A Working Theory of Love (21 page)

I wait for him to answer his own question, but he doesn’t. “Make it purple?”

“Come on. Give me some of that MBA genius.”

I think about my own life, my own fallings in love. I doubt it’s been free of projection.
But if I’ve mistaken Rachel for a lost soul or suspected Erin of terminal unhappiness
I wouldn’t say I was projecting my
ideal
self. “Most of us need a personality to work with, I think.”

He leans forward, pounds his hands affirmatively on the desk. “A pillowcase isn’t
going to do it. We need something to work with. Imagine this—you buy your bot. Fairly
realistic-looking. Gorgeous. Will look after your physical needs, all that. But in
the three months you’re waiting for this miracle of manufacturing, you log in to a
secure site every day and have a chat with her or him. You chat back and forth and
you give feedback. It could be a thumbs-up or -down, or it could be a starred rating
system. But whenever the bot says something you don’t like you thumbs-down it. Whenever
it says something you like, you thumbs-up it.”

“Like Pandora.”

“They’ve got the Music Genome Project. We’ll have the Personality Genome Project.
If you like sweet nothings, then you’ll like A. If you like sharp political discussion,
then you’ll like B. And if our model doesn’t suit you you can give us the feedback
and our system gets smarter. You’ll be creating the ideal partner for your downtime,
and we’ll be refining our systems more and more. We already have all the basic profiles
to start with.”

I know. We used his profiling tests to frame Dr. Bassett.

“This is a truly dark view of the future,” I say.

He bursts into laughter, leans back in his chair. “Okay, that’s my working theory
of love. What’s yours?”

And now I see why I’ve been called here. I’m an easy mark. I have a personal, probably
emotional connection to the project. I am not worried about the everlasting perpetuity
of my name (at least yet). I don’t have a reputation to uphold. I just have a computer—based
on my father—that won’t speak. Still, it’s not exactly
my
theory of love. I’m not even sure it’s about love, or that it even qualifies as a
theory. It’s a little too faith based. So what in God’s name is Toler going to accomplish
with it? What are
we
going to accomplish with it?

“I may have come underprepared,” I say. “Livorno told me you had already signed on.”

Toler sighs. “I love Henry, but he’s an idea man who’s run out of ideas. I, on the
other hand, am an idea man with engineers. The very best from the very best schools.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Of course he does. And he’s the competition.

He pulls on his lips, puts his hand down in his lap, waiting. “Well, I certainly understand
your loyalty to Henry,” he says. “Hell, I feel it myself, and I’m not known for my
sensitive side. So tell him I appreciate the invitation to invest, but I don’t think
it’s quite the right time.”

“Why do you need
this
theory?”

He puts his elbows on the table.

“I mean,” I say. “There are lots of other theories. There are surely better ones.”

“That’s undoubtedly true. But how can I go mano a mano against Henry if we have different
starting materials?”

“Easy. We’re trying to beat the Turing test. You’re trying to beat the Turing test.”

“No. I’m trying to beat that old bag, Henry Livorno, who gave me a C in graduate school.
And he’s two years ahead of me on his project. But after this little head start, I
want the contest to be totally fair. I’ll hand over gobs of cash. I’ll even send one
of my top engineers over to help.”

I’ve never been much of a chess player (though my father did insist we learn how to
play), but I try to think three moves ahead here. Is there any harm in giving him
our idea, an idea that is really more like a Band-Aid? An unproven Band-Aid? There
are many things Toler still won’t have. The Sins. The stack. My father’s journals.
In other words, most of the project. And we aren’t anywhere with Laham back to Jakarta
and Dr. Bassett collecting dust.

“Okay,” I say. “Are we going to make a deal? I give you the theory and you hand over
whatever money you and Henry have discussed?”

“I’m a man of my word.” He says this with a tired sneer.

“Well, it’s kind of Gnostic,” I say. “It’s a universal positive inclination. Rather
than no—yes.”

Toler looks alarmed. “What are you speaking—Klingon?”

“It has to do with the limbic system. The basic idea is that you make the computer
always seek connection. Click and stay clicked.”

He laughs. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“That’s it.”

“The limbic system,” he says.

“Yes.”

