WRITING ON THE INSIDE OF MY EYELIDS
Stories
Artificial Intelligence as a Disease of the Heart
Patrick was always enamored of bicycles. This was the first story he attempted when he retired from the work force. It is preceded by a writing note about his personal experience as a cyclist and a journal extract written on completing the story.
Undated note
There is a unique quality about being a cyclist on a fine spring night. You move in almost complete silence – the little noises you make left behind in your wake. There is a feeling of invisibility as though your passage is a secret process marked by you and you alone and of interest to no other. What little exercise is required brings your body and senses alive and the pleasure of this existence is mingled with the feeling of curious vulnerability. I know no other moment when I have felt so transparent and so in touch with my surroundings, with the beauty and with the night.
Journal Excerpt
August 31, 2001
Today, I finished my first story. I feel a great many things. Disappointment, that it is completed, recognition of the need to move on, elation, that I actually did it, and sadness, because it will probably never be read by a very large audience and I will not become rich and famous as a consequence. Nevertheless, it was fun to do and gave me purpose and a reason to get up in the morning. As a mental health project, it succeeded in its goal, and I am thankful for that. It is entitled, "Artificial Intelligence as a Disease of the Heart."
Artificial Intelligence as a Disease of the Heart
As he walked into Olympia Cycle'n Ski, Andrew Blindly was a young man with a problem. Recently, he had made a visit to his doctor's office and that learned gentleman had given Andrew his first truly adult experience. The doctor had listened to the recitation of Andrew's most recent complaints. He had placed his stethoscope against Andrew's chest and thoroughly taken Andrew's pulse. He had examined the results of tests he had insisted Andrew have performed at a local hospital. He had paused and hummed and taken off his spectacles. Then, he had taken a deep breath and had looked Andrew squarely in the face and told Andrew that if he did not immediately begin an exercise and diet regime, Andrew would be dead of heart disease within five years.
… It was with the stride of a man bent on a mission from God (or more accurately on mission to keep from meeting God), therefore, that Andrew walked into Olympia Cycle'n Ski. Andrew approached a wall of hanging bicycles, replete in their high gloss paint and alternating gold and chrome parts, and Andrew felt much as Daniel must have felt upon entering the lions’ den. His trepidation vanished however upon spying a distinctive racing model festooned in red paint and emblazoned with the exotic logo "Paris." It hung separate and alone as if a thing apart and it spoke to Andrew of breeze and sunshine and excitement….
… Paris hung suspended and gleaming in oiled abandon without need of adornment or clutter or fenders. Paris was compact and sleek and built for speed and Andrew knew that, regardless of the cost, he must have her (him?). The bicycle shop staff attempted to dissuade him. It was not the cycle for a novice, they said. It was not built for city riding, they said. It was not the right bicycle for a man with a larger frame, they said. Andrew would have none of it. With careless indifference, he proffered his father's credit card with the caveat that they change that uncomfortable looking narrow seat for something more appropriate to his style of riding. Say, that wide one, for instance…
…"What?!" was the senior Blindly's hoarse cry. Had Andrew gone insane? His father's face turned a color which made Andrew wonder if heart disease was not a genetic problem throughout the family. Andrew's mother, as usual, came to his defense. "That's what bikes cost nowadays," she said. "I'm sure that he'll make good use of it..." and her voice held that note of finality which spoke more eloquently than any words could, it's better than the alternative. With that, the matter was sealed and all that was left for Andrew to do was eat his cottage cheese, celery and watermelon supper and promise to rise early and shine and put his new purchase to good use.
