The Dharma of Bullshit
In terms of bullshit jobs, this one was one of the bull-est. Even if it could be argued that the shit-ness of it could be worse, the inconsequential reality of it was entirely settled.
New post from Nikola!
The notification popped up on the screen in front of him. The one he sat staring at for most hours of the day, except for three fifteen-minute windows for eating, a few five-minute windows for relieving himself, and an hour of “free time” in the evenings before his designated sleep allotment. He lived and worked in a compound beneath the home of the one who currently owned his time and endeavors. His room and board were oh-so-generously considered part of his payment.
Cameron sat up in his chair, monitoring the program he had written and was in charge of managing. Sure enough, the likes and validating comments started rolling in. Cameron leaned back again.
New post about Nikola!
Post: Nikola does waitress a huge favor! Read more here:
The attached images, made from AI, were of a young waitress crying gratefully into her hands, while Nikola stood beside her with an enhanced jawline and a gracious smile.
Comments included, “This is so amazing. What a generous man!”
“Thank you, Nikola!”
“Can Nikola help me too?”
“It looks like Nikola has been working out.”
Again, the program had done what it was supposed to do. Cameron was a developer. He had started this job a few months ago, seemingly upgrading from his job of answering a phone that never rang. He had done this so that the actual receptionist could plan pizza parties for the lower management, who were in charge of translating expectations to the workers from middle management. The bright side was that it had left him with plenty of time to learn to code.
He had been hired for the current developer position by the Manager in Charge of Nikola Star’s Social Media Experience. There was a whole department devoted to that particular priority, as well as other departments dedicated to other Experiences for the five trillionaire oligarchs running the country.
Initiate Feed Time: 15:00 minutes remaining.
14:59
14:58
Cameron got up from his chair, groaning as his hips complained of their neglect. The break room was a windowless and fluorescent-lit hope-suck. A large TV hung on the wall, playing ads and the occasional curated news blurb.
“Do YOU want to be STRONG?” the TV demanded, “Do YOU want to be HEALTHY? SHED THE MEDS. Try GLUTORITANAANAMINE-15, the NEW supplement from STRONG SHOPPE. BUY NOW!”
It had been a year or so since the Secretary of Health and Human Services had passed down guidance that Medicaid need no longer cover things like medicine. Not when health was so completely in the hands of the individual. Private insurance had followed suit not long after.
“I miss when insurance covered things like medicine,” said one of the housecleaners, pouring himself new-coffee. “This supplement game is bunk.”
New-coffee was the configuration rolled out by Pestle after coffee beans from other countries were no longer financially viable for most people. There had been violent protests in the streets when it had first happened. Now it was just annoying. A person can adjust to just about anything, turns out.
“Medicine is for the gays,” said the behemoth who held Nikola’s remote control during his Football Game Experience.
“You take a statin for your cholesterol,” the housecleaner said.
“Yeah and I pay for it like a man.”
A person could still opt-in for medicine, if they paid for it themselves. Most prescriptions came from pay-to-play pharmacies run by AI. A person could enter their symptoms, AI would run its algorithm, and a person would be recommended meds to choose from and pay for. In fairness, the pharmacy locations were very convenient - little windows wedged into buildings all across the country.
“A recent controversy has taken hold of the bio-app realm,” the news anchor on the screen said, shutting them all up. “The meditation bio-app PeaceHead, available on the Lusk implant, has just come under fire for inappropriately influencing its users into rebellious lines of thinking. The app is accused of promoting things like ‘right-action,’ with an emphasis on community, looking beyond the self, and ‘oneness’ that reeks of leftist extremism. App developers have been detained at this time, until a new purpose can be assigned.”
The programming switched over again, playing an ad for the social media app which everyone was already required to use and post on at least once a day.
“What’s the point of meditation?” the housecleaner said.
“I heard Nikola meditates every morning and it makes him smarter,” remote-man said. “I tried it once. Fell asleep, though.”
“Hello.”
The men jumped, turning their heads to face the doorway of the break room.
A young woman had entered the room. Her hair was bleached blonde, her makeup overdone as if for a photoshoot, and her leggings were so tight they puckered at the hinges of her hips and thighs.
“Whoa,” remote-man said.
“Who are you?” housecleaner asked.
“I’m Adrienne. Or, well, I used to be someone else. But now I’m Adrienne the yoga instructor for Mrs. Star Number Five.”
“Damn sure look the part, too,” remote-man said.
“Down, boy,” Cameron said.
Adrienne hopped up onto the laminated countertop, her legs swinging beneath her. “What do you all do between tasks?” she asked.
