LifeHack Inc.

[REALTIME: OCTOBER 4, 2024. NEW YORK, NY.]

In seven years of working as a Dupe Curator for LifeHack, the world’s largest media marketing agency dealing exclusively in the alternate timeline clout chasing trend, I’ve never felt the need to freelance. I already make more than I’ll ever spend in the fleeting moments between work and sleep, but like most artists, I am a slave to my own ego. So when a woman calling herself Mrs. Marley requested an in-person meeting with the “genius behind Lily Prefontaine” to talk about a freelance job, I couldn’t resist. Even if it meant standing in the rain at an abandoned open-air cafe in Central Park. Like a fool, I didn’t check the weather before I left my place, so when Mrs. Marley arrives, dressed like a mourning mother in a music video funeral, I’m soaked to the bone.

“Luther Cormorant,” she says, offering me an umbrella. 

“You must be Mrs. Marley. Thanks. How’d you know I’d need an umbrella?”

“I’ve come to understand that people in your line of work are meticulous about the lives of their clients but are terribly neglectful of their own.”

I want to defend myself, but then I realize that I can’t remember the last time I showered. 

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Luther. You’re a hard person to find.”

“I value my privacy.”

“I noticed. I couldn’t even find your Vicarious account.”

 I don’t have one.”

“A curator without a Vicarious account? How old-fashioned. But who am I to judge? I deleted mine years ago.”

“You don’t have a Vicarious account? Why do you want to hire me then?”

“You are the person responsible for Lily Prefontaine’s metoric rise, yes?”

[TIMELINE 827494: JULY 14, 2017. TROY, NY. ]

“You’re a time traveler.” 

“Professionally, yes.”

The cafe is mostly empty. Heart’s “Crazy On You” plays on a refurbished record player. Outside, an old man chases a windblown plastic bag filled with coupons down the street. The woman sitting with me is staring over the lip of her mug, a smile playing at the corners of her dark brown eyes. Five minutes ago she sat down and asked if we’d met before. Her name is Mariah, but she won’t tell me that until she gets up to leave.

This is the twenty-third time we’ve met for the first time.

“Interesting.” She drags out each syllable until the word is big enough to illustrate her skepticism. “And what is it you do? As a professional time traveler, I mean. And don’t tell me you just get people tomorrow’s lotto numbers.”

“It’s worse than that. I get people last week's lotto numbers.” She shakes her head, like she’s disappointed in me, like we’ve known each other for more than fifteen minutes. “Sorry, bad joke. My real job is in social media. I’m a ‘dupe curator’.”

“Did you say dupe? What’s a dupe?”

“Dupe is short for ‘duplicate’. It’s slang for people who live in other timelines. I’m hired by clients to change the lives of their dupes.” 

“Okay, I’m not saying I believe any of what you’re saying, but now I’m interested.” She shifts in her seat so she can lean forward. A single black curl dislodges from the loose bun on top of her head and falls to one side of her face. The asymmetry of it somehow makes her more beautiful. “Tell me more. But I have to warn you—I’m easily bored. No pressure.”

The face she makes is meant to convey she means business, but the playfulness never leaves her features. It's always here, at this point in the conversation, that I think about what I said to Mrs. Crowley about destiny, and feel a stab of pain in my chest. When she raises her eyebrows expectantly I realize I’ve been staring. I clear my throat and put on a smile. 

“Do you follow Lily Prefontaine?”

[REALTIME: OCTOBER 4, 2024. NEW YORK, NY.]

Where were you when social media influencer Lily Prefontaine became the first person to surpass one billion followers on Vicarious? Were you watching the coverage at one of the nationwide viewing parties? Did you get to Times Square for the countdown? “Billion Day”, as it’s come to be known, was what we in the business call a “core memory”; a moment of such significance that it permanently alters the trajectory of a person’s life. Everyone has a collection of core memories that pulsate in their minds like dying stars; string a line between them, and you create the constellation of events that made them who they are today. Thanks to Lily Prefontaine’s unfathomably popular Vicarious account, every person on the web has the same flickering Billion Day star in the night skies of their minds.  

“Responsible for Lily Prefontaine? You’re giving me more credit than I deserve.” I have to raise my voice to a near shout to be heard over the rain drumming on our umbrellas. “What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Let’s just say I want to make sure I have the right guy.” 

“Mrs. Crowley, no disrespect, but if you know who I am then you know I’m good at what I do. The best, if I’m being frank.”

“So Lily’s success was easy.” 

