Forced Conversation

by Morris Marshall

“It’s six a.m., everyone! Rise and shine!”

I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes, the remnants of a dream still nibbling at the edges of my mind. I was a kid again, and my dad had bought me a new electronic football game with little red blips for players. A catchy tune played whenever I scored a touchdown. Primitive technology by today’s standards, but it gave me a lot of enjoyment.

The Info Screen on my living room wall emitted upbeat music and flashing purple and yellow strobe lights, the official government colors. “Ten minutes until your mandatory morning workout!”

It was still dark outside. The government broadcast the workout to the entire city simultaneously. It had a list of everyone over the age of twelve required to participate in the exercise portion and the health evaluation afterward. Those with physical and mental disabilities were exempt.

I tossed off my blankets, went to the kitchen and said, “Start coffeemaker.” The machine filled up the glass container with water and poured a pouch of Columbian coffee into a filter up top.

The Info Screen was visible from everywhere in my small one-bedroom apartment. All government-approved apartments had to be open concept. During housing shortages, standardized units made it easier to increase the supply quickly.

“Eight minutes until your workout!”

I grabbed a peach and some blueberries. No time for bacon and eggs. Not that I had bacon anyway.

The “Vashistas” consisted of three women who had overthrown the old government in June after the economy collapsed and the budget deficit ballooned out of control. Legend had it that their names were Violet, Vesna and Valerie. Violet had long blonde hair, Vesna had red hair and Valerie, brown. They wore purple and yellow body suits, and sunglasses covered their eyes, which were rumored to be multicolored. There was also speculation that they were androids, but no one was sure, because they rarely appeared in public. They spoke telepathically rather than verbally.

The Vashistas provided all food rations, according to each person’s health status. Only healthy food was allowed, paid for by Universal Basic Income for those not working and salary for those fortunate enough to still have a job. Health care expenditures had dropped by 20 percent once all junk food was eliminated.

“Two minutes...”

T’il Wapner, I thought, parroting a line from Rain Man, a movie I’d seen years before. I bit down on my tongue to stifle a laugh. The Vashistas provided all entertainment through the Info Screen: one movie per night between seven and ten p.m. Sex, swearing, sad endings and anti-government propaganda were forbidden.

At 6:10 a.m., a blonde, twenty-something woman named Becky appeared on the Info Screen, dressed in purple spandex jogging pants and a yellow tank top. The government required that all participants in the morning workout be dressed in purple shorts and a yellow T-shirt.

“Let’s start with Jumping Jacks,” Becky said. Extend your arms and spread your legs, everyone. Now, jump! Ten times...”

I’d sprained my lower left back during a tennis match a few days back. Each jump felt like a kick just above my waist.

“Come on, two more sets of ten! More exercise means better health and fewer hospital visits.”

* * *

When the workout was over, I shuffled, bent over, to the Info Screen and inserted my arm into an opening up to my elbow. The cuff tightened and deflated after a minute.

The health evaluator, a middle aged black-haired woman, appeared on the Info Screen. “Mr. Johnson, your pulse is good, but your blood pressure is 135 over 90. That’s too high. The Vashistas want to see it at 120 over 80.”

“I feel fine, though.”

“It might be the coffee,” she continued. “We’ll cut back on your next shipment and send you more cauliflower and broccoli.”

At 6:40, the Vashistas appeared on the Info Screen. “Mandatory Social Integration (MSI) begins at 7 a.m.” Their mouths didn’t move. “Everyone must be out of their domiciles with all technologies left at home in full view. No exceptions.”

We all knew the drill. Between seven a.m. and five p.m., we had to be out of our apartments. That was fine for those working or attending school, but half the working-age population had already been displaced by AI and androids; they were collecting a Universal Basic Income. Schools and businesses were exempt from the tech rule and could use Vashista-approved technology, including desktop computers and tablets.

The Info Screen read 6:50 a.m. and flashed warnings about the upcoming deadline. Under MSI, teens could no longer sit inside all day, playing video games. All online learning was prohibited due to its harmful effect on students’ mental health, as observed during the Covid pandemic.

I went to the hall closet, removed my briefcase and placed it on my bed. I had two classes today: Micro and Macroeconomics. I took the textbooks off the shelf in my study and placed them in the case, along with red pens for marking. Then I placed my cell phone and tablet on the kitchen table in front of the Info Screen and went out into the hallway.

“Hi, Bill,” a voice said as I set the keypad on my door to “lock.”

I turned around. “Hey, Tina, long time, no see.”

My neighbour had recently cut her hair short in a bob style. “First day of school,” she said, smiling. “Are you nervous?”

“No more than usual,” I replied. “First day jitters. How about you?”

“Actually, I’m looking forward to it. This is my second year teaching grade one. Last year, six-year old kids were playing with smartphones during class. The Vashistas banned them this year, and I’m glad about that.”

