the five-year maturity period. You can extend even further by improving the functionality of your current flesh-ware when you add three or more supplement upgrades. For example, increase your testosterone production with TRT, stimulate endorphin output with Alpha Brain TM©, and sign up for a lifetime supply of Athletic Greens TM©. Athletic Greens uses only the highest quality ingredients and manufacturing processes. Put my name in the coupon code at the checkout and get an additional 10% off.” “There’s nothing wrong with my testosterone, I thank you” I push back, a little offended. “No, perhaps not. Maybe you are producing too much. In that case I recommend an anti-androgen treatment for better hormonal balance with Diindolylmethane by Pure Encapsulations TM©. Pure Encapsulations is backed by verifiable science and is free from unnecessary additives and many common allergens.” Bernie proceeds to suggest a long list of commercial pharmaceuticals at an exponential rate. As the drugs become more expensive, he takes the time to anticipate potential litigation by enumerating all of the disturbing side-effects and their likelihood for my age bracket. He sounds like a pusher, and I wish he would go away.

After what feels like an eternity (it has been about twenty minutes), his sales pitch is driving to a close. “Now all we need is your signature, your autograph, your johnny hancock right here on the dotted line, and you should be good to go for at least an additional five to fifteen more years after your current insurance policy is up for renewal.” He stops talking and the silence feels massive. He offers me his pad and pen, still wearing the mittens. “Don’t take too long, this offer ends soon, it expires when I leave here tonight. Wowzers, would you look at the time!”

I am still hesitating. What am I signing again? Bernie is trying to look casual, but I can tell he is anxiously hanging on my every gesture, trying to figure out how much more persuasion is needed. “It’s now or never!” he attempts a convivial tone. An instant or two more, and I’m about to pick up the pen just to get rid of him when my broken phone on the floor flashes a new text that reads “DON’T” followed by a skull emoji. “Shut up!” an irritated Bernie hisses violently. He kicks the phone away and holds up the pad and pen closer to my face.

At that moment my 7-year-old opens the living room door and lets in a flood of light from the hallway. “Daddy, I’m scared. I had a bad dream” he says. Bernie shields his face from the light like a vampire from sunshine, screeches with rage, and collapses into a heap of cockroaches which scurry away and disappear all around the room. The only things left behind are a pair of mittens and earmuffs.

It’s 2:30am, looks like I’ll have enough time to put the little one back to bed before the next visitation.

Time passes slower during the little hours. Three am comes and goes, but no late visitor materializes. Did the last apparition miss its timing? This is the end of my surreal episode, I reckon. It is probably safe to indulge some tube. After flipping around awhile, I guiltily decide that if I’m going to watch the idiot box, it ought to be at least some critically acclaimed idiocy. I turn to a new TED talk, the most recent one on the list, by a speaker named Slue Monk, a billionaire tech entrepreneur. The talk is entitled “Synchronous Truth And Neuro-Kinesis.” Swami Monk, as he likes to be called, walks out onto the stage accompanied by an outpouring of enthusiastic applause. He stands in front of the crowd, smiling with the blessed expression of someone who has given up all of their earthly possessions in exchange for inner peace. He is the poster child for the new era, one who owns nothing and yet is happy. The swami is dressed in a salmon-coloured robe, below which protrude jeans and white sneakers. As the applause continue, he skilfully removes his sneakers and sits cross-legged on a throne-like armchair directly facing the camera. Directly facing me.

I wait for the talk to begin, but Monk just sits there, staring benignly. I notice something on his forehead, and I approach the screen for a closer look. “What the Hell?” I whisper. On his forehead is grafted a large microchip in place of where esoteric illustrations usually locate the Third Eye. “You might be wondering if it hurts.” Begins the swami. “The truth is, yes it does. The Truth always hurts.” After another prolonged pause, he continues: “You might be asking yourself, is it worth it? Again, the answer is most definitely yes. Some truths are worth the suffering required to maintain them. I want to tell you a story. Before I dropped out of Caltech, I was like you. I believed that all I had to do to get to the Truth was to study hard and to read the right books. No. Truth cannot be documented, it fluctuates with History. It all changed with 911. To win the War on Terror we had to make Truth an ally. If you ask most people, they can tell you exactly where they were on that day, but no one at the time knew what was happening. Enter Synchronous Truth, or “ST”. With my revolutionary neural implants, you will know the truth exactly as it is happening in real time. [Applause]. Let me show you how it works. Here, on the left, is a monkey with a generic neural implant. It refuses to accept that the banana in the experiment is actually a cucumber. Notice how it’s constantly hitting the “banana” button even though the implant tells it that the banana is not a banana? The cognitive dissonance causes a neurological corruption and the monkey collapses in pain. It’s soiled itself. (For the young ones in the audience, please do not be alarmed. This primate now has a perfectly suitable humane home at the Monk Institute of Saskatoon, where specialists work round the clock to rehabilitate it.) Now I turn your attention to the experiment on the right, featuring the monkey’s cleverer twin sister, Clara. Clara’s ST implant is perfectly calibrated to her brainwaves and she can readily switch between definitions and categories. Neuro-Kinesis offers next-generation cognitive management tools that incorporate our advanced biosensor technology, providing us with real-time environmental monitoring that can greatly enhance Truth outcomes. [Applause].” A closeup of Swami Monk’s face reveals a slight trickle of puss from the microchip, which he quickly dabs away with his sleeve. “In conclusion,” he goes on, “For the next 911, and any others after that, people will be informed exactly what is happening as it is happening, all thanks to our state of the art ST technology. Synchronous Truth: it’s only the beginning! [Applause].”

After the applause dies down, the camera remains fixed on a closeup of Slue Monk’s face. For an uncomfortably long time his gaze is fixed on it, without blinking. “It’s coming sooner than you know” he finally breaks the silence. “Perhaps you’d like to imagine that you are in a world you can still recognize and that you can control? Progress demands sacrifice. Progress demands sacrifice. Progress demands sacrifice.” The camera begins to zoom out and reveals the immensity of the presentation hall. It is a sea of salmon-robed humans who are all chanting “Progress demands sacrifice” in one voice. The camera continues pulling back until Swami Monk is but a small dot on the screen before an impossibly vast arena full of acolytes.

I wake up a few hours later, just as the first hints of dawn are beginning to break up the wintery darkness. Feeling for my phone under the couch, I discover that it is fully intact. Perhaps it was all a bad dream. I check for recent texts, no trace of last night’s warnings. Things are starting to feel normal, the negative vibes from the previous night’s visions are fading quickly. I get up to make coffee and pancakes, when I accidentally knock down a pair of mittens and earmuffs from the coffee table.