The Readers' Club

The Invitation

It was buttery smooth to the touch. Thick. Substantial. The sender spared no expense. The envelope was not addressed to me, Tommy Branson. It must have been meant for the apartment's former tenant, Andy Semple. But there was something about the envelope that begged me to open it, to see what was inside.

The content of the envelope was a single piece of card stock, but calling it card stock shortchanges it. The card stock had the same buttery smooth feel as the envelope. The edges came to sharp corners, and the words printed on the card were raised just a bit. I knew this was engraved, and I wondered who did the printing and how hard would it be to get the phone number of the printer. These invitations were next level in terms of quality. I liked the idea that someone out there wanted to support the preservation of traditional printing methods.

The invitation, addressed to one 'Andy Semple,' said:

You are invited to the Readers' Club.

Bring whatever you are currently reading or one of your works in progress.

The invitation concluded with a time, date, and location. There was just something seductive about the invitation. I decided, fingering the edge of the crisp card, I would go to the meeting. How could they know anything about me...or Andy, for that matter? They didn't even have his new address.

The Pawn Shop

I arrived at 6:30pm on the dot. As lovely as the invitation was, as seductive as it felt to hold it in my hands, the location of the Readers' Club was a tremendous letdown.

I had made my way across town to a seedier area and was happy my car was a 17-year old Toyota. It was nothing anyone would want to steal with its pock-marked hood, a souvenir from a hailstorm, and its dented doors (people are dicks when they ding your door in a parking garage, thinking you'll never notice the little indentation that wasn't there when you parked two hours earlier).

The Readers' Club met in the back office of a pawn shop. To gain admittance, I had to bring the invitation with me. There was nothing noteworthy about the storefront, a tired-looking facade, the name of the pawn shop painted on the grime-covered glass, showcasing some of the odds and ends available for purchase. I saw a Mr. Peanut doll, just like the one I used to play with when I visited my grandparents' house when I was little. If this Readers' Club were a sham, I would purchase Mr. Peanut before I made the trek back to my apartment.

Brandishing the invitation, I entered the pawn shop and found a young man working behind a glass case. The tiny brass bell tinkled as I walked through the door, and the young man looked up, smiling at me. He had crystal clear blue eyes, the corners of his eyelids crinkled with his bright smile. He was sunshine.

"May I help you?" he asked.

"I'm here for the Readers' Club," I answered, holding the invitation.

"Ah. You must be Andy Semple. You're new to the group," he said. He pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket, and he eased a brand new shiny brass key off the ring, holding it up in front of him. "This key is for you. It only works on meeting dates. We change the key core on the door just before and right after the Readers' Club meets. Do not lose the key. If you lose it, you will not receive another, and your membership will come to an immediate end."

The young man looked at me strangely. "You look very real. Do you mind if I touch your face?"

"Uh, sure. I didn't shave today or anything, so I may be a little scruffier than usual, but sure," I answered. Of course I was real. I was standing right here in a pawn shop, and I knew I wasn't asleep and dreaming.

After the young proprietor touched my face, his eyes seemed to reflect a bit of fear. "Wow. Those guys at DaVinciCo are getting better and better," he said in awe.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said.

"Oh, shoot. My bad. Of course you don't know. This is your first meeting. You'll learn everything tonight," he said. He buzzed me past the display cases and pointed toward the door.

My key fit in the lock, and I gave the key a gentle turn to the right and felt the tumblers in the lock fall into place, and the door opened.

The Readers' Club

The back office confounded me entirely. It was completely incongruous with the store's facade and showroom. The back office looked like it was decorated by the set designer from the show, "I Dream of Jeannie." The office walls featured satin-covered banquettes, and the room seemed to be curved. The floor was covered in what looked like fleece, and satin-covered throw pillows and body pillows littered every horizontal surface in the space. I opted to take a seat on one of the banquettes, choosing a spot close to the door--just in case I felt I would need to make a hasty exit.

I looked around to see if anyone else had arrived and had been swallowed up by the pillows, and I jumped when I heard someone behind me say, "Hello. You're right on time!"

I turned around to see a young woman in her late-twenties. She held her hand out me, and I shook her hand. "You startled me," I said. "I'm Andy Semple."

"Of course you are," she said, grinning widely. She extended her hand, "Hi. I'm Renee. Did you bring what you're reading or a work in progress?"