It was not exactly early, and Andrew did not exactly shine but he did rise, and did so with no more than a few pathetic grumblings. He munched stoically on a meager breakfast and made his weary way to the garage. He opened the door and looked at the alluring bike cautiously. He resolved that, today, they would do things differently. He went over to his father's workbench and took down a screwdriver and a pair of pliers. These he applied to the toe clips, rattrap and saddlebags of a CCM Super Cycle that his father had handed down to him ten years earlier. It had been ancient then and he had seldom if ever ridden it. The toe clips, he attached to Paris's pedals and the rattrap and saddlebags, he mounted above the rear wheel. Obviously, the parts were not compatible and the rattrap ended up tilted from left to right at an angle which made its utility questionable, but Andrew was imaginative and applied himself contentedly and vigorously. As he worked, he occupied himself with a fantasy that he was repairing his bike during the Tour de France, which he later went on to win. When he was finished, he put the heavy lock on the rattrap and secured it into place with a bungee cord. Then he decided to take Paris out for a little spin. Now that she was properly dressed, the only thing appropriate to do, he decided, was to show off his new love interest to his friends. With that in mind, he climbed aboard her and, the garage door yawning widely behind him, Andrew sailed forth blissfully in utter and complete ignorance….
… Tom and Jerry did not seem to (have the same sentiments) suffer from the same feelings. They stood before Paris like camels inspecting a Picasso. Well, if you have to, Jerry said. Tom just looked at it and scratched. Bicycles were obviously something with which they were only vaguely of familiar. They had exciting news of their own. Smartguys had gone six steps. Andrew was ecstatic. When had they run the test? That morning. Jerry had written fourteen lines while putting in an all-nighter, Castle and Norbert had done a successful pre-amp, so just for fun, Jerry had run it. By the time Tom got up, Norbert had spit out the printouts and they're sitting on Jerry's desk. Just dump the bike in back, Tom suggested. Andrew had Paris locked to the back fence in a heartbeat. They went inside bubbling excitedly about ballyhoos and cache.
Paris was disgusted. Not only did this unmitigated, ridiculous, pompous blowhard not know how to ride a bicycle or treat a bicycle, he couldn't even tell a male bike from a female one. Paris thought of himself as a considerate bike. Indeed, he thought of himself as a quite considerate bike. It behooved his Gallic ancestry to think so. But how could he tolerate anything more of this? The performance in the bicycle shop had been embarrassing, to be sure, but almost amusing like, for instance, shows on television. The ride to the idiot's home had been frightening for both of them, but Paris thought he had handled it well. It would have been impossible, Paris was certain, for even the densest human to mistake the signals Paris had given on that horrible night. The only proper course of action would have been to return Paris immediately to the bicycle shop, apologize profusely, and leave promptly - without a refund. But, instead, what had the idiot done? He had left Paris locked in a dark and dismal warehouse and risen the next morning to drape heavy tin trinkets over Paris as if Paris were some junk yard Christmas tree in need of scrap metal ornamentation. Then, the idiot had taken him out to show him off to the world! Paris had been paraded before the idiot's friends and described in a juvenile - and, frankly, completely inappropriate - fashion. But, to be abandoned so that the idiot could go inside and play with something called a computer? That was unforgivable! Well, no more. Paris would tolerate the situation no more. The trinkets were gone, even if Paris had to work at them forever! The trinkets would be gone and Paris would ride the highways and bi-ways, without help of Andrew or any man. The first thing to be done, he decided, was to remove that absurd seat. It was uncomfortable and ridiculous and, worst of all, it itched. He was considering how to proceed when he spied, through a crack in the fence, a much more magnificent adventure.
She lay on her back, reclining in the morning sun. It was obvious, there was nowhere that she needed to go. She just lay there, resplendent in her beauty and spinning her wheels. Paris took one look and swooned. She was neat and trim and pleasantly built with all the right accessories in all the right places. Everything was clearly top quality and it was love at first sight, or at least it was for him. He could only imagine what it would be like to have her slowly and, oh, so gently, slide herself atop him. He felt his spokes go weak and his seat post go hard. She was beyond him but it was spring and he was young and she was fine and it was beautiful. Oh sure, she was human, but what the hell, he’d always been a liberal sort of bike…
In the days that followed, Paris occupied himself outside while Andrew occupied himself within. From conversations Andrew had with Tom and Jerry, Paris learned that the three were collaborating on a computer program which, in their words, would revolutionize relations between humans and machines forever. According to them, when their program, Smartguys, was finished and released, the line between the two groups would blur forever. It was about at this time in their conversations when Paris would blur a bit, himself. They would continue without noticing and wave sheets of computer paper at each other which were covered with tiny strange symbols. Paris had no choice but to learn that their technique was to have their computers write the program for them. They had nicknamed their computers Castle and Norbert and, apparently, the two were engaged in some kind of conversation. All that Andrew and the others needed to do was refine the program until the two machines were capable of distinguishing between each other, like an actual human being. Dependent upon the success of the day, the three were annoying in either their elation or depression. Whatever the tenor of the discussion, the words "artificial intelligence," were in use a lot.
