Opinion | Confessions of a Dating Profile
The examination room was earnestly retro, with laminated anatomy charts, a model skeleton and a blood pressure sleeve hanging from a rack, a throwback to Early Times, when doctors treated illnesses.
The doctor smiled. “How are we feeling today?”
“O.K. …” Roberta reclined into the exam chair. “Actually, a little nervous.”
“Most people are,” the doctor said, laying a hand on her arm. “Especially with a first child.” Behind him the nurse prepared a syringe. “Even after all this time,” he said, “genetic mutation can still sound scary. But our mothers did it, our grandmothers did it. And it’s the law. Ready?”
Roberta nodded. As the needle pierced the side of her abdomen she felt a tingling sensation wash over her, first cool, then increasingly warm. Was her baby experiencing the same thing? she wondered. Where would this rank among the upheavals he’d already faced: the sprouting of limbs, the awareness of sound? Then it was over.
The nurse stamped the compliance form. “May I have the child’s name?” she asked.
Roberta turned to her husband. They smiled and answered simultaneously.
“Kwame.”
“Landry.”
Roberta lovingly patted Donald’s arm. “It’s Landry,” she said to the nurse.
“Yo, this here is my show,” the rapper said, turning up the volume on the 60-inch TV. The members of his entourage lifted their gazes from their iPhones. Airing live, from a Disney backlot ringed with bleachers, a young man in a helmet and a jumpsuit was being lowered into a cannon. It was aimed directly at a brick wall, above which a giant clock was suspended, counting down from 12 minutes 7 seconds.
“Some people spend their deathday watching the waves roll gently onto the shore,” said the TV host. “Boooring! Jason, an adrenaline junkie from Scottsdale, has always wanted to be shot out of a cannon. Well, Jason, today is your day. It’s time for —”
“The countdown,” the audience screamed.
Landry packed up his audio recorder and notebook. He’d done enough celebrity interviews to know when one was over. The rapper’s publicist apologized.
“It’s fine. I’ve got what I need,” Landry said.
“I’ll see you out. I have another client in the building,” the publicist said. They walked toward the foyer of the penthouse. “I was happy to hear they were sending you. It’s been a while.”
“The Beyoncé profile,” Landry said.
The publicist swiped her wrist against a wall panel that then glowed green. The elevator door opened.
“I heard she hated it,” Landry said, stepping inside.
“Not her,” the publicist said. “But at that level there’s … opinions involved. You know.” Landry nodded.
As the elevator door closed, a screen began playing an ad for destination funerals in Hawaii. Landry muted the sound.
“Not a fan?” she asked.
“Just not for me.”
“Hey, after the album launches, I get to have a normal life again. You want to have dinner sometime?” she asked.
“I’d love to, but I can’t.”
“I haven’t said a day yet.”
“Right. Sorry. It’s … I mean I can’t really —”
“You have a girlfriend.”
“No.”
“You’re into guys?”
“No.”
The elevator door opened. As she stepped out, she turned to Landry and smiled. “My mistake. I thought you were interested.” She walked away confidently as the doors closed.
“I am,” Landry said.
On the ground floor, the elevator opened once again, and Landry stepped out into a warm spring afternoon. It seemed as if the city had collectively shed its skin, emerging from a winter hibernation. The Citi Bike stalls were empty, a sidewalk cafe seemed to be filled exclusively with smiling couples, and a group of preschoolers exited Central Park unencumbered by down coats and clunky boots.
It was days like this that used to make Landry wonder. Wonder if that same feeling of revitalization and promise existed before the vaccine, when people got old, got sick. Did the uncertainty of death — when and how it would arrive — make days like this one easier or more difficult to appreciate?
As Landry turned to cross Sixth Avenue, an elderly man riding a unicycle and texting veered into his path. Looking up at the last moment, the old man, wearing a checkered flannel shirt and Dockers, avoided Landry, but not the mailbox. He fell in a heap. Landry and a passer-by rushed over to help.
“Are you O.K.?” the passer-by asked.
The old man popped up spryly. “I’m fine,” he said.
Landry handed the old man his phone, which now had a spider crack along the length of the screen.
“Dammit,” the old man said. “I mean, thank you.”
“My cousin fixes screens,” said the passer-by. “But with a skin-job like that, you can probably swing a new phone.” He leaned in for a closer look. “It’s so realistic. Must have cost a fortune.”
“Not as much as you think, bro,” said the old man. “My fiancée and I did a cosmetic vacation in Thailand. Half the price you’d pay here.”
