Barry Berringer Kills Austin

Waiting for Joe Blogan to show up at the Austin Longevity Forum feels like its taking forever. Even without him, the Convention Center is buzzing with wealthy men who look like they have more money than time left. At my booth, selling $500 bottles of nutraceuticals is proving easier than unloading Buzz Lightyear toys at Disneyland–a job I regrettably have far too much experience with.

As I wait, a man with the smooth hairline of a $20,000 transplant approaches. His forehead is as flaccid as any network news anchor. Yep, Botox. Exactly the kind of lead I want to invest time on, so I launch into my pitch.

“The adaptogens in our LifeForce product hack your human biology, and keep your system convinced it’s 35 years old,” I say, while handing him a glossy brochure.

“How does it do that?” he asks, his tone skeptical but curious.

“BioLife has developed an adjunct that attaches to the end of your telomeres. Hacks your life cycle.” Everyone at this conference already knows what a telomere is. 

My phone buzzes on the table next to the stack of brochures. Its Mom. I let it ring. 

“Does it really work?” he flips through the brochure.

“Does it Work? Guess how old I am?” I ask, beaming.

“Hard to say….” 

“I’m 43. Living proof.” I subtracted a few years from my age. I’m twenty-three.

He looks me up and down, approvingly.

My phone starts buzzing again. “Sorry.” I groan and pick it up. “Yeah, Mom.” 

My new lead, who was about to make a purchase, shoots me a double take and walks off.

“When are you turning yourself in, Barry? In California.” Mom’s voice is permanently raspy, a tin can echo from a lifetime of smoking two packs a day. “They keep calling: And I don’t want to hear about another one of your get-rich-quick schemes.”  

“Sorry, Mom. That’s not happening this week. But it was nice of you to call.”

 “At least, be good out there. And remember, It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Sure, Mom. Gotta go, the pasta is boiling over.” 

I hang up and scan the crowd. Still no sign of Joe Blogan. 

Fine, I admit it. The attorney general in California has been hounding me to testify against BioLife’s owners, but I’m a nobody. As long as I don’t step foot in California, it’s really not my problem. Besides, BioLife pays out commissions, weekly.

I straighten up and pull my shoulders back. I’ll ask the next guy who stops by about his grip strength–it’s a trending topic in the longevity community. A weak grip, after all, means you're close to death.

Its ironic how Mom mentioned Valentine’s Day. A longevity convention isn’t exactly the most romantic setting, or the right place to find a cute date. You might think I’d make a joke about meeting an older woman here, but it appears that only men want to live forever. Women, it seems, have had enough of this world by the time they reach 65 and are content to let nature take its course.

By the end of the day, I’d sold enough LifeForce to fund a small island. Do I have an issue ripping off rich folks with our bogus products? Not really. I might game the system and the internet might say I’m a narcissist, but I’m not heartless. If a plant is wilting, I’ll water it. If a baby is crying, I’ll put a lollipop in its mouth. Damn. I even cried during that famous scene in Coco. I have a heart, and it’s beating.

After a full day pushing pills, pack up my booth, and realize I desperately need to blow off some steam. On my bucket list, there’s one thing left to do in Austin outside having a word with Joe Blogan. And that’s putting my name in the bucket.

I look up the address. 6th street. Only three blocks over. The people in the convention center might be loaded, but the streets of Austin are as rough as any big city in America. On the way to the Comedy Mothership, a homeless man calls out menacingly, “Spare a dollar?”

“Get a job, buddy,” I mutter, brushing past him.

At the club, I drop my name into the bucket for a chance of a minute of fame. An hour later, the show begins, and soon, a skinny producer tell me I’m next.

On stage, Tommy pulls a slip of paper out of a bucket. “Ladies and gentlemen, bucket pull number 7! Next up is Barry Berringer.”

I stand up. My heart is pounding.

“Give a round of applause for Barry Berringer,” Tommy says, his loud voice dripping with snark.

I take the stage and run through my material:

“Why do biologists look forward to causal Fridays? They’re allowed to wear genes to work.”

“Why do ants never get sick? Because they have anty bodies.”

“Why did the bacteria cross the microscope? To get to the other slide.”

“Biology is the only science where multiplication is the same thing as division.”

“Why do biologists like to eat yogurt? It makes them more cultured.”

“I failed marine biology. My grades were below C level.”

A bell rings, and my time is over. I hear a few boos from the crowd.

“That was incredible. Simple incredible.” Tommy says. “You really have a thing for biology, Barry”

The crowd laughs for the first time in what feels like hours.

"Let's cut out the science." Tommy says, “Tell me the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“I was kicked out of Berkeley for a Facebook post.”

