The Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

August 3^rd, 2046.

12:28 am.

There has been a girl at the bar, for some few nights in a row now. She sits at a stool closest to the furthest wall, drinks two gin and tonics very slowly, and talks to no-one. Exactly two hours after she arrives, she leaves as quietly as she came. She seems noticed by nobody.

I have only noticed myself, having started to work the later evening shift this past week. Many more interesting faces enter the bar later at night, when they say a ‘true humanity’ is revealed in all its glory. I don’t want to succumb to this cynicism.

There are always a few notable examples of this ‘true humanity’ every night, and as every night wears on the drunken haze of needless aggression and xenophobia unfitting of a social space becomes the predominant chemical in the atmosphere. It is the world’s most toxic self-fulfilling prophecy; I always think to myself. If you assume everyone will be hostile, then you will be too, if not just defensively.

By now, with all my musings, the girl is halfway through her second and final gin and tonic. I absentmindedly mix a rum and coke, neat, for a gentleman who has just come in, taken off his hat in a huff, and tapped twice on the table for service as businessmen often do in their distinctive way.

“What are you looking at?” The man says, waving a hand in front of my face. I break my gaze to the girl and look at the man.

“Sorry, sir.” I slide his drink to him, and manage a very quick glance at the monitor on the wall opposite me. It repeatedly blinks green in intervals of three seconds. “That’s nine pounds, thanks.” The man threw down a sequence of small change which I subsequently scooped off the counter into my hand, counted, and put into the till. I look back to the monitor, eyes fixed, until they simply blankly stare forwards. I imagine two green eyes, staring back into me.

The development of the algorithm which subsequently transformed all public policy and technological surveillance in 2024 was based on the economic model proposed most concisely by economist William A. Thornton, based on the work of thousands before him, from not just economists but people like Napoleon and Machiavelli. Purported to be the most ‘realistic’ perspective of human nature, able to conveniently be surmised in a mathematical formula which henceforth determines stock prices, market value, the amount of tax dollars the government should give to jails, to schools, to hospitals all based on the actions of a state’s citizens, and all based on one, all-too-simple human quality: selfishness. And hence, the self-fulfilling prophecy: if such an algorithm has been integrated into all the systems and facilities which an individual’s life depends on in any given society, one has no choice but to grow up believing in its validity. No good deed, even what may look like an act of altruism on the surface, can be accepted by the algorithm as truly benevolent. There is always an ulterior motive, and if none can be located, the dissenter must be eliminated. If everyone grows up believing that human nature is truly malevolent, and all human deeds self-serving, one will act in accordance to they will not be taken advantage of; in order, most succinctly, to survive and protect oneself against what one assumes will always be a hostile world. And thus, the cycle continues. Trust – if it was ever a real thing – cannot be developed.

But, looking once again at this girl, sitting at the end of the bar, something in me that has always pulled at me from time to time, tugs me once more. What worth has human life without the act of truly, selflessly giving love to another with no expectation of reciprocity?

But, most people – the majority of people who enter the bar, indeed – subscribe to the reality of dog-eat-dog – the dregs of public order are kept with the imposition of harsh fines for over-aggression, and the ever-present surveillance from the monitors in every bedroom, kitchen, bar, street, bus and bathroom. Nevertheless, people show their loyalty to the algorithm and the powers that be who own and control its effects in little aggressions, state-sanctioned in that they are less punished than acts of genuine kindness are. Throwing change on the counter, taking seats out from under one another, spilling drinks periodically, leaving without tipping.

But not this girl. She does nothing to suggest she has thought about these actions in one way or another, perhaps the closest one can come to being apolitical. She sits for two hours, drinks her gin and tonics, tips minimally, and makes eye contact with nobody.

3:58 am.

Our provided residences from the powers that be are not, by any means, drab. This is one of the aspects of society which they can point to and say, “look! Without our guidance, without the success and reliability of the algorithm, you would not be so fortunate.” The most notorious signal of our nation’s relative wealth and fortune is the presence of a fireplace in every home, and mine sits, unkept in these summer months, blackened with soot and ash from the bones of kindling which had been used through the last winter. Entering my home after my shift, I am transported back to a time which is usually more clouded with feelings than specific memories, as many childhood recollections are, but this time I recall certain stories my Mother told my eight-year-old self by a similar fireplace in my childhood home.

“This nation’s most profound history has been eradicated in recent years.” My Mother would tell me, in a period of time where the monitors in our home were only just being installed and thus not yet functional. “You’ll never hear this again. But you must know.” I listened intently. She looked at me with soft, warm eyes. “Your great, great-grandfather served in the first world war.”

“When was that?” I asked.

