By C.E. Gee
Paul knew it was time to install his brainbug. Many of his friends had theirs, enthusiastically proclaimed the benefits of the device.
There was a brainbug parlor several blocks from Paul’s apartment. Given the city of Corvallis was home to a major university, brainbug parlors did a thriving business.
It was early fall, the day was brisk but not cold. Paul enjoyed the walk to the parlor, which was on 2nd Street.
At the parlor’s reception counter Paul was given a number. It took nearly half-an-hour for his number to be called.
Escorted by an orderly to one of the installation rooms, Paul was met by a prim, not unattractive nurse.
The nurse explained the procedure, which inserted the brainbug through the sinus cavity.
The nurse then left the room after instructing Paul to disrobe and don a hospital gown.
The doctor arrived. Paul kept a poker face, inwardly was aroused. He had a thing for intelligent females.
After a moment of chit-chat the doctor announced, “Now Paul, I want to assure you this procedure is relatively painless. In addition, you’ll be out cold because of a sedative.”
“Sounds okay to me,” replied Paul.
The doctor left the room the moment the nurse arrived. The nurse gave Paul a shot –- the sedative.
Paul awoke two hours later. Groggy but aware, as previously instructed Paul blinked three times.
In his field of vision, off to the left, a menu appeared.
At the top of the menu was the word “GOOGLE.” Paul stared at the word until it was highlighted. Again, Paul blinked three times.
The familiar Google search box appeared. Paul cleared his mind, then repeatedly thought of the words “Define brainbug.”
The reply was fast and concise. “A device designed to neurologically interface humans to WiFi.”
Paul smiled, the brainbug worked. Paul explored a few more menu choices, then dressed in his street clothes.
After checking out at the reception desk, Paul walked a few blocks south, crossed the street and entered Squirrels Tavern.
Paul, at one of the tables, used its touch screen to order a grilled cheese sandwich, tater tots, a beer. While waiting for a robotic cart to bring his food, Paul used his brainbug to log on to the tavern’s WiFi. It worked. Paul, who knew a great deal about electronics, had been concerned that the brainbug’s internal antenna would be too short and thus emit too high a frequency to have much range.
Paul chose the brainbug’s Facebook option, scanned down his list of friends until he found Harold. Paul sent Harold a text message describing the installation of the brainbug.
After a couple moments Harold responded with the text, “Hey man, welcome to the club! You should check out all the video, movie, music channels.”
“Maybe later,” thought Paul to his text editor. Right now I gotta eat something.” Paul made his goodbye, turned to his food.
After the meal, Paul sat back in order to savor the last few sips of his beer.
Another robotic cart rolled up. “Are you finished Sir?” asked the bot.
Paul answered, “ ’sept for my beer.”
The bot, using a mechanical arm, cleared the table.
Now that he knew how the text option worked, Paul decided to use direct connect.
He went back to Facebook, found Marge’s profile, clicked it.
Marge came online instantly. “You did it!” exclaimed Marge. “I’m so happy for you.”
In Paul’s mind Marge’s voice sounded just like her talking voice.
Marge continued with, “And you’re using your direct connect.”
“Yes,” thought Paul as he enjoyed the sensation of feeling what Marge felt. Paul always believed females were more sensitive than males. Now he knew the truth.
“I’ve got a little treat for you,” playfully said Marge.
Marge must have touched herself, for Paul felt a couple of fingers lightly gripping his left nipple. At the same time he felt a buzzing sensation in his crotch.
“Oh, you’re so bad!” proclaimed Paul. “I can’t wait to see you. Come to my place later, OK?”
“I’ll head out right now,” replied Marge.
Marge went on with, “My roommate has been telling me how wonderful it is to be with her boyfriend. You both feel what the other person feels.”
Paul sat, opened-mouthed, staring at the ceiling. “Uh, yeah,” he thought. Marge laughed, logged off.
Paul went to the front of the tavern, paid the cashierbot.
Something of an athlete, Paul then ran to his apartment building, gleefully anticipating the rest of the day.
- - -
C.E. Gee (aka Chuck) misspent his youth at backwater locales within Oregon and Alaska.
Chuck later answered many callings: logger (choker setter) meat packer (Norbest Turkeys), Vietnam war draftee infantryman, telecom technician, volunteer fireman/EMT, light show roady, farmer, businessperson.
Both retired and disabled (PTSD), Chuck now writes SF stories.
Thursday, March 2, 2017
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