“That must have sucked. More importantly, what was the Facebook post?”

“I’d rather not say. But it was something politically incorrect.”

The crowd snickers.

“Now we’re talking! So what does a guy like you do now, other than cocaine?”

“I’m in pharmaceutical sales.”

“Amazing. How did I know that? Hope your drugs are better than your comedy.

“It’s not like that, Tommy.” I say, about to explain I’m selling age prolonging nutraceuticals when he cuts me off.

“So we’re already on a first name basis?. Come see me after the show.”

My heart jumps. He spotted my comedy talent and wants to talk. “Ok, thanks–”

“Just joking. I already have a drug dealer.”

A security guy points his finger at me to get off the stage

My comedy career ends before it even begins. I shuffle offstage, ignored by the crowd, and leave the theater, feeling smaller than ever. 

I walk back to the La Quinta, and order the largest glass of beer they have on tap in the hotel lobby bar, and ponder life. An hour later, I see a woman glance at me. Unexpectedly, she walks over and introduces herself.

“Hey there,” she says, extending a hand. “Clara Westlake. I couldn’t help but notice you on stage. Barry…”

“Berringer.” I say, shaking her hand. 

“I dug the science jokes.”

“You did, really?”

“I studied Environmental Science at Davis.”

“Berkeley. Until, well, you heard…” I say.

“Shit happens., she says with a smile. “So, what are you in Austin for? The convention?”

“Yep.” Like being a vegan, nutraceuticals are a dull topic for anyone outside the community. “Selling supplements. How about you?”

“Forests.” She leans in as if she’s sharing a secret. “I’m selling forests. We’re developing sustainable technology. It’s all connected, you know. Health and the environment. You’re helping people live longer; we’re helping the world live longer.”  

“Interesting.”

“You should stop by my booth tomorrow,” she says, standing and gathering her belongings. “Booth B24.”

“Sure thing.”

Her eyes sparkle. She has something else to say. I wonder what it is.

“Barry? You do have the beginnings of a receding hairline. You should check out some of the products at the Convention.” She turns around and walks off.

The next day, I push thoughts of a receding hairline to the back of my mind and stroll confidently up to Booth B24.

I’m soon staring at a sign that reads, “Plant Your Legacy! Reforest the Kalahari–sponsored by The Green Horizon Trust.”

Clara spots me, and before long I’m signing up for my $200 Lifetime Legacy. My name will be on a tree in the Kalahari forever. I’m feeling like I’ve actually made a positive impact. Who would have guessed?

Over the next few days, we talk. Clara is brilliant, funny, and just the right amount of cynical. We meet for coffee, then drinks, then dinner. She tells me about her NGO’s groundbreaking projects, and I tell her about BioLife’s cutting-edge research.

One night, after too many margaritas, we end up on the rooftop of our hotel. The Austin skyline glitters in the distance, and the air is heavy with the scent of rain.

“What’s your favorite movie?” she asks.

“Coco.” I say out of habit. “The scene with the grandma reminds me of when mine passed.” I tear up, just a bit. I wish I had given a genuine answer. But then again, The Joker is my favorite film might not be the right foot to step forward with.

Clara squeals. “Me too!” Then, suddenly, her face changes. “Actually, I hate that movie. I feel like I’m just selling all the time. Saying what people want to hear.”

“I didn’t even know why I said that movie, either.” 

“We spend all day selling hope, but what about us?”  

I look at her, really look into her, and see the cracks in her facade. The doubt. The guilt. The fear. And I realize she probably sees the same in me.

“I’m not really an expert.” The words tumble out before I could stop them. “Lifeforce is a scam. The powders are mostly corn starch.”

She laughs. “Not a dollar in our Legacy Fund goes to anything green, except for our salaries “

“What about reforesting the Kalahari?”

“The only trees we plant are in our owner’s rose garden in Sausalito.”

I laugh. Two sharks circling each other, finally dropping the act.

“Anything else I need to know about you?” she asks.

“Just that I need to stay out of California.”

She winks. ”Me too.”

I’m about to ask her why, then realize I don’t need to know, I raise my glass. “To greener horizons”

“To greener horizons.”

The next week, I call my mom and tell her I think I’ve met someone special. I leave out some unnecessary details about her job. My other relatives have told me Mom wasn’t an angel either when she met dad.

***

A year later, after the last day of the 2026 Longevity Convention, we stand on stage together. 

I read my line, “With this ring, I thee wed. In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, till death do us part.”

She repeats the same words, her eyes locked on mine. “Till death do us part.”

You know what happens next.