"I did," I answered. "My mom has been on my case about my manners. I've been working my way through "Emily Post's Etiquette." I showed her the book I'd been reading. "It's interesting, but not terribly enthralling, and every time I sit down to read, I keep thinking, 'I've been doing everything all wrong my entire life. I'm bumbling through life daily.'"

"Andy, I'm sure that most people aren't even aware of Emily Post or etiquette. I'm certain if we picked any certain rule of etiquette from the book, why, most people would be unaware of it or ignore the rule altogether." We stood there, and I felt awkward, and I surmised from her disposition I was deterring her from something important, like clipping her toenails. "Please, help yourself to a drink and refreshments. The others should be here soon."

I wandered around, examining some of the artwork and photos on the walls. From somewhere behind me, I heard someone say, "Yay! Looks like we might have a full house." It was another woman, and she held hands with a man. They looked to be about the same age, maybe mid-thirties. She was slender with long brown hair, and where she was long and lean, the man was short and squat.

"We're Bennie and Bonnie," said the man. Bonnie smiled, draping herself over Bennie's shoulders. Renee stopped by the three of us to see how we were getting along. We nodded. It wasn't that we weren't getting along, but we had only just introduced ourselves.

After finishing my drink, Bonnie asked if she could take my glass. "Sure," I answered. "That would be great."

"Oh, Andy Semple, we've been so looking forward to meeting you. You have no idea," she said, putting my glass into her handbag.

Bennie said, "She's big on souvenirs. You have a stray hair. Let me fix that for you." He reached for my head and patted the rogue hair into place. "Well, it looks like that hair has a mind of its own. I'm going to take one more pass, okay?"

"Sure," I said. "Maybe I should just go to the bathroom and wet my hair."

"Not necessary," Bennie said. He gave the hair a small tug, which left a little sting on my scalp. He looked me square in the face, holding my head steady, looking closely at the symmetry of my hair or face or something. Bennie leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead.

The kiss surprised me, and I jumped back a little. Bonnie then leaned in, too, and she also kissed my forehead. "Thank you," Bonnie said, and Bennie nodded in agreement. I hadn't been indoctrinated to the practice of giving and receiving kisses on the forehead, and I hadn't seen anything addressing the practice in the Emily Post book. I would have to do a deeper dive.

The Meeting

More people entered the meeting space, and eventually there were 10 of us. Before long, discussion began. A tall, broad man with a movie star face, teeth glinting in the dim light of the room, took the floor. His name was Josh.

Josh said, "Let's start with what everyone has been reading." Each person around the room named what they'd read since the previous meeting.

Titles of note:

· Soylent Green, the screenplay

· Silence of the Lambs

· Monster, The Story of Jeffrey Dahmer

· Human Cloning: Playing God or Scientific Progress?

· The Cannibal's Cookbook

· Never Let Me Go

It really was a strange reading list. My book was a definite disappointment compared to the eclectic range of topics of everyone else's reading materials.

It seemed everyone was interested in cloning, killing, and cannibalism (oh, and cooking, too).They were a very alliterative group. The guy from the from the front of the store had also entered the room, Bobby Joe. After all the literary discussion, Bobby Joe brought up DaVinciCo.

"Has everyone had a chance to meet Andy?" he asked. Most everyone nodded they had met me. "Did anyone happen to touch Andy?" Bonnie, Bennie, Bobby Joe, and Renee all raised their hands. I wanted to pretend I was in church and exchange the peace, then everyone could touch me. I don't know why this was such a big deal in the group, but I figured there'd be nothing wrong with getting the weird touchy/feely thing out of the way. I went from person to person offering a hand and shaking each person's hands. Sometimes they would draw me into a hug, and sometimes, I'd get the double cheek kiss, but Bennie and Bonnie were the only ones who kissed me on the forehead.

DaVinciCo

Josh went on, "Has anyone learned anything new from DaVinciCo since we met last?"

Bonnie said, "They are definitely in production now. It's undeniable, and look at the strides they've made." Bonnie pointed at me.

"I'm sorry. What is DaVinciCo, and am I supposed to know something about them?" I asked.

Josh put his arm around my shoulders and said, "Ah, Andy. This may be difficult to hear, but DaVinciCo has been developing a synthetic human protocol, and we recently learned that Andy Semple, you were placed in the community to live, work, integrate, and learn. We don't have all the details; however, we would like to study you."

"You would?" I asked. "In what way would you like to study me, uh, Andy Semple?"

