DO THE MATH
I had a bad dream.
It starts with a call from Peter the Re-fi Guy: “Did you know that we can refinance your home or car or many sparkly objects?”
At which point a dump truck delivers an avalanche of mail through my window: bribes to switch phone plans, pre-rejection from MasterCard, charities sending address labels with my name on them (like street people who wash your windshield like it or not).
The radio plays a jingle for the once-in-a-lifetime, buy-this-or-die Toyotathon. I hum along against my will.
On TV a man shouts at me to try his ab machine now, now, now. On another channel the Dodgers’ centerfielder makes a catch between flash screens for IBM and Target.
“Great play!” roars the announcer. “This next pitch is brought to you by Blockbuster.”
The fax rings. It is Peter the Re-fi Guy. He has figures.
My computer dings with another offer to enlarge my reproductive tackle (is my secret that widespread?). The Ambassador to Ishmuntuku also needs me, or Current Resident, to “urgently manage his $10 million dollars.” This kind of email wouldn’t exist if someone, somewhere, hadn’t fallen for it. Who is this person, and can we get him a hotline?
“Thank you for calling the I’ve-Been-Scammed Hotline. The cost of this call is $10 dollars a minute. A specialist will be with you in a while. Hold please.”
Spam gives way to pop-ups, but every time I close one, two more emerge. Software installs itself, furniture is rearranged, the radio presets on its own.
“Well, you won’t get a lemon from Toyota of Orange.”
I run outside where the clouds have formed a giant McDonald’s arch. An airplane circles overhead with a banner for Doan’s: “Got Back Pain?” Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that board meeting.
I know! What if we take the old “got milk” slogan, but instead of using the word milk, we’ll insert the name of our own product! (The team beams with approval.)
My neighbor, leafing through his junk mail at the curb, asks if I am alright.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just a little dizzy.”
“That’s good,” he responds. “Hey, I’ve been meaning talk to you about Amway.”
I point my car to the interstate. An electronic sign warns about some leaflet storm, a message brought to me by Verizon High-Speed Internet, which delivers spam twice as fast as that old dial-up.
A boy in the next lane is watching commercials INSIDE A CAR! The car TV tides him over between the supermarket TV, his handheld TV, the hotel bathroom TV, the elevator TV and the doctor’s office TV that no one, not even a hammer, can turn down. So it goes.
At the gas station, a tabloid reporter brings me up to date on Oprah Winfrey’s weight, and Gillette reminds me to change blades often because “a fresh blade means a closer shave.” In related news, Wal-Mart wants us to buy more crap.
Fleeing on foot, I collide with the “Shell” sign. The “s” falls off.
I find a pastor in church addressing his congregation from under a Nike hat: “And then God saith unto Moses, ‘Do it, son. Just do it.’”
I run past billboards and bus benches screaming, “Sell me a car! Change my plan! Give me the warranty!”
My whole life flashes above a little CNN ticker. Jimmy Bitzer, third grade bully, punches my head, then pauses to say, “Beating up your classmates can be a lot of work. That’s why I drink Gatorade.”
I float to the sky, from where I can see my own tombstone. It is sponsored by Summer’s Eve (when you have that not-so-fresh feeling).
Finally I awake to a knock at my door. My real door.I answer slowly, fearing it’s Peter the Re-fi Guy. Instead, it is my neighbor returning a garden hose he borrowed. He chuckles when I tell him my nightmare and invites
me to his barbecue. I accept, but there is something ominous about how he walks away humming the Toyotathon jingle. •
By Jason Love
