Harry’s New Pants
by Jeff Pepper
part 1
“I feel like I’m drowning.” I said it without looking at her.
I knew Dr. Mendez was giving me that professionally interested “tell me more” look, the one they probably taught her in medical school. But I also knew she wasn’t interested in my problems. It was nearly noon, and my company-appointed therapist was probably thinking about what she was going to have for lunch.
I looked up and saw she was gazing at me thoughtfully through her wire-rimmed glasses. Did I see a flicker of real interest there?
“Ahh. Tell me more,” she said, tapping some notes into the tablet on her lap.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “I don’t know. It just seems that everywhere I go, people are trying to get me to buy something, or do something, or join something. At first it was just annoying, but now it’s just wearing me out.”
“Give me an example.”
I looked around her office. Adorning two of the walls were a couple of truly insipid paintings. One was a sailboat in a harbor; the other was a gauzy view of a mountain range, all blues and purples. Generic stuff, the kind that interior designers buy in bulk. On a third wall was a stylish logo of the corporation we both worked for. Below it was the tagline: “Bringing the world together.”
On the fourth wall was a window. The blind was up, and there was a billboard mounted on a building across the street. It showed a picture of an athletic twenty-something guy wearing khaki cargo pants. He looked a little bit like me, but way better. Sparkling eyes, bronzed skin, six-pack abs. Next to his face were the words, “Harry, it’s time to buy new pants!”
Tightening my flabby stomach, I gestured out the window. “That.”
She looked. “Oh, that.” She gave me a sad little smile. “Harry, it’s the world we live in. It brings you good things and good times. It keeps the economy running. And don’t forget, it’s where your salary comes from. Tell me, why does such a harmless thing bother you so much?”
I rubbed my eyes. “I don’t know. I just wish it would stop. It’s too much.”
“Too much... what?”
“Too much everything. Everywhere.” I shook my head, unable to put my pain and frustration into words.
Dr. Mendez gazed down at the tablet, apparently scrolling through the story of my life. “Harry, you’ve been with the company for, what, ten years? Tell me what you’ve done here.”
That was a much easier question. I relaxed, letting my gut return to its usual rounded shape as I sat back in the chair. “I was hired straight out of college as a junior social media analyst. Did that for five years, worked my way up to senior analyst. Then the company outsourced the analytics to an AI firm, and my job went away. They reassigned me to a liaison position, where I’d explain to management the AI’s analysis and present its conclusions and recommendations. PowerPoints, standup meetings, you know.”
“And then?”
“A year later, that was outsourced, too. No need to present anything anymore. The AI’s recommendations became company policy with almost nothing in between. My whole department was eliminated.”
She smiled again, knowing what was coming. “And what do you do now?”
“I work in food service. In the cafeteria downstairs.”
“Do you like the work?”
“Well,” I said, “it’s not bad. At least the potatoes aren’t trying to sell me anything.” I didn’t mention the deep pay cut that accompanied my transfer from cubicle to kitchen.
Dr. Mendez put down the tablet, walked over to a credenza and picked up a small bottle of water. She waved it at me, indicating I could have one if I wanted. I shook my head. She twisted off the cap, took a sip and sat down again.
“Harry, I think you’d benefit from a medical intervention.” She paused for a moment to let that sink in. “As I’m sure you know, there are a variety of medications and devices on the market designed to improve your mood and the quality of your everyday life. Unfortunately, they are all quite expensive and not covered by the company’s medical plan.”
I nodded, waiting to hear what was coming next.
“But there is some good news. The company has partnered with a medical device firm called Inner Peace. They make a device that will also improve your mood and your overall functioning, and it’s fully covered by your medical plan.”
“A device?”
She nodded. Pulling open a drawer in her desk, she took out a small case, the size of a jewelry box. It was powder blue and decorated with little white stars, like the ceiling in a little kid’s bedroom. With a pair of tweezers, she lifted out something small and squishy, about the size of a house fly. She held it between thumb and forefinger and showed it to me.
“Looks like a dead insect.”
She gave a tight little laugh. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s not an insect, and it’s not dead. It’s a very tiny computer chip with some, ahh, other things attached.”
“Do you drill a hole in my head and stick it in?”
“Oh no, that would be horrible and would require a hospital visit which would be quite expensive. We do it right here in the office. I place it on your face, outside your left eye. The device extrudes some tiny fibers that extend behind your eye, down the optic nerve and into the visual cortex. From there, a few more fibers extend into your hippocampus. It takes a couple of days. When that’s done, the original device dissolves away. You just wash it off.”
I sat, mouth open and looked at her. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Oh no, Harry. This is real. And it works. We have over a hundred thousand of these in people all around the world, and results have been outstanding.”
