Artificial Paradise

The flower shop looks out of place. Like it doesn’t belong—never belonged. It’s red-brick exterior and dingy windows have certainly seen better days. It’s once-black door now looks rusted and old, like it hasn’t been opened in years.

But the neon lights hanging over the roof say otherwise. OPEN is spelled out in yellow letters that flash intermittently.

I reach for the door handle and pause. Where are the other customers? Shouldn’t there be people lined up out the door, chatting with one another and admiring the sights and smells? Maybe I’m just too late. That has to be it. There should be other people here, right? In the Screens, that’s how these places are portrayed. They’re always brimming with people and full of life. Somebody must’ve forgotten to turn off the sign.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve come this far, I can’t go home now.

I grab the door handle and pull. To my surprise, the door opens with ease. A bright, warm light spills out, and I’m instantly hit with a smell I remember from long ago.

The smell of flowers. Of floral scents and earthy matter.

Only, these smell better than any artificial representation. These smell… organic. They’re real.

I can feel the anxiety bubbling up in my stomach. I know what it means and why it’s there. I’m afraid. Some small part of me knows I’m way outside my comfort zone here. The same part of me that wants to turn around and go home. The same part that’s telling me I made a huge mistake coming here; that I could be at home right now, plugged into and comfortable.

“Please… come in.” The voice says from within the confines of the flower shop.

I step through the door and let the inviting light wash over me.

“What can I… help you with?” The voice says.

I blink my eyes. The bright light is a stark contrast from the nighttime skies I traveled under. Standing behind the counter in front of me is a robot. It looks to be patiently waiting, like it has all the time in the world.

“You’re a robot,” I say.

“Yes. Of course I’m a robot. Did you… expect otherwise?” The robot’s metallic eyes bore into me as it speaks. It sounds both friendly and melancholic at the same time.

“No, I just thought…” I shake my head. What was I expecting? “I’m looking for a flower.”

The robot points to the many rows of flowers behind it. “We have… something for everyone.” There’s still a hint of sadness in the voice, but it’s being edged out by something else. Excitement? It’s hard to tell. “If you… tell me what you like… I can… help you pick.”

What I like? How should I know. Just getting here seemed insurmountable. The rows of flowers in front of me come in almost every style imaginable. They appear to be lined up by type and by color. The entire experience is overwhelming my senses. Where am I supposed to even start? How do I choose?

“I’m not sure what she’ll like,” I say.

“She?” The robot replies.

“My wife. She never leaves the apartment. Neither do I. But then I saw something from long ago. A man was getting his wife a flower for some occasion. And it struck me as something of importance.”

“I see. In that case… may I recommend… the white rose. It is… symbolic. I’m sure she will… love it.”

I look at the flower the robot is pointing at. It’s simple; elegant. Compared to some of the other flowers, with their large pedals and swirl of colors, it almost seems boring. And yet, there’s a certain beauty in that simplicity. I can’t help but feel entranced by it.

But I need to get this right. I need to look at all the options. I take a step back. The clock on the wall says I have five minutes until the shop closes. I have to pick correctly. Whatever I pick, it needs to be good enough to pull her away from the Screen. To get her out of the apartment.

But what if it’s not?

“I can… stay open longer. There is… no rush,” the robot says, as if reading my mind.

“I don’t want to make you do that,” I say.

“It is… fine. Besides, most of my flowers… wilt away and die. I would rather… they go to a good home.”

“They do?”

“Few customers these days. Can’t compete with…”

The words trail unspoken, but they don’t need to be said. The real world stopped competing with the Screens a long time ago. Nowadays people live as husks; as nothing more than a shell. Hooked up to the drip. They live in a fully digital, artificial world where they’re drip-fed content all day long. Nobody has to work, and all of their needs are taken care of.

It’s supposed to be paradise.

But those who try to escape the Screens get shunned by everyone else. Why would you ever want to leave such a place? They ask.

Without warning, a black ball of fur jumps from the shelf behind the robot and lands on the counter. The animals golden-green eyes lock on to me. Its expression is neutral, almost disinterested. And yet, I can tell that it’s watching me intently. Absorbing my every move.

I feel the familiar pang of anxiety bubble back up inside of me. “What is that?” I take a step backwards.

“That is… The Cat. He lives here.”

The Cat. On some visceral level, I feel a bond with the animal that I can’t explain. Part of me wants to reach out and touch it. To pet his sleek fur and scratch behind his ears. “What does he do here?”

“He is… my companion. There are… very few of his kind left alive.” The robot scratches the top of cat’s head, and the animal’s eyes close. “He knows… a lot about flowers. But he never discloses… his secrets.”

I return my attention to the flowers. This entire shop is beginning to feel overwhelming, and my head is hurting. I can’t remember the last time I was unplugged this long.

“I’ll take the white rose,” I say. “There’s something beautiful about it.”

“An excellent… choice,” the robot says.

As if on command, The Cat jumps over to the white rose and grabs the stem with his mouth. He drops the flower on the counter in front me. Then he steps back and sits down, taking the form of a darkened loaf of bread. A rumble comes from the animal.

“What is he doing?” I ask the robot.

“He is… purring. He enjoys tending the flowers. And… seeing customers.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“I will… give it to you for free. If you… make me a promise.”

“A promise?” To a robot?

“Promise me… you will come back… every week.”

“I don’t know if I can afford a new flower every week.”

“I will… give you one… for free. Every week.”

I can feel the robot’s gaze, as if this promise means the world to it. An intensity bubbles in the silence between us.

“I will do my best,” I say.

“That is… all I ask. It would mean…more than you know… to me and… The Cat.”

Part of me wants to stay. To spend time in this small slice of reality, where life consists of flowers, robots, and cats. It’s a stark contrast from the Screen, where content is flooded into the brain at breakneck speed. I grab the rose and leave.

Back outside the rain is coming down. A steady patter of white noise. I can’t remember the last time I felt rain hit me like this. It almost feels surreal. Even under the night skies, the entire city is lit up. A haze of neon floods the air. In the Screen, the city is always portrayed differently. There are people—families even—walking around, doing things. But this… this feels like a ghost town. There isn’t a soul in sight. I knew it was bad, but I never thought it was like this.

As I enter the apartment, my wife is in her usual spot. She’s stretched out across the couch with the Screen connected directly to her. Some call it the drip, because the dopamine drip never turns off. I prefer to call it death. When you see someone plugged in, they look almost dead. They don’t move, they don’t smile. They just sit, lifeless and still, while the sensory implants flood their brain with stimuli. Compared to real life, being connected to the Screen is like watching ten things at once. And all of those things are moving faster than normal.

I go over and tap my wife on the shoulder. “I got you something.”

I hold out the white rose. Under the dim, white light of the apartment, it doesn’t look the same. It doesn’t have the same sheen to it. Or maybe that’s because I’m not used to seeing organic things in here. Everything is metal and plastic.

“What is it?” my wife asks. She’s removing one of her ocular implants and looking at me with confusion.

“It’s a rose.”

Her expression changes. Annoyance? It’s hard to tell. “That’s… lovely. But what am I supposed to do with it?”

“You just admire it for what it is. I thought maybe we’d take a step back for once. Unplug. Maybe walk around the city, like we—”

“—Like we used to?” she interrupts. “I keep telling you, we’ve never done that. That was just a piece of content you watched. Something you saw in the drip. That wasn’t us, it wasn’t real. Why don’t you get plugged in and you can join me. You’re missing out on a lot of new episodes.”

“I’m okay.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

I put the rose on the table and lean back in the chair. There has to be more to life than this. Something real.

Something worth living for.