“Over a century ago.” She responded, then looked at the slightly paler rectangular-shaped wallpaper shade marked out for the imminently installed monitors. “Long before we had those. Many people now focus on how the great wars of the 20^th century are indicative of a deep evil and selfishness lurking within humanity. But what no-one tells you anymore – because it has been written out of the history books – is that so much light still shined in those dark places.”

“How do you know?”

“These are stories passed down generation to generation, never written, but conveyed by word of mouth.” Mother pressed two fingers to her lips and then touched them to my forehead. “My father told me this, and now I am going to tell you.

   “The Germans and the English fought against one another in the first world war. Your great, great-grandfather on the British side, of course. This war would be known as the ‘Great War’, the ‘War to end all wars’, though the soldiers fighting didn’t know their countries would be embroiled in another only twenty years after it had ended. But even though they’d been told by their superiors that this fighting, all this bloodshed was crucially necessary, their superiors were not always the ones firing the guns. On the battlefield, in the trenches, things were much different. It was no longer ‘following orders’, it was killing another human being.

   “And so, on some late nights in 1915, the British and the German soldiers would exchange secret notes about what were supposed to be secret attack plans the following day, to ensure as little life would be lost as possible and the supposed ‘enemy’ would have time to prepare for the onslaught. In this way, the foot soldiers of both sides could be seen to be obeying orders from their superiors on both sides, yet bloodshed was minimised.”

“Why did they do that when they could have gotten in so much trouble?”

 “My beautiful, smart boy.” Mother’s eyes glinted. “They had every reason in the world not to. But the occurrence of such events in history – and there are more than what I have just told you then – proves a marvellous point which you will hear from nobody else, perhaps ever again in your life. That true, real, altruism, with no self-gain and great risk, exists in human nature and manifests throughout history.” She leaned in and quieted. “The algorithm is wrong. Kindness, and goodness does exist. And not only does it exist, but humans are driven toward doing the right thing. I promise you this.”

She continued, “You must not tell anyone other than your own children, and the woman with whom you will decide to spend your life when the time comes. And you must be very careful that you are not monitored when you do so.”

“Why?”

“Because they –” she pointed up, towards nothing in particular it seemed to me, “– are always watching you. And they will do anything within their power to destroy these stories. Including punishing those who doubt the validity of the algorithm.”

“Why would you want to hide such a nice story?”

“Because there is no better way to control a population and ensure their loyalty than by preventing the development of meaningful collaboration between citizens, which could ultimately form groups that overpower the standing institutions of society.”

“I don’t get it.” The cogs in my brain whirred. There seemed too many intricate plots, too much unnecessary deception, too many secrets. And Mother, as always, was using too many big words.

“Think about it this way.” Mother said. “If you have no friends at school, who do you spend time with?”

“The teachers?”

“Exactly. But now imagine that the teachers are purposely sabotaging the relationships you could have with your peers, just so you’d spend time with them.”

“What does sab-o-ta-jing mean?”

Mother sighed, and smiled. “Maybe you are too young for this.” She said.

“No, I want to understand.” I said ardently.

“It’s okay.” She held me tighter and rested her head against mine. I could feel the calm, soft smile of her cheek press against me. “It’s okay. Just remember this one thing.” I pulled away to look up at her again. “They will twist anything good in this world to be a reason why humans are selfish and cruel.” She pointed ambiguously upward once more, and then leaned in. “Don’t let them fool you into believing that kindness isn’t real. Don’t let them fool you into cruelty, and bitterness. There is good in this world. It’s just not encouraged or cultivated in this world anymore. But it’s still there, in all of us.”

August 10^th, 2046.

12:15 am.

“So, here’s the thing,” I say, with a confidence borne of having little to lose, “I see you here all the time. And you never talk to anyone.”

The girl looks up, into my eyes for the very first time, and it seems to me as if I were looking into the eyes of a deer. But not a deer-in-the-headlights – more the eyes of a deer frolicking in long grass, who has looked upon you and realised you are not any kind of threat that a deer would be evolved to look out for. This softness in her large, eyes, reminds me of the softness in the eyes of my own mother all those years ago, contented by the heat of the fireplace and me in her arms. I shake off the association, surprised that she had been able to elicit such tender feelings in me with a single look.

“Or is it that no-one talks to me?” She asks, though not sourly in the least.

“I suppose today is your lucky day, then.” I say shakily, regretting the arrogance intimated in the words as soon as they had escaped me. But to my surprise, she laughs.