I didn’t know what to say. I looked out the window. The billboard had changed. Now the younger, athletic version of me was just smiling and giving me two thumbs-up.
I stood up, feeling weak. “Thanks, Doc,” I said as I headed for the door. “Let me think about it.”
* * *
Walking home from work down Fifth Avenue, I tried to ignore the digital billboards. Most were generic, flashing the same messages to the thousands of people on the sidewalks. But, every now and then, a smaller billboard would light up and target me. “HARRY, TIME FOR NEW PANTS!” was a recurring theme and made me regret my online browsing of men’s clothing websites the night before. I should have known better.
Taxicabs zipped past. Some were the traditional kind with human drivers; others were silent, self-driving vehicles with odd futuristic shapes. They were all plastered with ads, a mix of digital displays and old-fashioned printed plastic. They hawked Broadway shows, sports betting apps, movies and video games. Not surprisingly, several featured khaki pants.
Nearing my apartment building, I ignored the giant Whole Foods store and stopped at the local bodega to pick up some fresh fruits and veggies and a Cubano sandwich. I chatted with the girl at the counter in a jumble of Spanish and English and paid her with cash. I noticed she had to punch a couple of extra buttons on her POS machine to deal with the unusual, non-electronic transaction.
In my apartment, munching on my sandwich and sipping a cold beer, I thought about the Inner Peace device. It sounded creepy, like something from a sci-fi horror movie. But, on the other hand, life was becoming almost unbearable. If a few silicon tendrils in my brain could tamp down the flood of frazzled feelings bouncing around in there, maybe it was worth it. It was like a pacemaker for my brain, right?
I turned on the TV and tried to watch an old rom-com, but it was all chopped up with commercials. I flicked it off before it was half over. But, by then, I’d already made up my mind.
* * *
Calling it a medical procedure would be an overstatement. Dr. Mendez handed me her tablet. On the screen in easy-to-read text was the prompt, “I, Herman K. Hallerson, agree to the terms and conditions governing my use of the Inner Peace model CEM-15 device and service.” The words “terms and conditions” were underlined, indicating a link. I tapped the link and saw it was thirty pages of fine print. What the hell. I tapped the “back” button, signed the form with the stylus and handed the tablet back.
Dr. Mendez took out the pretty blue jewelry case again and opened it. Picking up the device with tweezers, she placed it on my face, just outside my left eye. There must have been adhesive on it, because it stuck to my skin.
“That’s it,” she said, giving me a tight little smile again. “This will take a couple of days to self-install. Today’s Wednesday. I suggest you take the next two days off. Relax. Take a walk in the park. And don’t wash your face until Friday morning. I’ll see you Monday.”
A walk in the park sounded good. I headed for Bryant Park, making my way through the usual blizzard of digital billboards. A guy on the corner was selling salted pretzels from a pushcart. He was a tall, thin Hispanic man, black hair turning to gray, wearing old-fashioned eyeglasses that made him look like a librarian. The pretzels were hot and smelled really good, so I bought one.
As I walked and munched on the pretzel, a scrap of paper fell out of the wrapper. I picked it up. “Set yourself free” was handwritten in blue ink and below it was a QR code that appeared to be hand-stamped.
Intrigued, I took a pic of the QR code with my phone. A browser opened, but a message said the website was unavailable. I shrugged it off as another tech glitch and headed to the park.
The rest of the day was uneventful. I felt a strange tickling sensation in my left eye, no doubt due to the creeping invasion of the device’s tendrils into my brain. But it wasn’t painful, just a bit weird, and I was able to ignore it. I slept well that night, for the first time in several months.
Thursday was a good day. Obeying doctor’s orders, I skipped work, rented a bike and cycled around Central Park. The pretzel vendor was gone, but there was another vendor a block farther down, so I bought another giant pretzel and took a nap in a dense grove of trees adjacent to a stream. On the way to the park, I couldn’t help seeing the usual jumble of billboards, but they didn’t bother me as much as before. I assumed the Inner Peace device was starting to do its job.
On Friday morning, I scrubbed a smear of dark slime off my face: the last remnant of the Inner Peace device.
The strange QR code still bothered me somehow. I still had the web address from the QR code, so I sat under a tree in the park and tried again with a few different browsers. None of them worked but, oddly, the error messages were inconsistent. My default Safari browser told me again that the website was unavailable, Chrome said the site was insecure and that I could not access it. And Firefox just gave me a little spinning icon. Strange. Why would three browsers tell me three different things about the same website?
Later, I broke with personal tradition and ate at the Hard Rock Café on Broadway instead of the bodega. I sat at the bar; restaurant sounds were drowned out by classic hits, and my burger and fries were illuminated by a dozen video screens showing basketball games and talk shows. I found I could tolerate it, at least for a while. Afterwards, I went home, had a beer and headed for bed.
