By Julia Rajagopalan
Amanda organises Paul’s birthday concert with the same microscopic precision she gives to everything she does, the kind of attention that saves failing kidneys and repairs broken aortas.
Most people just choose a random crowd package for concerts, but Amanda spends five hours on her phone selecting each holographic avatar that will surround them. Nothing is left to chance.
This blonde guy is too tall, and his big hair will block the stage (some people enjoy the authenticity, but Paul would be annoyed).
That woman is too attractive. A bronzed goddess with unrealistically long legs and a skirt so short, if it were on a real girl, it would ride up to her belly button. Unfortunately, AI girls don’t have to worry about things like weird tan lines and misbehaving skirts.
Amanda will never understand how it’s illegal for people to manipulate in-person images, but fine for AI to project impossible beauty. Why is it illegal for a projector to remove wrinkles, but fine for a surgeon to laser them from her skin? At least Amanda gets plastic surgery discounts from a med school classmate, who will probably need a new liver from her in return.
Amanda texts Paul’s friends, confirming their RSVPs. She wishes she could pick out their outfits, like she does with the AI crowd, but if changing your own appearance is wrong, changing someone else’s is doubly so. She’d especially like to adjust Jim’s sleazy girlfriend, who will most certainly have her enormous breast implants on display.
On the day of the concert, Amanda arrives thirty minutes early, entering the room from the back door rather than the front with its red carpet and velvet VIP rope. She’s glad she’s early because the projectors are off, and all she sees is a twelve-by-twelve room with blank white walls, ceiling, and floors. A small white bar with real bottles of alcohol stands in the corner of the room, a featureless robotic bartender behind it. Benches line the back wall.
Paul hates seeing the real room. No one likes it really, it breaks the illusion, so she turns on the projectors with a wave at the ceiling. The concert venue, with its gritty floors, black walls, and wooden stage, blinks into view around her. Amanda hates seeing the real room, too, but she doesn’t mind hating something, so Paul doesn’t have to. Anxiety tickles at her throat and chest, and she paces, inspecting the venue.
The real benches blend seamlessly with the projections, and the sticky-looking bar is the correct size. The roadies are appropriately stoned and scraggly as they haul amps across the stage.
The bartender, however, is a stunning redhead with quirky freckles. Far too pretty for Amanda’s taste. Amanda pulls up her phone and selects a moderately attractive and racially ambiguous male bartender. He pops into place, and she breathes a sigh of relief.
A vent in the ceiling blows in the scent of musty wood, stale beer, and light weed, though Paul’s friends will turn it to a strong weed scent during the concert. Everything seems set, so Amanda goes to the bathroom to fix her hair, walking down the long black hall with its red carpet and many individual doors.
She is back in their concert when Paul and his friends arrive, rushing straight for the bar. She winces as they order expensive tequila shots. An open bar for them will go on her credit card at the end of the night.
Paul walks past her, but comes back, remembering to kiss her on the cheek. Without a word, he joins his friends at the bar and takes his birthday shot. If she complains, he’ll remind her that they’ll see each other at home, so she says nothing, but she wants to scream.
As the opening act comes on stage, Amanda goes to the bar and gets herself a well-earned martini in congratulations for a job well done. She has thought of everything and can relax and enjoy the concert.
Before she can take a sip of her drink, Jim and his girlfriend enter. The woman hurries straight to Paul and gives him a lingering, chest-first hug. When she steps back, Paul is smiling, eyes focused on the cleavage spilling from her lacy, low-cut shirt. Was she who he cheated with? He’s never told her who, but it feels right.
Rage fills Amanda’s chest as she watches them interact, Jim standing awkwardly to the side. She knows she should walk over and join them, pretend to be happy, but something in her flickers off like a hologram. She downs her drink and turns, stomping out. As she waits for an autotaxi, she removes her credit card from the open bar.
“Text Paul,” she says into her phone. “Happy Birthday. I’m done.”
About the Author
Julia Rajagopalan is a writer of speculative fiction who lives just outside of Detroit, Michigan, with her husband and their very grumpy dog.
For a list of her publications, check out her website: <www.JuliaRajagopalan.com>.
Brian Biswas lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, USA.
Merri Andrew writes poetry and short fiction, some of which has appeared in Cordite, Be:longing, Baby Teeth and Islet, among other places.
My time at Nambucca Valley Community Radio began back in 2016 after moving into the area from Sydney.
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