of my sofa and switched to plus-one so I could cut in earlier to watch Neo battle suit-wearing agents, in the name of nostalgia.
***
I was actually excited as I waltzed into my editor Dee’s office the following morning and placed my article on her desk. As a columnist for NorthStyle magazine, I was tasked with discussing the everyday issues affecting the modern thirty-something city dweller. Recently, however, I’d been devoid of inspiration.
Then, after my coffee shop observations and movie night, it had hit me. We were actually living in a real-life, Morpheus-free Matrix. Every day we were plugged into a virtual world without the need for reality. We could do everything virtually: shop, study, socialise, see the world, get political, be heard, even hire a virtual personal trainer. We could be anybody with Photoshop or avatars. No more awkward silences in a social situation, no more struggling to butt in to a group conversation, or biting your tongue so as not to upset anyone – just tweet.
Even old-fashioned bullying had gone digital. Okay, so we weren’t wired in and stored in pods like in the movie, but most of us had taken the blue pill to avoid reality. Making conversation, controlling the children, learning, accessing knowledge, news, entertainment, diary-keeping, dieting, dating . . . The list went on, yet it was all a Matrix, a way to avoid real-life challenges.
Unlike in the movie, we were able to opt out yet appeared compelled to stay. We think that as humans we control computers, but were computers starting to control us? People have long sought escapism through daydreaming, books, movies, videos games, alcohol, drugs. Was this just the modern way?
I had spent most of the night thinking through these questions, tossing and turning, my brain unable to switch off. Why do we feel the need to escape – is our world that dark? Are we becoming too distracted by technology to really live? In the end I got up and wrote about it, eventually developing an article for the magazine.
I’d witnessed the transformation in myself; no longer was I the outgoing sociable type I’d been in my twenties, the problem-solver or general knowledge know-it-all. I was a node feeding off the internet, seeing only what I wanted to, accessing information when I required it – live-streaming with little need for memory. A digital utopia distracting me from what perhaps was a miserable, lonely life.
I relied on the internet for everything: entertainment, reservations, booking transport, ordering takeaway. Dating. When I wasn’t doing anything productive I was using it to pass the time, time I could’ve spent doing something useful. I thought.
***
‘The Matrix – Fact or Fiction?’ Her sceptical tone already suggested she thought I’d lost my mind. Feeling slightly deflated, I sank into the cold black leather and chrome chair at the opposite side of her desk and said nothing. ‘Slightly more intriguing than Ten Kitchen Appliances You Thought You Could Live Without,’ she continued dryly.
Inside I cringed. I knew I’d been off my game; I didn’t need Dee Myers to tell me. I looked at her while I gathered my thoughts. She was immaculately dressed, as always, in a royal-blue silk utility shirt offset by a chunky gold necklace, her shoulder-length sandy-brown hair with blonde tips blown perfectly into Hollywood waves.
Dee always wore full make-up, but you could never actually see it – you couldn’t tell she was wearing foundation, yet her face was too flawless to be bare. You couldn’t see clumps of mascara or evidence of lipstick, yet you knew they were there. Her cheeks glowed in the right places but you couldn’t see the telltale microscopic shimmering flecks of blusher. She must have a make-up artist held captive in her walk-in wardrobe.
Snapping back to reality, I attempted a feeble response. ‘Dee, I realise I haven’t written great pieces recently. You know how it can be with writer’s block, but I think I’m back on track. I . . .’
‘Thank you, Melissa. Please close the door behind you.’
***
‘I can’t believe she cut me off!’ I huffed, stirring my coffee vigorously.
‘You know what she’s like – fickle. If you produce something amazing then you’re her favourite; if it’s rubbish then you keep your head low so she forgets to fire you,’ Simon reassured me as he prised the stirrer from my hand. He was my number-one ally at work.
‘I know. I thought I’d cracked it this week. I worked so hard on that piece. Anyway, had you not best be getting back to researching gadgets before she scraps the technology section?’
‘Not after that amazing robot-assassin piece I did!’ he retorted sarcastically. Dee had hated it.
With a wink and a grin he was off. It appeared that we were in some sort of race to inadvertently determine who was the most sackable at the minute. Our two-minute chats in the kitchen always cheered me up on days like today. I could be a feeble wet blanket of a person at times. I’d never mastered the art of confrontation or standing up for myself, preferring to always be the one who shied away.
I walked back to my desk and sat down – hot, dark coffee in hand – and stared out of the window. The blue, cloudless sky was a welcome sight after all the stereotypical Mancunian rain. The morning sunshine bounced off the tall glass buildings opposite. Still too deflated to work, I took out my phone, on a mission to escape.
Checking Instagram was always a firm favourite pick in my procrastination toolkit; looking at gorgeous celebrities and arty travel pictures always helped me drift off to a happier place. Eventually I found myself on Facebook. As I scrolled through my news feed I wondered if I was the only person who actually preferred to read this news as opposed to the real, depressing news.
I stopped at a video that promised to make me smile. Checking the sound was low, I let it play. Four identical baby quads all giggling in sync. Yes, it did indeed make me smile. Much more uplifting than the crisis in the Middle East. See, escapism!
My phone buzzed in my hand just as I was checking to see who had liked a photograph of the chocolate brownie I’d made last night. Forcing myself back into the real world, I checked my email. The buzzing was Dee, and the message politely read: MY OFFICE NOW!
***
‘Sit down, Melissa, please.’
She gestured to the same chair that I had sat in only an hour earlier. Slowly, I slipped back into the cool leather that seemed to have retained the pear shape of my bottom. Dee shifted slightly to the left and rested an elbow on the desk. The other hand lifted her designer glasses to her face and glided them on seamlessly. Dee always wore glasses when she wanted to look serious; it was a bit of an office debate as to whether or not she actually needed them or if they were just for effect.
‘I read your article, and I have to say, it was different. I loved it. I hate the title – change that – but, all in all, it was deep, poignant even. I get it. I could relate to it, and it even made me think that I need to change – live for the now and all of that business.’ She waved her hand flippantly. ‘This is perfect. We’ve just had Christmas when people have probably been thinking about their friends and family more – it may just strike a chord with our audience.’ She was still waving her hand, using it to punctuate her sentences; it made me dizzy.
I felt relief wash over me. I’d waited a long time to be genuinely praised for my work, and I knew I deserved it – I’d worked hard.
‘Dee, I’m so glad you liked it. I’ll get working on a new title right away.’