We were silent in the elevator on the way to the first floor, through the lobby where a new statue of the Vashistas had been placed.

Before the new government, the streets would have been deserted at this time of day. Now, outdoor cafes and parks were crowded. A group of teens sat on adjacent benches, talking and laughing.

Just like when we were kids back in the ‘70s and ‘80s, I thought, when we’d play outside until dusk or our parents would call us in for dinner. Before technology began isolating people...

“I’ll be retiring at the end of this year,” I said.

“Do you have any plans once you’re off?” Tina asked.

“Maybe travel. I’ve been teaching for 27 years. When I first started, basic cell phones had just become popular. It’s a different world today. Smartphones, Zoom, AI. Once you get used to one technology, your employer replaces it with another. All in the name of cost-cutting.”

“We barely have enough funding for textbooks,” Tina replied. “And many classrooms don’t even have air conditioning in the summer.”

“It is unbelievable,” I agreed. “And. to save students money, our college is using Open Resource Materials instead of textbooks.”

We walked toward Mount Dennis subway station on the Eglinton Crosstown line, which had recently opened after 15 years of construction and a slew of cost overruns. The Vashistas had made it operational but refused to spend any more money on “upgrades.”

When the train arrived, Tina and I entered and sat down in one of the double seats.

Only a few months ago, before the regime change, morning commuters would have been on their cell phones or staring vacantly at ads placed above the windows, anything to avoid eye contact. The Vashistas had replaced the ads with a computerized message board that displayed purple and yellow lettering. A new message would form every few minutes: “Be kind to others. Reach out and talk to those around you. Socializing increases happiness and good health.”

“It’s nice to see people talking for a change,” Tina said, looking around. The soft buzz of conversation filled the subway car. Riders schmoozed about the weather, last night’s Vashista movie offering and back-to-school clothing styles.

Across from us, a twenty-something man with short brown hair and glasses, dressed in a navy blue suit, rested his briefcase on his lap. He glanced around, slowly reached inside and produced a cell phone.

“What is he doing?” Tina asked, her eyes widening. “They’ll catch him.”

When we arrived at the next station, our train came to a stop and the doors remained closed. No one could get on or off. The perpetrator slipped his cell phone back into his briefcase.

A few minutes passed. The Social Integration Enforcers entered our subway car and approached the cell phone violator. When he refused to get up, they lifted him out of his seat and carried him out, his feet dragging limply against the floor. The penalty for violating Mandatory Social Integration ranged from Reprogramming to prison time.

The doors closed and the subway started up. “Everything is fine,” the Message Board above the windows reported. “Go back to your conversations and continue enjoying your ride.”

Tina got up before the next stop and moved toward the doors. “Have a good day at school, Bill. It was nice talking to you.”

“You, too,” I replied.

* * *

I was ten minutes late by the time I arrived at the college. Still out of breath from the walk from the subway, I waited for the elevator to the fourth floor where my 8 a.m. Microeconomics class was scheduled. My heart pounded and a dull ache crept into the pit of my stomach. First days were the worst, not knowing anyone, and lecturing to sixty students staring blankly at you. I always preferred to be early, so I could greet each student as they entered class. That way, they no longer felt like strangers.

When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, I walked down the hall to room 420A. I peered through the classroom window. A man was standing at the front of my class, writing on the whiteboard. He was taller than me and better looking. He had the voice of a disk jockey. All my students were taking notes, something that never happened in my classes.

I removed my professor ID card from my briefcase and held it up to the scanner. It beeped, but the door stayed locked. I tried again. Nothing.

Footfalls sounded down the hall, coming in my direction, getting increasingly louder. Gary Powers, the Dean of the college, approached me, wearing the same grey suit he always wore.

“I can’t get into my class,” I said.

“There was nothing I could do, Bill. The Vashistas cut our funding. We couldn’t afford to hire as many teachers. I just found out this morning.”

I pointed at the teacher inside the class. “What about him? Did he agree to a pay cut?”

“He’s the Enlighten327, the newest in AI-based education. Very human-like, don’t you think? The students can’t tell the difference.”

All I could think of was my pension. Just one year to go after 27 years of service. And our union had been disbanded after the Vashistas took over.

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Powers said, as if reading my mind. “The Vashistas found you a tutoring job. It pays a bit less, but you’ll still retire on time.”

I looked through the door at my replacement. He must have told a joke, because the students were laughing in response. “Very funny,” I thought. “How many more Enlighten327s are teaching here? How many would there be next year or five years from now?” A cold draft slithered up my spine.

Maybe tutoring wouldn’t be so bad, after all. I’d have more time to play tennis while waiting for retirement. Hopefully, with less stress than full-time teaching, my blood pressure would come down. And the Vashistas would be happy.