“I didn’t say that. See, what most people don’t realize is that every timeline’s Lily Prefontaine is just as beautiful, just as ambitious, and just as willing to push the boundaries of good taste for attention. Any hack with a jumpdeck could mine her dupes for good content, but only a handful of us could create the kind of feed she needed to get to a billion.” 

“So what makes you better than everyone else?” 

“I’m meticulous, enormously creative, and I don’t have a conscience.”

“Being burdened with a conscience must be so prohibitive.”

“It is when you have to do the kinds of things I’ve had to do to unravel a person’s destiny.” 

[TIMELINE 827494: JULY 14, 2017. TROY, NY.]

“I need to eat something,” she says. She stands, pauses. “Don’t go anywhere.” 

I smile and nod. When she returns, she’s chewing on a muffin. “So you’re telling me,” she says, pausing for a moment to chew on the corner of a muffin, “that people use time travel to gain followers on social media?” 

“Social media clout-chasing is practically the American pastime, where I come from.” She doesn’t protest when I pinch off a piece of her muffin. “There is nothing more important in American culture than perpetuating impossible lifestyles on Vicarious.”

“Let’s say all of that is true. I still don’t understand what you do.”

I slide my chair closer to her so we can both face the couple sharing a table by the window. “Let’s say that the version of this woman from my timeline is my client. She says, ‘Make my dupe a famous actress.’ It’s my job to make that happen.” 

“How would you do that?” 

“Probably go back to when she was eight or nine and plant the acting bug in her then. Then I’d remove any blemishes on her timeline that might cause her to deviate from her path to acting greatness.” 

“Blemishes? Like what?”

“Well, that guy she’s with, for starters.” 

“Him? But they look so cute together.”

“Doesn’t matter to my client.”

“You know, it might be simpler if your client just took acting lessons.” 

“She could, if she had any interest in acting. She only wants the perception of her being an actress. She wants the clout that comes from posting images of herself accepting Academy Awards. I’m the one who brings her those images.”

“But people must know that it isn’t really her in those pictures.”

“Oh sure, but nobody cares. Where I’m from, perception is more important than reality.”

“Wild.” She studies my face for a moment. “You know, the way you talk, I almost believe you.” It is here where we just look at each other and neither of us says a thing, where the seconds slow until time seems to come to a standstill. It is this sensation of being outside of time, like it could last forever, that makes it my favorite part of the conversation. Then she lowers her voice and leans into me enough that I can smell her shampoo. “What if my dupe hired you to take me to Paris?” 

“That seems like something you could do without my help.”

“Wrong answer.” She leans away, crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m your client, you have to do what I say.” 

I can’t help but grin. “Okay, fine. First, I’d have to get you tomorrow’s lotto numbers.”

“Oh shut up.”

[REALTIME: OCTOBER 4, 2024. NEW YORK, NY.]

“A dupe curator who believes in destiny?” 

“I know how ridiculous it sounds, my whole career is built on manipulating the human experience. But I’ve seen it. Destiny. First day at LifeHack, actually. My trainer flipped us to a random timeline where we end up at a farmer’s market just as this guy proposes to his girlfriend. Right there next to an Amish farmer selling whoopie pies. My trainer points at the couple and says, ‘Let’s say that woman is our client, and her new fiance is the Blemish’.” 

“‘Blemish’ meaning an unwanted feature. Something to be removed.” She says this like it’s something sour she needs to spit out of her mouth. 

“Exactly. Most of the time, removing a Blemish is as simple as starting a well-timed conversation, or hitting the wrong button on an elevator. You know that little dance you do with someone when you both come around a corner and neither of you can figure out which direction to pass each other? I remove Blemishes all the time with that move. The slightest delay can alter a person’s entire life. But with this guy, no matter what I did, he always found his way back to that woman.”

“Destiny.”

“We end up back at the farmer’s market watching the proposal again, and the trainer says, ‘There’s always a solution, even if it means digging a dupe’s destiny out by its roots.”

“And in this case, how did you accomplish that?”

“We went back to a time before they met and pushed the guy in front of a subway train.”

“Oh.” She stops abruptly. We are standing on the edge of a pond. Across the pond is a pavilion where a wedding is taking place. She looks out in that direction, says nothing. 

“I know, it sounds barbaric. But the truth is, this job is a whole lot easier once you realize there are an infinite number of timelines out there, with infinite versions of you, me, that guy. Nothing matters except what the client wants.”

"What about the woman he proposed to? Doesn't matter to her?"

"Not really, on account of she never ended up meeting him. Plus, she's just a dupe. Who cares?"

Silence from Mrs. Crowley. Then, without looking at me, she says, “Have you ever been in love, Luther?” 

[TIMELINE 827494: JULY 14, 2017. TROY, NY.]

