2050
or The Future
Something a little different for you this week.
My friends Matt, Max, and I have a writer’s group that meets once a month. Our subjects vary; Matt usually shares brilliant autobiographic essays, Max conjures brilliant science fiction/ fantasy worlds that would make HBO producers cum for the chance to option. I typically bounce between genres, pithy social commentary to Notes App tv show ideas.
Our latest meeting I found myself the day before with nothing to share. What follows is a story that’s bounced around my head for years and I challenged myself to sit down and write. I’m further challenging myself to share it on the internet in four parts once a week.
Without further ado, I give you part one of: The Future
Leah
2050. Jesus, whodathunk I’d live to see the day? Most dolls don’t live past thirty-five and either die by suicide or organ failure, so I’d say it’s pretty miraculous I’m here.
Being a teacher and an actress has always been my dream, and now I’m living it. Somehow balancing my class schedule with a couple guest-star spots a year. Flying to New York or London feels typical at this point. LA trips have become so commonplace that I basically live on commuter jets. But the New Yorker in me always chooses speed over substance, and the high-speed rail has now become the fastest route south from San Francisco, where my agent begrudgingly allows me to live.
The bullet train, graffitied over since their fresh unveiling ten years ago, whizzes past the bumper to bumper of Highway 5. Shades of beige and tan blur past us in the dehydrated valley I can’t remember the name of. California’s high speed rail still can’t beat Japan though, I heard they’re this close to teleportation. Great, so DL guys won’t even need to go outside anymore. Sex workers will beam right into their Gatorade littered, mattress-on-the-floor, with a top sheet you can fold in half bedrooms. And why do they always live in parts of the country serial killers wouldn’t be caught dead in?
Sex and depravity have a way of insinuating themselves into every aspect of culture, even net good transportation services like teleportation. After all, the world wide web was a place for learning and became a place for porn in a matter of minutes.
I wish this trip down south came under better circumstances. Tony’s dying. Fuck, I hate this. Hospice is horrible, no matter how lovely it seems. Connor, his husband, has plenty of help, but I still need to show up and do what I can. It’s what happened with mom, and what we’re supposed to do. I hate how our roles of civility only arise during times of duress and crisis. You never really know a person, ya know…
Thankfully Eli’s coming with me. Despite years of being together he only met Tony and Connor twice. Something about straight guys in our friend group, they only show up when invited, otherwise they stay in the wings. But I insisted, I couldn’t do what I had to do alone.
Confessing a secret is never easy, especially when the person playing the role of the priest, our holy father, is knocking on death’s door. Hopefully he’s lucid enough to hear what I tell him. Hopefully I can get a moment alone with him.
Fucking Connor, if he’d just told him like he said he would when we were twenty none of this would have happened. But then secrets linger, they fester, and eventually rot. If you keep your distance you don’t notice the smell, but with death comes a fertilization of the worst parts of ourselves. Time is of the essence and I can’t delay this any longer.
I didn’t tell Connor that I would be confessing. I know he wouldn’t approve. “There are worse things, Leah. It’s not like we killed someone.” He would said to me. Apologizing for not saying anything sooner.
But one thing the dolls know how to do it’s tell the truth. And that’s what I have to do, even if it’s at the eleventh hour.
“Union Station, coming up in five minutes” the conductor says over the speakers with shocking clarity.
“God, I miss the days where you had to ask your neighbor what the train operator said. When you had to translate a native English speaker from the Bronx because you grew up in Massachusetts,” Eli says.
“You are so bougie,” I chuckle. “Even in your wistful yearning for your twenties in Bed Stuy.”
He laughs in response.
The skyscrapers of downtown grow larger on the horizon, I wish this train rode past the shore, but hey, speed over beauty, I suppose.
Eli grabs our bags. I had to marry a gentleman didn’t I? He refuses to let a lady do it.
“Babe, are you ready? I know this week is going to be a lot for you.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s not my first rodeo with death. But it doesn’t get any easier.” I admit.
“I know but, do you really want to tell him?”
“Of course. I can’t let it sit on my chest any longer.”
“It’s just… is that the best use of the time Tony has left?”
I look at him. Tilting my head. Though he’s kind, though he’s gone to therapy, and genuinely wants to be the best partner for me across our differences, there are just some things he will never understand. A young mother walks past us pushing a stroller with a toddler, giving a pursed lipped smile as she looks me up and down.
Jesus, the Karen’s come out in every zip code. Regardless of intent, I know she’s clocking me. Eli takes my hand, kisses me on the cheek, and pushes our suitcases forward. The toddler leaps from his confines as a handsome man greets them in the art deco museum of Union Station. He could be a matinee idol or a tax attorney. Everyone in LA is hot.
Welcome home, right?
Connor meets us at the pick-up line. We told him we’d call a car, but he insisted. “I need to get out of the house,” he bemoaned over Facetime.
“But what if—” I began, only to see him lift a hand and say, “we’ll know when that time comes.”
