Me and My Ego

by Charles C. Cole

Mortimer Nenchek was a walking, talking pilot program. He didn’t want a lifetime dependence on anti-depressive pharmaceuticals, so his mother and his doctor had conspired to have an AI implanted in his skull.

You see, Mortimer suffered from death ideation. It’s different from suicidal ideation because he didn’t obsess about killing himself (too much planning, and what if he messed up?). No, he just wanted to turn off all his worries. So, he was given an artificial conscience.

Mortimer left the coffee drive-thru and passed the place where his father lay buried. Whenever he considered taking a one-way visit to the cemetery, the AI would nag at him in a voice only he could hear: “Don’t do it, Morty. You’ll break your mother’s heart.”

He hated the nickname ‘Morty.’ And he hated that he still lived with his mother; he couldn’t make a single decision that didn’t somehow involve her.

Mortimer’s nickname for the AI was Ego. He mumbled aloud (he’d begun mumbling quite a bit): “You ever get tired of nagging?”

“It’s my function, so no.”

Mortimer did a sudden U-turn in the middle of the road and headed back to the cemetery. Somebody honked.

“Easy does it, Morty. Gotta keep those dark emotions in check.”

“I’m paying my respects to my father, if it’s alright with you.”

“Use your turn signal; it’s a courtesy to the car behind you.”

Mortimer did. “There. Don’t forget to inform Mother next time we download your ‘black box’ data. I wouldn’t want to be an embarrassment.”

Mortimer pulled to a stop at the baby maple near his father’s headstone. He took a sip of coffee to ready himself. It was shockingly hot. “Damn.”

“Good thing you didn’t sip it while you were driving; I can only imagine the aggressive response. ‘Honk, I hate this coffee. Honk, I hate my life. Honk, I hate the voice in my head.’ Am I close?”

Mortimer carried his go-to drink to a nearby spigot, a convenience for watering plants.

“Don’t you dare. Do not dilute your coffee. That water is not suitable for drinking.”

Mortimer ran cold water over the outside of his too-warm coffee cup. “A little trust, that’s all I ask for. How can they put a second voice inside my head, one that has no idea what I’m thinking?”

“Let’s go back to your struggling, suffering mother and dear old Doctor Gupta. We’ll tell them an artificial conscience isn’t working. You want the state-of-the-art mind-reading enhancement. If you think I’m intrusive now...”

Mortimer turned off the running water and tried a sip. “I’ll live. And that’s my curse.”

“They” wandered over to Ken Nencheck’s grave. Mortimer shook his head heavily. “He was 75. Never smoked. Never drank. Never exceeded the posted speed limit. He was practically a Boy Scout. And for what? Death is a sneaky bastard.”

“You envy him, don’t you?” asked Ego.

“A little... Okay, a lot. I don’t mind not getting married, not raising children. When I graduated from college, my parents told me not to worry about the expenses, to forge ahead. They didn’t say I would pay them back by keeping house with my widowed mother.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ego.

“It’s not fair. Let’s go.” They wandered back to the car.

“Why don’t we go to a movie?” suggested Ego. “Take your mind off your troubles.”

“I told my mother I was getting coffee. I didn’t tell her I was testing the limits of my independence.”

“It’s only a movie,” insisted Ego.

“I thought you were supposed to encourage me to do the right thing: be responsible, avoid delusions of self-damage.”

They got in the car. Mortimer closed the door and started the ignition. “Bye, Dad. Miss you.”

“Imagine,” said Ego, “if your father had been ‘wired’ like you. Only, instead of an angel on his shoulder, they’d implanted him with a mischievous little rule-breaker, someone who swore when he got frustrated, someone who cursed out distracted drivers.”

Mortimer smiled. “Funny visuals, but not my father.” A moment of silence.

“Are we going home?” asked Ego.

“If we didn’t get home within the hour, I bet she’d call the police. ‘My adult son has run away from home. You must find him. He could be anywhere. He’s my reason for living.’ Mom is the queen of self-advocacy.”

Another moment of silence. “What?” said Mortimer. “You’re not gonna tell me to be more respectful? Let me have it.”

“I don’t think it would happen like that,” said Ego.

“You know my mother better than I do?”

“No,” said Ego, “but I’m equipped with a GPS, so she knows exactly where you are. It’s for your own good, of course. It’s in case you get in a predicament and refuse to call for help.”

“Honestly, I’m not surprised,” said Mortimer.

“If it makes you feel any better,” said Ego, “my archival files indicate she considered giving me her voice. Her voice in your head. Doctor Gupta talked her out of it.”

“Thank goodness for an impassioned physician.” Beat. “Do you really think I’m self-destructive?” Extended silence. “Ego, you can be honest.”

“Don’t ask a question unless you’re prepared to hear the answer.”

Mortimer grabbed his coffee and sipped. “Perfect.”

Ego couldn’t help himself: “Some things are better after they’ve had a chance to cool off.”

“Point taken,” said Mortimer. “Say, can you call her and tell her, in my voice, that we’re going to a movie?”

“Another enhancement to mention to the good doctor, though I’m not sure he’d go for it.”

“It’s alright,” said Mortimer. “I’m ready for a nap. Can you drive while I snooze?”

“Not yet,” said Ego.

“I think we should make a list of ideas for Dr. Gupta.”

“Whatever keeps you engaged in the game of life,” said Ego.

“Amen to that, Ego,” said Mortimer. “Amen to that.”