“Oh, yay. Bring me another gin and tonic, barkeep, and I’ll tell you about all of my problems.” She says light-heartedly. Matching her tone, I put on my best impression of The Princess Bride’s Westley, and the sides of her lips curl up in such a way that I have an intuitive understanding she’d gotten the reference. As I make her drink, I contemplate the algorithmic interpretation of my actions. I’d talk with her, make her a drink, not because I cared, but because I wanted a larger tip. Because I wanted her to sleep with me. Because it inflated my own impression of myself. Not because I cared. Never because I cared.

When I return with her drink, she tells me, “there’s a boy … it’s always about a boy, isn’t it?”

I bit my tongue and smiled out of obligation. “A boy, huh?”

“My boyfriend.” The girl said.

“Why have I never seen you here with him?”

“That’s just the thing. He says he will meet me here, every night, and then he never does. He lives in Middle Bay you see, it’s a long drive. And he never makes the time, I guess.” She says. “And I feel like such an idiot. From the first time I met him, I thought, I’m going to marry that boy.

For a moment I consider agreeing with her about his reckless, dismissive temperament, even though I knew nothing about the guy – ingrained self-censorship, assuming the worst, not to mention my own desires to take her mind off of her boyfriend and onto myself. But I take my tongue and chew it rather than express this. “What’s your name?”

“Mary.” She says softly.

“Okay. Mary.” I say, equally softly. And in that moment, as we held each other’s eyes, I knew there was something behind hers which matched the something behind mine. Like an invisible string which connected us, deeply, profoundly, in a way without words or expression. I could have enveloped her there, or crawled inside her and slept in her ribcage, and it wouldn’t have been enough. It would have given the feeling justice.

“Okay.” She said. She nodded. “Okay.” She stumbled out of her seat. “I should get going. It’s my pumpkin hour.” She didn’t break our mutual gaze. “What’s your name?”

“Eli.” I say.

“Okay. Eli. Thank you for coming over.”

“The pleasure was mine.”

She smiled and touched her earlobe, in the way women do when they want to appear embarrassed and reserved; smaller somehow. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah. Good night Mary.”

1:25 am.

A man enters the bar, looking scraggly and unkempt, looking urgently around. He approaches the front counter.

“Hey, you.” He taps his fingers on the countertop and makes eye contact with me. “Seen a girl in here recently, mid-length orange hair, freckles, about twenty-five, real pretty?”

“Uh, is her name Mary?” I ask.

“Yeah, Mary.”

“She left over an hour ago.” I tell him.

“God dammit.” The man says, sitting down on a barstool and momentarily resting his head in his hands. “Alright then, get me a bloody drink.”

“What’s your poison?”

“Scotch, neat.” I pour his drink and slide it to him, burning with curiosity and apprehension.

“How do you know Mary?” I finally ask.

“She’s my girlfriend.” At saying this, he sighs heavily.

“Ah, you’re the boyfriend who never shows up.” I say. At this, he sighs again, and then looks up with narrowed eyes.

“Why’s it any of your business anyway?” He says aggressively. His expression softens as he swallows the last gulp of his scotch. “I’ve been trying. I just can’t ever bring myself to come, even though, my god, I miss her so much.”

“Right, you live in Middle Bay, yes?”

“Jesus Christ, she give you my social security too?”

I put my hands up defensively, as if being threatened with a gun. “We had, like, a two-minute conversation.” And with that, I paused. “So why haven’t you come?”

The man exhales. “I’m going to propose. Well, I was anyway. I just can’t ever get up the courage to come in – and of course, the one night I do, she leaves before I get here. Maybe she doesn’t want me after all. She never calls me anymore. I’m so scared I’m losing her.”

And thus, I realise I’m in an unenviable position. The better part of me wants to encourage this clear miscommunication. But instead, I say, “She’s been in here every night for the past two weeks, and that’s only while I’ve been working this shift.” I say. I rest my elbows on the countertop. “She loves you. She waits here for two hours every night. She wants to marry you, she told me.”

And then, only then after the words escape my lips, I realise what I’ve just done.

4:06 am.

I know what I have done. I know there is no explanation for it now. I know I’ll soon be gone.

Because that’s what they do. They monitor every human interaction, every exchange. And then they eliminate anyone who has committed an act which cannot be explained away by the algorithm. This is what their core function is, though never expressed to the population as such: they eliminate any semblance of genuine good.

I run over the words in my mind, trying to find a loophole. But there is none. Nothing I had said to the girl’s boyfriend had been self-serving. It made me feel terrible, my stomach still aches. If only I had some reason – did it make me feel like a good person? Did it give me some self-satisfaction? No, not really. I wanted her. I wanted her to myself. Why did I do that?

As I lie in bed, I know the end is coming. I can hear the distant whirring slowly come into earshot. I know the end is coming. I lie and wait, and close my eyes, and think of her face.