Renee said, "First, let's clear the air. We know you aren't Andy Semple. We know you are Tommy Branson. We also know you have a few childhood memories, but if asked about what you've been doing for the past 10-15 years, you have nothing new to share. One of the things we know about synthetics, the newer ones anyway, is that they all seem to carry the same early memories and in the thirst for knowledge, the synthetics are a bit impulsive."

Josh picked up where Renee left off, "We knew when we sent you the invitation addressed for someone else your curiosity would be piqued. We knew you would come to the meeting. Relax. We know exactly who you are."

Bobby Joe said, "You are a diverted synthetic from DaVinciCo, and your handlers only know that you're in a pawn shop. They don't know about the Readers' Club or the invitation Andy Semple received."

Renee asked, "You know about the cloning program to address the world food shortage. Need more beef, pork, chicken, lamb, venison? No problem. We'll find the best specimen and take some DNA and make more food through cloning livestock." I nodded. Everyone knew about the worldwide food shortage

Bennie said, "The program expanded to enhancing the military, but humans are tough to control, and cloning a human doesn't produce an adult. Clones begin as babies and have to be stimulated, raised, and educated. With the rise of artificial intelligence and creation of synthetic skin and organs, cloning humans became outmoded, and there were all kinds of issues with right to life, right to death and everything in between—a lot of moral and ethical issues. Synthetics aren't human, continuously learn and, theoretically, never develop a soul."

Bonnie explained, "The synthetics are algorithm-driven and kept in a controlled environment where they, well, you were fed memories. Not a lot of memories, but enough to get along in society until you acquire more life and human experience. The early synthetics aren't trained for military deployment. They are the test of ambulatory artificial intelligence. How the primary test subjects perform will determine further uses for the synthetics. "

Bobby Joe said, "I noticed you eyeing the Mr. Peanut doll. That's one of the common memories embedded in the synthetics, and when I saw you looking at the doll, I knew right away you were a synthetic."

"Hold up," I said. "You're telling me I'm not who I think I am? You're telling me I'm not Tommy Branson?"

They all nodded. "At DaVinciCo, there are 15 other guys there who look just like you. However, you've never seen any of them because you're all separated, and you aren't activated until you're needed."

"What?" I exclaimed. "No! That can't be!"

"It's true," Bonnie said. "Totally true."

"Why didn't you just approach me at work or something?" I asked.

"There are people watching you, Tommy. A lot of people. We needed you to come to us in an inconspicuous way," Josh said. "We need you to go back to DaVinciCo. Do what you've been doing, but observe and report back to us. Can you do that?"

I had begun to feel sleepy and could barely keep my eyes open. "Tell me something. Am I real?"

Renee said, "Tommy, I think that's something you'll have to learn and decide. I mean, who are you? Do you feel real?"

Josh said with deadly calm, "Indeed. You have some agency to make decisions even as a synthetic." Josh paused and leaned toward me, looking intently at me. I was starting to feel sluggish. "Sleepy?" he asked. I nodded.

"We're erasing some of your memories from this evening. You're going to receive another invitation in a month, but for now, we're going to get you home," Renee said.

"So, I'm just going to give you a report?" I asked through a yawn. "What if I refuse or what if my programming or algorithms—if I'm what you say I am—forbids sharing sensitive or proprietary information?

"We can't know how everything will play out," Bobby Joe said. "We're just humans and we can't forecast every scenario and probability for success or failure. You may or may not have a choice on how your story will end. All of our stories end, but some end sooner rather than later. Your story could last a lot longer depending on your settings, which I guess we'll learn soon enough."

"You're going to have to let me think through all of this information," I said, wiping at the accumulating sleep in my eyes. "But, what if I am real? What if you've made a mistake, and I'm not a synthetic? What then?"

Josh caught me as I started to sway, "Then you have our most sincere apologies and are welcome to join all of our future Readers' Club meetings."

Breakfast

In the morning, I awoke to a screaming headache, punctuated by dazzling sunlight popping through the folds in the window curtains. There was the sound of a mourning dove, singing for her children or maybe a lost mate. I had never experienced a headache before, gripping my head with my palms. I would go to the infirmary when I arrived at work.

I noticed a Mr. Peanut doll sitting in one of my dinette set's empty chairs. It must have been the one I played with at my grandparents' house. Funny thing I didn't remember getting to keep it, and as I took in the funny, little monocled mascot, I pondered my reality.