“You know that doesn’t really exist.”

I nod, but this is news to me. The limbic system doesn’t exist?

“What does Henry like about this?” He’s speaking to himself. “The scientism? Is it
easier to model?”

I say nothing.

“Well,” he says, reaching over to shake. “You’ve officially conned me out of two hundred
thousand dollars and a top engineer.”

“Not Jenn, I hope.”

He looks surprised. “You’ve got a good memory for names.” It sounds like an accusation.
“Guy’s name is Robert.” Toler stands and walks stiffly out his office door, a hitch
in his left hip. I put down my tea and follow. He limps quickly down the hall, knocking
on an unmarked metal door. When it opens, he signals for me to enter.

The room is the size of a high school chemistry lab, brightly lit. The walls are lined
with stainless steel tables; on top of the tables are small boxes holding tiny rods
and motors and springs. “This is Neill.” Toler is speaking to an alarmed man in a
white coat. “Show him.” I’m directed to a project in the corner. It’s another silicone
vagina, this one blue.

“Put your finger in there,” Toler says.

I sigh, taking a minute to establish to Toler, to myself, to the universe that I’d
rather not. Then I put my finger in there. Robert flicks a switch. The device startles
and begins making a rhythmic humming noise. The walls of the fake vagina undulate,
pressing on my knuckles. A firm squeezing, not quite a sucking.

“You can’t even get that kind of muscle control in Thailand,” Toler says.

•   •   •

T
ANGLING IN THE SHEETS
with Jenn, I think about that motorized vagina. She doesn’t do anything like that—she
doesn’t do anything with her kegel muscles, except at the very end when she’s coming.
If the flesh were real enough, the movement smooth enough, could sex be like this
with a robot? I grip her thigh. What if it gave exactly like that? What if the face
looked like hers—upper lip raised, chin thrown back? The panting, the syncopated moans.
It would always come exactly when you did.

Like Jenn, but blue. Could I ever love such a thing?

We roll onto our backs, a cool wind rustles the curtains.

“That was great.” She runs a fingernail down her own chest.

“We’re pretty good, aren’t we?” I say. We know all the passionless moves. We’re like
a championship foxtrot team.

“We are,” she says. She rolls over and stands, walking naked to the bathroom. She
flicks on the light and leaves the door open while she pees. She calls to me, “I need
to ask a favor.”

Oh, boy. “The answer is yes, but not now.”

“I’m serious.” I hear paper detached from the roll, the toilet flushes. She turns
off the light, fills the bathroom door with her black silhouette. “I want you to watch
something.”

I sit up and take a drink of the gin and tonic she poured me earlier. It’s gone flat;
I catch a fruit fly in my teeth. I’m filled with unexpected dread. “Of course,” I
say. “What are you going to show me?”

“A brief video.”

“Is it sexy?”

“Right. Funny.” She fumbles around her wardrobe for her glasses, and then slips into
a T-shirt and yoga pants. She comes over and takes away my glass, carrying it through
the kitchen and into the living room.

“Let me get dressed.”

“It’ll take five minutes. I need your honest opinion.”

“We’re doing so well without constructive criticism.”

“You’re the only person I can show this to.”

There’s that feeling of dread again. The idea that I’m her closest intimate is terrifying.
Yet she’s probably my closest intimate. And what is she asking for? Five minutes.
This is well within the realm of whatever we are—friends with benefits, friends with
slight disadvantages. An eagle and a mouse, snake, toad.

I should say no. It’s what I want to do. But I’m one of those guys, so good and polite
that I bring nothing but misery to the world. I get out of bed, pull on some jeans,
and walk into the light of the kitchen. In the living room, I take my position on
the edge of the couch. I fold my hands together, lean on my knees, purse my lips,
trying to communicate attentive viewing.

“Ready?” she asks, kneeling next to the DVD player.

I nod.

The video begins. She hurries to the couch to sit next to me, but not too close. The
screen is dark. I hear jungle drums and a didgeridoo. Then the screen lights up and
Jenn is there, in a sports bra, spandex shorts, and athletic shoes.

“Is that Montara Beach?” I ask.

“Yes,” she—the real person—says.