Once again, I had a restful sleep. This time, though, towards morning I had a vivid dream. I was walking down the street and came to a Starbucks coffee shop. I had a strong urge to go inside. I used the Starbucks app to order a steaming Pumpkin Spice Latte.
As I was taking my first sip, I saw a strikingly pretty girl. She was sitting in the far corner, her long brown hair cascading over an oversized beige hoodie and a white t-shirt. She had dark eyes, high cheekbones and a wicked smile. She looked vaguely familiar, like someone I knew in college but not quite. She was looking at me. I walked over to her, the hot coffee in my hand, and noticed she also had the same drink. We laughed at the coincidence.
Then I suddenly woke up. I got dressed and walked out of my apartment building. I really wanted a Pumpkin Spice Latte.
* * *
“How are you feeling?” asked Dr. Mendez when I met her for my weekly session on Monday morning.
“Actually, pretty good,” I admitted. “The mental noise in my head has subsided, and I’m able to relax and enjoy myself.”
“And the feeling of, uh, drowning?”
“I still feel it, a little, but it’s much better.”
She nodded, making some notes on her tablet.
I wanted to talk about my dreams. Each of the last three nights, I’d met the pretty girl in the Starbucks. I noticed she was not there initially but appeared only after I’d ordered a drink. And not just any drink. It had to be one of the more expensive handcrafted beverages. As soon as I had the latte or whatever in my hand, there she was. I found myself looking forward to going to sleep just so I could see and talk with her.
“I’ve been having some unusual dreams...” I began.
“Oh, that’s nothing to worry about,” she said quickly. “The device’s tendrils sometimes overlap the area of your brain that’s active during dreams. It’s fine.”
I never heard of a shrink who had no interest in a patient’s dreams. But things were going well, and I was not about to complain. The session wrapped up early, and I returned to work.
* * *
While I was walking home that night, I noticed there were no more ads for khaki pants. The AI ad server had apparently given up on selling me new pants. However, there was an interesting billboard for some leather hiking shoes that caught my eye. I stopped, looked at it for a few seconds, then kept walking.
That night, my usual dream took a weird turn. I found myself in the Starbucks as usual. I ordered a drink — this time, a Venti macchiato — then looked around to find my dream girl. She was sitting in her usual place, a steaming latte in front of her, smiling at me. But, when I walked over to her, a man stepped in front of me. The scene froze. The girl and everyone else in the coffee shop stopped moving, as if time had stopped.
The man standing in front of me was billboard Harry, my handsome doppelganger who I’d seen in so many personalized billboards. “Hi, Harry!” he said, waving at me.
Well, this is weird, I thought.
Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “I’m so glad I ran into you. I need to tell you about an amazing offer. Right now, you can buy these terrific hiking shoes” — and he held up the hiking shoes I’d seen while walking home the previous evening — “for one-third off. Normally $240, you can get them for just $159!” He gave me a wide grin, showing off his perfect teeth.
“Not interested,” I said, trying to push past him. But I couldn’t get past him. Some sort of impervious dream wall prevented me from getting past the salesman.
“Sorry, Harry,” he said, “your dream will continue just as you want, but first, you really need to buy these shoes. We have them in your size — ten and a half, right? — and we have them in black, tan and chocolate brown. Just tap here and they’re yours.” He held out a little POS device and helpfully pointed to the green “OK” button.
“You’re kidding, right?” I said. “You, whoever or whatever you are, barge into my dream and try to sell me stuff? This is my dream. Now get lost or I’ll... I’ll blast you with my phaser.”
The guy just shook his head and kept the fake smile on his handsome face. “Nope. Won’t work. Really, just buy the shoes, and I’ll go away.”
I pulled a phaser from my pocket. Hey, it was my dream, why not? I set it to “kill,” pointed at him and fired. Nothing. The beam just splashed off him.
He gestured again with the POS. “Do you want to see her?” he asked, gesturing to the frozen image of my dream girl. I didn’t answer. He wiggled the POS.
“OK,” I sighed, pocketing the phaser. “You win. I’ll take the chocolate brown.” I tapped the screen.
He nodded and turned to go. Just before he reached the door of the coffee shop, he turned and said, “Hey. Harry, would you be interested in joining our Dream Rewards club?”
“Get out!” I shouted. He left. The Starbucks scene reawakened, and I walked over to spend a few precious minutes with my lovely friend.
In the morning, I checked my email. There was a receipt for the shoes and a tracking number for the delivery, which was expected later that afternoon.
* * *
Copyright © 2026 by Jeff Pepper