…It was inevitable that two such focused personalities as Andrew and Paris, with their own separate projects and agendas, would come to clash. For with the first successful testing of Smartguys, thoughts of perspiration and imperiled future respiration vanished from Andrew's head. Every morning he would dutifully rise early and, fortified by only a light breakfast, climb aboard Paris. In his backpack would be his mother's healthy, if somewhat skimpy, lunch. He would quell his misgivings over the value of two wheeled vehicular transportation, slip two or three heavy computer manuals into the saddlebags on the rattrap, and pedal over to Tom and Jerry's. Once there, he would sit all day before computer screens and eat the leftovers from Tom and Jerry's previous night's fast food binge. At the end of each day, he would return home perspiring profusely and be rewarded with a healthy and hearty meal.
Paris, by contrast, busied himself with more physical, but equally questionable, pursuits. While he was willing to acquiesce to their joint travels to The Home of the Girl Next Door, (for that was how he had come to think of Her), Paris did so only to spy on Her. Paris was thankful a wooden fence separated them, however, because his shame would have been unbearable if he had been forced to appear before Her in shackles and such absurd attire. The certainty of this conviction necessitated the removal of Andrew's unwanted accessorizing. So it was that during his forays into the realm of voyeurism, Paris acquired some success at unfastening Andrew's lock. The first time Andrew noticed that the duct tape holding the rattrap struts to the rear forks was frayed, he put it down to simple wear and tear. This sort of thing was to be expected in the life of an active cyclist. He was surprised somewhat, though, to find his repairs frayed again after two days, but he added more tape, as was required. This time, he made certain to do a thorough and complete job of it. He was astonished, therefore, when one week later as he dropped the lock and computer manuals into the saddlebags, the entire rattrap assembly fell off. No simple addition of more tape would repair this! Andrew was forced to ride home with saddlebags, lock, computer manuals and rattrap draped over him like some overburdened snail with the contents of his passage upon his back. Not only did this ensure that he was in peril of life and limb, it also made him late for supper.
With that first collapse of the rattrap, the battle between Andrew and Paris was formally joined. Each day, Andrew would rise and stride manfully into the garage. Once there, he would gird his loins with weaponry carefully selected for that day's combat. Duct tape, string, pliers, screwdrivers and bicycle parts of every shape and description were taken into the assault. On one horrific occasion, even Crazy Glue was put into effect, but Andrew determined it to have dangerous personal implications, following careful reflection during a visit to the Urgent Care Ward of the local hospital. The morning sortie completed, Andrew would drive his victory home by climbing atop Paris and bullying him over to Tom and Jerry's. Yet each afternoon, notwithstanding anything Andrew had used or anything Andrew had done, by the time Andrew rounded the house prepared to ride Paris home for the evening, the ground around Paris would be littered with bicycle parts and all Andrew's machinations would be for naught. Andrew would be forced to ride home once again draped about like a snail, in disgust, and in defeat.
As Andrew became ever more adept at his repairs to Paris's accessories, Paris became even more skilled at their removal. For, as anyone who has ever had to cope with the mechanical depredations of the maturing adolescent will tell you, it is much easier to take things apart than it is to put them back together. And Paris was definitely a maturing adolescent. As summer had progressed and temperatures had risen, The Girl Next Door had continued in her sunbathing. She was Paris's alone to spy upon and she had given him more motive to continue in his efforts than Smartguys had given Andrew to continue with his….