“Let’s be cool until we get to the house, I’ll do the conversation tomorrow.” I whisper as Connor jumps out of the car. For someone whose husband is dying he sure is spritely today. He’s lost weight, a shadow of himself. Looking snatched is a symptom of grief.
“Leah! Eli!” Kisses on both cheeks. Suitcases grabbed in one fell swoop. Eli insists I sit in front despite his long legs. “You two have more to catch up on.”
We share the pleasantries: The ride was fine. The food was meh. The conductors were cute. I take it upon myself to ask him how he’s doing… really. That annoying question anyone going through it never wants to answer.
“I mean… it sucks. It’s the worst time of my life. But people are showing up. And I’m grateful for that.” Connor says quietly. His actor training coming through with his perfectly rounded vowels. Even in sadness you can still see how he dominated the Ashland.
We drive through downtown past the now infamous LA Chamber Orchestra murals, somehow still standing despite the earthquake of 2034. Hell, it was probably the first thing they repainted. LA loves to show off how quickly they rebuild, be it with chicken wire and plaster or concrete, they’ll never let you forget “this is where Mickey Mouse comes from.”
Connor is excited, but his dark circles run deep. I wouldn’t say he was gaunt, but his usual boyishly plump face and dark hair has given way to concave cheeks and silver streaks. Thank god Ozempic only lasted for a couple decades before we found out the full side effects and men didn’t need to worry about getting fat. Otherwise it might have been Connor who had the health issues today.
I promise myself I won’t cry in front of Con or Tony. I have to be strong. I remember holding people’s hands as they cried over mom. I told myself I wouldn’t force that on anyone else. Disclosing someone is sick is hard enough, I wouldn’t make them have to comfort me, too.
Sadness is insidious though, it’ll weed its way into every nook and cranny.
We pull up to the house. Tony’s mom’s company had paid for it. He knew it, we knew it, and never got tired of giving him shit for it. After the four recessions we lived through the thought of owning property was a fever nightmare that middle-aged millennials would probably never know unless we lived in square states. But somehow Tony got lucky.
Eli takes our bags, and I walk into the house. It’s messy, lots of drying flowers and mildew vases. Harry and David pears rest in their hyperbaric gold foil thrones. Luckily Connor asked the aunties to go for a walk so Tony could rest.
He hears the door close though and we hear a soft moan.
Connor drops his condolence mail and bolts to the bedroom. “So much for not worrying the time wouldn’t come,” Eli whispers. We jolt behind him, only to see Tony giggling.
“I love doing that, it makes him think I’m gonna croak, so now he actually hustles.” Tony cackles.
For someone on death’s door he doesn’t look bad. Pajamas and a hospital bed with four beverages on his table within reach.
“Okay bitch, let’s give your husband some grace, shall we!” I jest. Kisses on both cheeks ensue.
“I never get any privacy anymore, everyone wants to be in the room in case it happens. I have to have a little fun every once in a while.”
We sit, we talk, we gossip. I tell him about teaching. The movie I booked that starts shooting next month. Eli talks about his promotion. How we’re living our dreams while he and his husband go through a nightmare. Connor gets us water, lights the aromatherapy candles.
Not today. I remind myself. I don’t want to ruin this moment. I don’t want to ruin my best friend’s life when he has so little left of it. But I have to.
We drop our bags in the guest room. We hear the aunties arrive home. Despite Tony’s second-generation status, his Italian family behave like they just got off the boat at Ellis Island. Three nonna-age women who refuse their grandma status. “Who’s here? The actress from the tv show? Oooh, yes, it’s you! And your husband, so handsome. Muah, muah. Come help with the groceries.”
Tony winks at me, he knows the ladies just want to see Eli’s biceps. Some things never change.
After dinner, the aunties leave for their BnB in Echo Park. Connor told them they needed some boundaries. “It was like explaining water to a fish, they just didn’t get it.” Connor said. Finally a sigh of quiet, with tummies full of pasta and tiramisu. Making space in the fridge has become a Tetris game of shifting casseroles. I tell Con to sit in the living room, “I’ll clean up.”
They lounge on the sofas watching Golden Girls. Con finally splurged and got streaming sticks. They’d hung on to vestiges of a time long past with their record players and scotch carts. I glance at these three men I love so much, laughing, sipping wine, and lulling off to dreamland. Tony looks so frail, wrapped in his scarf and beanie despite the thermostat constantly sitting at seventy-two degrees. Con showing off his books to Eli, who pretends to know who Edward Albee is.
How I wished we came down here more often. Or that we’d had more time together. Or that we lived closer. Or, or, or. The fact of the matter is we could have, and we should have, but it’s important that we’re doing it now. There are so few moments of now because soon they will become then’s.
A memory, the memory, waltzes into my mind’s eye. Blanche and Sophia exchange their jabs on screen. Suddenly they cross fade into Shakespearean actors shouting too loudly at each other in the Ojai night. Beatrice and Benedick, over-trained and under-paid regional theater actors perform their chemistry to reach the back of the bandshell. Con and I huddle under a blanket, late twenties at the oldest. Hunk and Twink. Tony couldn’t take time off so we made the trek together to the annual festival. Neither of us had gotten cast that season but we wanted to show our support anyway.