“So how did a professional time traveler end up in my favorite coffee shop?” 

“My newest client was very specific in her instructions. She wanted me to come to this specific timeline, to sit in this specific shop, and to drink a coffee.”

“That’s it?” 

I shrug, start to lift my mug, see that it’s empty and set it back down. I do this every time, as a matter of tradition at this point. The end is almost here. 

“Guess I’m off the clock.” We smile at each other. Around us the cafe has started to fill up with college kids as a band starts setting up in one corner of the room.

"Well," she stands, slowly, pushes in her chair. “I have to go home and watch tv with my dog. Maybe take pictures of her to post on Vicarious. Not as glamorous as what you're used to I'm sure.” 

“It sounds perfect.”

“It's a life." There's an awkward pause where she is looking for the next thing to say. "I’ll be here tomorrow night with a stack of lotto tickets. You know, if you find yourself with a little extra time on your hands.”

"I wouldn't miss it."

She smiles, leans forward and extends her hand. I take it in mine. It’s warm, rough in places; an artist’s hands. 

“My name is Mariah.”

“Luther.”

She lets go of my hand first. “It’s good to meet you, Luther.” 

[REALTIME: OCTOBER 4, 2024. NEW YORK, NY.]

“Excuse me?”

Mrs. Crowley lights a cigarette, takes a drag and blows the smoke out of the corner of her mouth. 

“You haven’t, it’s okay. I’ve never been in love, either. It’s the one thing all dupe curators have in common. Loneliness.” 

“Wait, what?” 

“Have you ever looked in on your own dupes, Luther?” 

“Hold on,” I say. A hundred thoughts ricochet around my head. 

“I did,” she continues, ignoring me. “Every one of my dupes was married, had a family, a nice house. The kinds of ordinary achievements that are meaningless to people like you and me. And yet, I became addicted to watching their feeds. Living vicariously through these other versions of me. It made me think, why was my fate different?” 

“What are you saying? Are you saying you work at LifeHack too?”

“Of course I do. You recruited me, in a way, when you pushed the man who would have been my husband in front of a subway train..” 

“W-what?” 

“Come on, Luther. You should be smart enough to put this together. LifeHack curates all of their curators to ensure they are getting the best possible recruits. You curated me, without even realizing what you were doing.”

I shake my head. “You can’t time travel within your own timeline.”

“An easy problem to circumvent if LifeHack exists in other timelines.” She smiles at me. “Oh you poor naive thing. You didn’t still think yours is the only timeline with time travel, did you?” 

The implications of what she is saying are almost too much to process. I suddenly feel exposed. 

“I need to sit down,” I say, dropping to the muddy grass on the bank of the pond, the umbrella I was carrying falling down to the water’s edge. Mrs. Crowley takes a last drag of her cigarette and tosses the butt into the pond. When I look up at her she is looking down at me with a mixture of contempt and pity. “I don’t believe you.”

“You will.” She reaches into her coat, pulls out two envelopes. “I hated you for a long time, Luther. For the life you took from me. Even after I learned that you were curated too, I still felt like I needed a kind of vengeance.” She looks back across the pond, to the pavilion and the wedding. “What could be more fitting than to reveal to you everything you never knew you lost?” 

She drops an envelope on the ground next to me. 

“What is this?” 

“Your destiny, pulled out by the roots, as you might say. Goodbye, Luther.”

She leaves me on the shore. The rain has slowed to a fine mist. From across the pond, I hear cheering. I open the envelope, and inside I find timeline coordinates; the address of a cafe in the town where I grew up; and the name of a woman who I will never meet in my own timeline.

[TIMELINE 827494: JULY 14, 2017. TROY, NY.]

Like most people of this age, I pass the time by staring down at the device in my lap. My jumpdeck has its own Vicarious monitoring feed, which allows me to track the social feeds from any timeline I wish. I scroll past countless versions of Mariah. In each photo, she looks radiant. In most of these images, she’s with a version of me.

In every timeline, our shared destinies take root in this cafe. Except this timeline, where my dupe enters the picture later, thanks to a ruptured appendix. But he finds his way to her, eventually. He always does. In the meantime, I get to experience the sliding doors moment I never got to have in my own timeline. A final gift from Mrs. Crowley.

A shadow falls across my screen, and I close the feed. 

“Excuse me,” Mariah says, a curious smile on her face. “But have we met before?” 

I smile up at her. “Not yet,” I say for the twenty-fourth time.

The cafe is mostly empty. The barista just put a record on the refurbished record player, and Heart’s “Magic Man” fills the space. Soon, an old man will chase a windblown plastic bag filled with coupons down the street.