The Measure(63)

“If I could go back to March, maybe I would tell myself not to look,” Johnson said. “Maybe I would tell everyone not to look. But we can’t go back. We have to accept that these strings are a part of life. But we don’t have to accept what’s happening now. I hear stories of people losing their jobs, losing health coverage, losing loans, all because of their strings. And I’m not willing to simply toe the party line and keep quiet. I see what Congressman Rollins and our current administration are doing—forcing members of certain professions to look at their strings when they had chosen not to, questioning people’s ability to serve their country, and treating people differently based on a mere accident of fate. But I believe in the freedom of choice. I believe in equality. The civil rights activists and women’s rights activists and gay rights activists have all been fighting this fight for generations. And while those of us with short strings may not measure as large in number as those communities, we are not insignificant. And we will not stop fighting, either.”





Maura




It was nine p.m., and Maura was alone. The candidates had finished their closing statements and waved their way offstage, and Nina was staying late in her office to help with the debate coverage, so Maura reached for her phone.

Want to get a drink? she texted Ben.

By nine thirty, they were sitting behind the dark wooden bar in a quiet neighborhood joint.

Maura had arrived a few minutes late, sneaking up on Ben while he was doodling his own impression of the bar on a flimsy paper napkin.

“I forgot how good you are!” Maura smiled, examining his tiny sketch as if it were mounted in a gallery. Then she gestured at the bartender to bring her a beer.

“Do you really think Rollins has a short-stringer nephew?” Maura asked. “I wouldn’t put it past him to make something like that up.”

“Perhaps in a time before fact-checkers.” Ben laughed. “But not nowadays.”

“Well, at least the ACLU has filed a suit against his bullshit STAR Initiative, so maybe that’s a bright spot. Plus, Johnson’s still in the race. Though I can’t believe he was so hounded by rumors that he had to come out and say it, like a gay candidate being shoved out of the closet,” Maura said. “People are guessing that his string ends around age fifty, so he’s officially a ‘short-stringer’ now.”

Ben nodded slowly. “It’s weird, because I certainly wouldn’t wish for anyone to have a short string,” he said, “but I think maybe there was a part of me that hoped the rumors were true? That somebody up on that stage might be . . . one of us.”

Maura tucked her hands into the front pocket of her threadbare CBGB sweatshirt and tilted her head curiously. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Ben nearly coughed on his beer. “That’s quite a change of subject. Plus, I thought you were gay.” He smiled.

“And if I weren’t, then obviously I’d be interested,” Maura teased, “but it’s what you said. That Wes Johnson is ‘one of us.’ That’s a whole debate on its own, right? Whether people like us should be dating people who aren’t?”

“Well, actually, I was seeing someone, when the strings arrived. But we’re not together anymore.”

“What happened?”

Ben stared at the neck of his beer bottle, spinning it gently with two fingers. “She opened my box,” he said, the words steady and deliberate. “Before I had decided what I wanted to do. And then she broke up with me after she saw my short string.”

“Oh shit.” Maura was shocked. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks,” Ben said quietly.

“Why haven’t you talked about this with the group?” Maura asked.

“I guess I just wanted to move on with my life,” Ben said. “And I have, really. I’ve forgiven her for breaking up with me. I know that not everyone could stick it out in such challenging circumstances, so I can’t really be mad at her for that. But I guess now I’m worried that the next girl, and the next girl, still won’t be the right type, either. It’s probably why I haven’t even tried dating since the breakup.”

Even though she knew Ben’s string was longer than hers, Maura felt sorry for him, in this moment. All he wanted was for someone to say to him what Nina had said to her: I would never leave you.

Maura leaned back on her stool, feeling the chill of the beer bottle against her skin. A newspaper had been left on the seat next to hers, and she held it up for Ben.

“Did you see this?” Maura asked, pointing to the front-page headline.

It was yesterday’s lead story, tracking the proliferation of new “mind-uploading” companies, hoping to discover a means of scanning the human brain into a computer for perpetual preservation. Anything to satiate the spike in interest among short-stringers looking to extend their lives, in this generation or the next.

Ben scanned the page in Maura’s hands. “There’s never been more demand for this research,” one of the founders was quoted. “Before, very few of us knew when our time was limited, and now, of course, it’s possible to know. But, if we can find a technological solution, then perhaps the strings become irrelevant. We can offer an escape from the timeline dictated by the physical body, by your string.”