Though he wouldn’t have done it himself, even if he’d had the means, Landry understood the impulse behind skin-jobs. Before the vaccine, people had obsessed over looking younger, according to historians. It only made sense, Landry thought, that today, with a population of the perpetually young, an equally hefty profit could be had making people look old.
“Dude, that’s like art,” said the passer-by. “Be more careful next time. You’re wearing a Picasso.”
Landry entered his one-bedroom walk-up. He hung up his jacket on an otherwise empty coat rack, went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It contained an aluminum takeout container of Thai noodles and its plastic cylindrical counterpart with enough beef, basil and curry, Landry figured, to make things interesting. He spooned out the remains of each onto a plate and set it in the microwave. From the freezer he pulled out three pints of ice cream, each a different flavor, and arranged them on a serving tray. When the microwave beeped, he added the plate to the tray, carried everything to the living room and turned on the television. “The World Health Organization’s latest population projections have the sustainability impact factor remaining at level two,” the broadcaster said, “with the human footprint at just 38 percent. High Commissioner Thabo Jacob called this ‘continued good news for our planet.’”
Landry muted the sound. He opened his laptop and worked while eating dinner.
Several hours later, the ice cream pints empty, Landry clicked Send on an email to his editor and closed his laptop. He walked to his bedroom and opened the closet. Inside was a single suit, shirt and tie. He lingered a moment over the suit, then undressed, brushed his teeth and lay on his bed. He reached into his nightstand drawer and pulled out a letter, embossed with the seal of the U.S. government. It was the original, mailed to him on his 18th birthday.
Following a salutation and opening that every citizen could recite by heart, it read:
Wilson, Landry Kwame.
ID #325641685
Deathdate: April 16, 2020.
Landry set his bedside clock to countdown mode. It read 16 hours 30 minutes 43 seconds. He swiped his wrist to turn out the lights and went to sleep.
In the barbershop, the blades of the clippers gently buzzed as Landry got his shape-up. The regulars, tossing bon mots above the din of “Judge Judy," outnumbered the paying customers by three to one. On this afternoon, Lenny, a shop veteran, was talking about Early Times, and catching flack. “Laugh if you want,” he said, “but before they came up with the vaccine, we had elders to teach the young ones our history. Now you got kids out here thinking white folks invented the blues.”
“O.K., conspiracy brother,” the barber said. “You saying we were better off with high blood pressure? Diabetes? And what’s that thing with the toes … gout?”
“You just concentrate on that shape-up,” Lenny answered. “Or you’ll have him walking outta here looking like that bucktooth boy from ‘Fat Albert.’”
The barber sucked his teeth as he handed Landry a mirror. “How’s that?” he asked.
“That’s tight,” Landry said.
“What’s the occasion?” the barber asked, admiring Landry’s suit.
“Just wanted to change it up,” Landry said. He swiped his wrist across the sensor in the armrest. A very generous tip flashed on the barber’s screen.
“Blessings, brother,” the barber said. “See you next month?”
“As always,” Landry said.
Landry entered the Final Affairs Building, checked in at the intake counter and found a seat. When his number was called, he entered the interview room.
“Sit,” the agent said, without looking up from her computer.
Landry sat.
“Swipe.”
Landry swiped his wrist on the scanner. The agent scrolled through some pages on her screen, then looked Landry up and down.
“Any cosmetic alterations?” she asked.
“No,” said Landry.
“Do stripes make me look fat?” she asked.
“Uhhh …” Landry stammered.
“I’m joking. Relax. Boy, you should have seen the look on your face. Your deathday and you’re worried about a #MeToo demerit. Priceless. Now, just a couple of details to confirm.” She looked back at her screen. “Housing release is in order. Bank transfer is approved. Assets are all marked for donation, is that correct?”
“Yes,” Landry said.
“And your last date of employment was … yesterday?” she asked.
Landry nodded.
“Wow. You must have really loved your job,” she said.
“Just wanted to tie up some loose ends.”
“Suit yourself.” She smiled and waited.
“Oh, right,” Landry said, “because I’m wearing a … ”
“Exactly. Gotta keep it fun, I always say.” The agent tapped her screen. “I’ve authenticated your certificate. You should have the upload any second. Just provide your passcode to the funeral director and you’re all set.”
“Thank you,” Landry said.
Landry sat in the front row, the funeral program creased in his hand. Where is everybody? he wondered, looking around the room one last time. He rarely attended funeral parties himself these days, but now he regretted each time he’d offered his final thoughts to colleagues over Facebook and Twitter rather than in person. Today, he surmised, was karmic justice.
A clock was mounted on the wall, counting down to zero.
20 … 19.