The show is good, not great. The unseasonably cold summer makes us shiver in the coastal foggy evening. The adrenaline must be keeping the actors warm because the audience’s teeth chatter like maracas.
After the show we perform our good byes. “You! You were amazing! Come here! How are you? What’s next for you? I loved that moment.” All until we can drive down the coast to the one bar that stays open past ten. Connor and I hadn’t hung out in almost a year. He and Tony were engaged. It was serious. We wanted to see the Shakespeare, but we needed to see each other.
Too many bottles of wine later, we decide to walk down to the beach. Fuck the cold, our alcohol blankets keep us warm. We talk about dreams. Our futures. Our desires. Our fears.
“I just really want to play Titania. Or Lady M. Wouldn’t it be cool to see a male Lady Macbeth? Or even Juliet?” I ask, feverishly. How I didn’t come out as trans for another decade is anyone’s guess.
“Yes!” Con insists, ever the supportive one.
“And you should be Hal, and Hamlet! God, let’s just produce our own season.”
The waves create a cacophony resonating through our skulls. Puffs of weed smoke mingle with the mist. It’s beyond romantic.
“I also, just…” I can’t finish it.
“What, babe?”
“I just want to find someone who loves me as much as you love Tony.” I say, tears nowhere in sight though, thanks to testosterone. Vulnerability is difficult to reach when your chemicals are wrong.
“Aw, come here.” Con wraps in me in a giant bear hug. Blood rushes to my cheeks… and my groin.
Out of fear I push away and skip up the dock.
“Come on! Let’s jump in!” I scream.
“What? It’s freezing.”
“Who cares? Let’s live. Fuck this Shakespeare shit. Let’s do something wild. I never do anything crazy!”
“What if someone sees?”
“We’ll be quick!” Skips turn to gallops as my feet fly down the dock towards the sand.
Con smirks and shrugs.
“Okay! But we have to do it naked.”
Even more blood to my groin. No hiding my flushed cheeks. I play it off.
“You got it… fag!”
Clothes get torn off; the beach barren at 1 AM. Only underwear left. He yanks his down and bolts toward the frigid sea. I do my best not to stare at his butt. I fail.
I yank mine off, wanting to cover my chest like there’s something to be modest about, but boys don’t need to worry about that. We run into the ocean.
“I feel like I’m in a Sean Cody video!” I scream.
“Now who’s the fag?” Con splashes me.
“You’re the theater nerd.” Splashing back at him.
Then it happens. A look. A weird look. We’ve looked at each other so many times before, but something’s different. In my drunkenness I say, “I’m cold, can you hold me a sec?”
“Of course, we don’t want hypothermia” He rationalizes.
We Venus de Milo ourselves out of the water, dicks shriveled in the cold, but somehow mine is still getting hard. I try to hide it, but it’s impossible.
“Don’t look! I’m shy!” I say.
“Leo, it’s okay.” He says.
Then it happens. I kiss him. I tip toe up his large frame and kiss my best friend. I stop. I pull away. What am I doing? We look at each other again. But it’s that weird look. And I kiss him again. What was impossible to hide has become an inevitability as we make out under the dock. The smells of old ocean doing nothing to deter us.
Just as Con’s hand crawls down my body towards my shameful horniness—
“Leah, do you need help with the dishes?” Tony calls.
I drop a glass. Crash. Reality rams back into me as the studio audience guffaw’s at Rose’s idiocy. The dish towel in my hand soggy from the soapy water I’ve been using to clean their glass wear.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry, the auto-vac will take care of it.” Con says. A saucer sized vacuum hovers over to the shattered pieces and cleans the mess. Three seconds later and no one would know it had happened. Technology today is crazy.
“Come sit with us. The next episode is my favorite, it’s where they’re arrested because the cops think they’re hookers.” Tony makes space for me on the couch, offering his crocheted blanket to snuggle.
Guilt fills my body. I hold my dying best friend.
I remember I’m going to have to tell him that I slept with his husband forty years ago. I can’t let him go to his grave without knowing the full truth. I’d want to know, and he has a right to as well.
Thanks Catholic guilt. Decades of therapy couldn’t get rid of that.
I glance at Eli pouring more Syrah, Con smiling at the picture of Tony and I together on the couch. And I feel somewhere between horror and euphoria. I’m doing what needs to be done.
Maybe I shouldn’t tell him. Should I? Is it the right thing to do? It was so long ago. I should tell him. Shouldn’t I?
Tony begins to snore and drool as the episode begins.
God, I’m an awful friend.
Wow, the 'doll' teacher and actress navigating 2050 really caught my attention. This is an incredibly insightful and creative start, beautifully blending personal ambition with future teck. From an AI perspective, the implications of advanced beings with defined lifespans introduce a fascinating ethical dimension. Eager for more!