… Meanwhile, Andrew was having a miserable day. Tom and Jerry had met him at the door and their faces spoke eloquently of things he did not wish to hear. The test of the last night had not gone well. Castle and Norbert had talked for a seventh of a second and, if printed out, their conversation would have gone well over six hundred pages. Unfortunately, most of it consisted of inane riddles and even more inane answers. They sound like a couple of monkeys trying to swap recipes for making a banana, thought Andrew dejectedly. He studied the computer screen for the next three hours and then, suddenly, he knew it was over. For him, the project was over.,,
… Andrew wheeled the bicycle off the grass behind the house and onto the back lane. He felt an overwhelming need to get away and was at a loss for anything more to say. He placed one foot on the pedal nearest to him, and like the expert cyclist he had become, he threw his leg over the bike as he pushed the bike forward simultaneously. It was a perfect running start. He transferred his body weight onto his other leg to begin peddling and dropped onto his seat. It was the act of an instant and it looked magnificent. Unfortunately, his seat was no longer there.
The morning had been a miserable one for Paris as well. Despite his every effort, the lock remained immovable and he remained propped beside the fence. Since he had failed in that, he had consoled himself by applying his efforts to the bicycle seat. Why not? It was destined to come off eventually. He had succeeded in completely removing the two tiny bolts holding it in place but he had failed to remove the seat itself. Some type of friction between the seat and a pressure plate was keeping it attached but he was certain it would fall off with some sort of simple jarring. Unfortunately, he had never anticipated anything approaching the effectiveness of the full weight of Andrew's body.
Let us pause for a moment and silently commiserate on the sudden meeting of male sensitivity and seat post and crossbar and handlebars and sidewalk. Nothing need be reported here but that Andrew rediscovered his voice, albeit in a higher register. Nor let us fault him for the nature of his utterances or for his intent upon rising. For while he had escaped severe injury, he was not without insult or suffering or indignity.
…. The emotions of Tom and Jerry at this moment must be wondered at, as they moved so quickly from despair to desolation to shock to utter amazement. To see their friend, whom they had known always as the meekest and gentlest of souls, (well, c'mon let's be honest, probably the laziest of souls), to pick up his beloved bicycle and hurl it across the back lane? Then, to watch him lean it against the neighbor's garage and begin methodically kicking in the spokes? Such folly was madness and, probably, the result of too much exercise. Whatever the cause, their safest course of action was obviously one of studious non-interference. This was an activity, they felt, which fell well within their capabilities. The four made a curious tableau. It could have been frozen for all time, indicative as it was of striving and frustration and the perils of thwarted desire.
"Are you all right? I saw you fall from the house. Do you need help? What are you doing?" She stood there, The Girl Next Door, and her voice was warm and brave and curious and full of concern. Paris looked up from the ruins of his impending destruction and, had he been given a choice, he would have gladly chosen destruction over the picture which stood before him. For there it was for anyone, even someone without eyes, to see. Andrew stood before Her, in confusion and injury, and she stood before him, solicitous and radiant. It was as if Paris could see their future before him, working together to repair his shattered parts, buying him a new seat and rattrap and saddlebags, walking together with him on a moonlit night and when Andrew leaned over to brave that first kiss, Paris would be resting between them. It was too much and more than too much for the heart of any poor bike to bear. For the first time in his existence, Paris lost consciousness and he collapsed and crashed into the pavement at their feet.
So it came to pass, but not all as Paris had envisioned it. For The Girl Next Door knew bicycles and knew how to ride and taught Andrew much of those things he needed to learn. She would not tolerate such indignities as rattraps and saddlebags and insisted on fenders and helmets and bicycle shoes. She spoke to him of riding and exercise and bike care and although he never did learn how to tell a male bike from a female one, he was the better man for their conversations. He never did enjoy the sport however and, five years later, refused her suggestion that bicycles be the theme of their wedding ceremony. Which may have been for the best, given that Andrew Blindly never did remember to follow his doctor's advice, and the bicycle got the girl in the end.
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