Standing up, Landry straightened his tie and walked toward the open coffin. At the head of it stood a floral arrangement wrapped by a sash with his picture on it. That wasn’t his taste, but he’d let the salesman talk him into it just to move the process along. Using the stepladder, he climbed into the coffin, lay down, let out a long breath and closed his eyes. The wall clock counted down:
5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 … 0.
A moment later, a single flower petal floated down and landed on Landry’s chest.
A woman entered the room. Wearing costume pearls, a sequined dress and a Diana Ross and the Supremes-era beehive hairdo, she looked around, confused. She must have gotten the room number wrong. This certainly wasn’t the Best of Motown funeral the modeling agency had booked her for. As she turned to leave, Landry’s nose twitched.
“Achoo!”
The woman shrieked. Landry opened his eyes, sat up and saw the stranger staring at him, slack-jawed.
“Umm, this is awkward,” he said.
“Yeah. It is.”
“My name is Landry.”
“O.K. … Femi. I’m Femi.”
“Look, I don’t know how this happened,” Landry said as he stepped out of the coffin.
“No. Stop!” Femi said. “Is this one of those prank shows?” She eyed the floral arrangement. “Is there a camera hidden in there?”
“It’s not a prank. I don’t know what it is. But I do know that I’m supposed to be — ” For the first time, he couldn’t bring himself to say the word.
Femi looked at him suspiciously.
“Honest. I would never … maybe it’s a timing error,” he said, pointing to the wall clock, which now read minus 90 seconds. “They say it’s 100 percent accurate, but nothing’s 100 percent, right? Maybe it’s just a few minutes off.”
Femi looked around the empty room. “So where is everybody, then?” she asked.
Landry slumped his shoulders and sighed. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Femi said. “The clock must be off. You should get back inside. You know, before. …” Her voice trailed off. Landry walked back toward the coffin. “I’ll stay here until then,” she said.
Two hours passed. Landry sat on the stepladder with his head in his hands.
“How does it feel?” she asked.
Landry looked up at her. “I’m 58. I’ve spent nearly all of those years making decisions based on not being here right now. What if this isn’t some temporary glitch? What if this isn’t my time to …?” Landry had never been uncomfortable with the concept of death before. Quite the opposite. Its pending arrival, calculated to the second, gave him comfort and purpose, a gauge by which to measure progress, ambition.
“I know this sounds weird,” said Femi. “But what if it isn’t your time? It’s kind of exciting.”
“Are you serious?” Landry said. “It’s absolutely terrifying.”
“Look around,” she said, waving her hand across the empty room. “You just said you’ve spent your whole life planning around this. We all do. It’s what we’ve done for as long as anyone can remember. But now, you’re free.”
“Free?”
“How many times in your life have you wanted to do something, say something and thought, ‘What’s the point, it doesn’t matter?’” she asked. “Well now, for you, everything matters. You get to shape your future.”
“How? My apartment’s been released, I’ve got no money.” He swiped his wrist at the light panel. Nothing happened. “And my chip’s been deactivated. What if a Safety Camera A.I.’s me as undocumented? Don’t you see? I don’t exist anymore. I don’t know what to do. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do.”
It was nearly imperceptible at first, but as Landry stared at Femi, her form seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer, vanishing in front of him, until the only part of her he could see clearly was her arm, outstretched toward his.
“Come with me,” she said, taking his hand in hers.
Roberta was standing in front of the house when Donald pulled into the driveway.
“Hey, baby,” Donald said, coming around to open the passenger door. “You should be inside resting.”
“I’ve been resting all morning. I made some coffee,” she said, sliding a silver thermos across the seat. “You must be tired.”
“Not enough to give up that night shift money,” he said as he backed out into the street. “How are you doing?”
“Good. I had a really strange dream. About our son,” she said, rubbing her stomach as they headed down Clermont Ave. “He was all grown up. I wasn’t even in the dream. Nobody I knew was in it. But I sensed somehow that he was my child.”
“That is odd,” he said, turning left onto Moravia Boulevard. “What happened?”
“Well, it’s all gotten pretty hazy since I woke up, but somehow on his deathday he didn’t die.”
“That’s what you get for watching that ‘Twilight Zone’ show,” he said.
“It all felt like déjà vu. Like I was watching something that had already happened, or that’s already going to happen.”
“I don’t know why they put stuff like that on the air. Just frightens people,” he said, as they pulled into the parking lot.
They entered the clinic and took a seat. Soon, they were led into the examination room.
The doctor smiled. “How are we feeling today?”
Amadou Diallo is a writer in Brooklyn. This story is adapted from an original television pilot.
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