The Words - An Autobiography

A Stranger at the Company I Created

I felt like a stranger at the company I'd created - which was, in truth, what I was - as I reacquainted myself with the research facility - where no one knew me, only of me, and, in most of their minds, I was not me. So far as they knew, the legendary me was either dead or a sad, heartbroken old man walking on some beach. All of them had heard about that version of me. Some might even have been impressed if they'd believed for a moment I was that man, but even those with the most reverence for him, the legend, didn't care who I was, only what I could do. Missing multiple generations of technological paradigm shifts in the decade I'd been away, there wasn't much I was still able to do, and none of them had the time or inclination to teach me. They were busy. So, once again, I was left to teach myself. But I did have plenty of time and at least some inclination to do so.

My awareness of Bob no longer being present left an emptiness in my soul. Somehow, I still expected to bump into him at any moment. Even recognizing that Bob probably wouldn't have survived the procedure, I felt guilty that he'd been unable, or unwilling, to accept that offer. He'd been there for me. He and my brother had saved my life when I no longer cared whether I lived or died. Yet, I was still there, and they weren't. And, if I felt guilty about Bob and my brother no longer being present, the thought of losing my wife was so much worse; forever without her by my side left a void and emptiness stretching ahead of me without end.

Now what? The recurring question of my life. I felt as if I was back in the center of the factory floor staring at my vacuous coworker or newly graduated from high school, asking myself that same question. I felt an emotional sense of urgency to do something to fill my emptiness, which was at war with my realization that I had no need to hurry. I had forever. Still, I wanted something to do now, and the ability to have and do anything was, ironically, of no help since it did nothing to narrow my options of just what that might be.

I had temporarily moved back to the city, where I sat in front of the penthouse windows at night, looking out over the seeming infinity of lights, remembering tantric sex with my wife. Her ghost haunted me there, even more than at the estate. I'd wake at night thinking I'd felt her slide into bed next to me. But, since I slept in the guest room, I worried; if she'd been sliding into bed anywhere, wouldn't it have been the one we'd shared, and she might be lying there forever, wondering when I'd be home. But I was more terrified at the thought of returning to the old mansion, where I felt sure I'd find her still running through the halls, playing naked-hide-and-seek, wearing a wig, a merkin, and nothing else, wondering why she couldn't find where I was hiding, and why I wasn't trying to find her. Finding had been the best part.

I was lonelier than I'd ever conceived possible, and the thought of living forever meant that the pain that filled me would never die, even though I still couldn't imagine living forever at that point. How much longer? I had far less of a clue of this than before. I could still die from any number of accidents or illnesses and could only assume that one or another would claim my life at some unknown moment in the future. However, I did know with certainty that I was no longer the average seventy-year-old man. I'd been given something that shouldn't be wasted.

So, once again, what now?

All the deteriorating Buddhas at the research center made me ill at ease. All the grossly overweight, unhealthy-looking developers sitting around, hands on their laps, appearing to do nothing, while supposedly working diligently with their pod partners on various assignments. I was disgusted to learn one of them had died earlier that year, with no one aware of that until his rotting corpse began to smell. Several of his coworkers, especially his pod partner, were aware that he hadn't contributed as much lately but felt no reason for concern. They all had occasional virtual hibernations.

The autopsy indicated that he'd died of starvation and dehydration. It was unclear whether he pissed and shit himself before or after his death. Adding to all the other nastiness, he weighed nearly four hundred pounds. It was an engineering feat to remove his body. They finally cleared space to allow a forklift to carry him, still sitting in his chair, down to the loading dock in the freight elevator.