Onscreen she introduces herself as Jenn Longly of Silicon Valley, USA. It’s the first
time I’ve heard her last name.

“I’m a computer programmer,” she says, “for a stealth company.” In a series of quick
cuts, she sprints across the beach, climbs a rock face, and drags a fallen manzanita
from a trail.

“I’ve got the brawn,” she says, back on Montara Beach.

“That’s where we had our picnic,” I say.

She pats my knee. “Watch,” she says.

On the video, a long set of program commands is reflected in her glasses. The camera
pans out—she’s working at her computer. Behind is a large stainless steel box that
looks just like Dr. Bassett.

“What is that?”

“Neill,” she whispers. “Please.”

She solves an equation on a dry-erase board, then puts the finishing touches on a
mega sudoku. All we see at that point is her pen and her amazing cognition.

Back on the beach, at our picnic spot: “I’ve got the brains,” she says.

She jogs up a steep street—Hilltop Drive? The scene changes to San Francisco Bay;
there’s Alcatraz in the background. The cameraman is just downhill from the Fort Mason
Youth Hostel where I met Rachel. In the bay, two arms like small black carpenter squares
till their way between the buoys. A white arrow appears on the screen, pointing at
the swimmer. Above it, as if from the clouds, materializes the word “ME.”

“I’ve got the endurance,” she says, back on the beach. “And I’ve got the drive to
win. Every day, I watch another episode. I’ve seen them all ten times. I know how
to outwit, outlast, and outplay. I’m ready to conquer—
Survivor
.” She pumps her fist in the air; the screen goes black, except for her address, email,
and phone number in white tiki letters.

She turns the TV set off.

“What do you think?” she asks.

I hesitate, knowing I must speak immediately, that this is a kind of test, a way of
asking
, do you love me,
though she doesn’t mean
do you love me
—she means something much, much smaller.
Do you get me?

“Seriously, what was that computer stack?”

“One of the projects at work. But I’m asking about the video. What do you think of
it?”

“I didn’t realize
Survivor
was still on air.”

“Okay,” she says. “At least you learned something.”

“I thought it was good,” I say. I replay it quickly in my mind, trying to find something
to praise. “I enjoyed watching you in a sports bra.”

Her smile is what they call pained. Her cheeks travel up normally, but the mouth tightens.
She leans forward, as if firing a powerful telepathic beam at me.

“I think it’s great,” I say. “It showcases your endurance, strength, and intelligence.
Some of the camera work and editing is awesome. I love the bit of you playing sudoku.”

She nods. “I hired a professional.”

“He was worth the money.”

“She.”

“Absolutely. She was worth the money.”

“Aren’t you a creative type?” she says. “Don’t you feel there’s something missing?”

“Well, you give your CV but nothing of who you are. It doesn’t really give a sense
of your personality.” Personality—the missing factor from Toler’s sex bot.

“Why did I have to grill you for that?”

“I guess it didn’t come to me immediately.”

She sits upright and stiff, rolling her fingers on her knees, her lips jutted out
in disapproval.

“It’s missing some special pizzazz about you,” I say. “I wonder if you could talk
more—give a sense of who you are.”

Her look of disappointment recedes—so thoroughly I wonder if she was ever disappointed.
Maybe she was just nervous.

“Do you have a sense of who I am?”

“As much as I can at this point.”

“I’d like this to go further, you know,” she says. “You and me. But we don’t even
have nicknames for each other.”

“Like Mutt and Jeff? We’re adults.”

“Like Sweetie. Or Love. You and your ex probably had nicknames.”

I don’t know if she means my ex-wife or my ex-girlfriend, but in either case she’s
right. Erin and I called each other Baby and other things. Rachel and I, “Friend”—and
it seemed to mean ten things at once.

“We haven’t been together long enough.”

“When I met you I was dating someone else, too. I cut it off to focus on us—this.
I don’t mean it as pressure. I’m just saying I’m serious.”

And me? I’m serious, too. I didn’t call off Friend because I met Jenn, but I did let
things slip because of her. Jenn is where I placed my chips. I know she’s a person,
not a path, and yet, though she makes so much sense—is smart, good-humored, pretty,
interested in sleeping with me—here I am, my heart flat as a marshmallow. I have nothing
to say.