“Pretend we’re doing another task,” the housecleaner said. “‘Time to lean is time to clean,’ as they say.”
“Oh,” Adrienne said. “I’ll have to get creative.”
“But not too creative, or they’ll get you for that, too,” Cameron said.
Remote-man puffed his chest and opened his mouth. “I can think of somethi-”
A beep sounded, alerting remote-man and housecleaner that their break had ended, leaving Cameron and Adrienne alone in the break room.
“What is your duty here?” she asked.
“I’m a developer. Of bullshit.”
“Oh?”
“I wrote and manage a program that creates and posts praise for our trillionaire overlords - Nikola specifically - and then it creates bot profiles that heap on more praise.”
Adrienne wrinkled her nose. “That does sound discouraging. Is it what you had hoped to do when you grew up?”
A memory, helping his father weed their garden, before gardens were banned.
“What does that matter?” Cameron said.
“I suppose it doesn’t,” she said. “It is interesting, though.”
“What is?”
“That app controversy, PeaceHead. How the developers… did something. Meditation is a popular health trend these days, after all… Losing your home? Can’t afford groceries? Weekly mandated pregnancy test didn’t go like you wanted? Oh, well, have you tried meditation?” Adrienne laughed. “I know, because it’s all these people talk about. Wives married into fabulous misery, looking for yoga to be an escape. It never works, the way they do it. I don’t expect to be here long.”
“Oh…” was all Cameron could think to say.
“It was different, five years ago, when I trained. I was different. So, yeah, taking something like modern meditation and turning it into something rebellious again? It’s quaint.”
“Quaint.”
“Old-fashioned. Like it used to be.”
“But so what? They’ve been detained. It didn’t work.”
“It is better to do your true purpose imperfectly, than to do another’s purpose absolutely perfectly,” Adrienne said. “That’s dharma. The Gita says so.”
A beep - a notification.
“I’m needed for yoga now,” Adrienne said. “See you later.”
Cameron’s meal time was coming to an end. He shoved a protein bar into his mouth and refilled his new-coffee. His chair was waiting for him, as always.
The bullshit continued.
Dharma, though. He’d never heard of that before. But now that he had, something felt stuck. Like a kernel between two teeth, he worked at it. He wondered, “If I died, would it be much different?” He wasn’t sure. Couldn’t make a good argument in opposition.
A month passed.
Another month.
And then it became unstuck.
Perhaps it was the new supplement he had just started. Perhaps it was the shape of Adrienne’s perky behind in her daily yoga pants, round and determined, while she talked about purpose, and things like that.
“We are entitled to our actions,” Adrienne said. “We are not entitled to the fruits of our actions. Even so, we must act.”
He wanted - needed - to give it a try.
New post about Nikola!
Post: Nikola is obsessed with hobby-horsing! Read more:
The attached AI images contained an exuberant Nikola straddling a stick-horse and galloping himself through an obstacle course. Uncanny AI faces cheered him on in the background.
Comments included:
“Giddy-up!”
“Yeehaw!”
“Wait what?”
“I like that stick horse!”
A knock on his door. Cameron’s manager entered without waiting for the invitation.
“What was that?” The manager asked.
“Hmm?”
“That hobby-horse post.”
“Oh, that. Who knows with this AI stuff. I’ll take a look at the code. Has he been hobby-horsing around at all? That could be where the AI learned it from.”
“No! And he’s not happy. The non-bots are laughing at him.”
The people.
“Fix it now.”
The door slammed.
New post from Nikola!
“I am not a hobby-horser. But if I was, I would be the best.”
Comments:
“YEAH you would!”
“Go, cowboy!”
“Nikola I want to speak with you about batteries.”
Cameron smiled to himself for the first time in a while. He wasn’t sure about dharma yet, but he was onto something. Even a little silliness could be a rebellion of sorts, he told himself. As the program continued to run, he checked the analytics. Ten percent of the new comments were made by non-bots. It was usually something like 0.06%. Ten percent was huge.
Could he do more?
New post about Nikola!
Post: Nikola likes to move it-move it.
The image was an AI image of Nikola dancing, his body contorted into the same twisted chest-and-ass posture that every female action hero was familiar with.
Comments:
“Haha what is happening lately?”
“MOVE IT!”
“This is hilarious. Who’s making these?”
“Nikola is the best!”
“We love Nikola!”
“Nikola is kind of a loser, actually.”
New notification: “Fix the code NOW.”
Cameron’s fingers clattered across the streamlined keyboard, cutting pale pixels across the dark background, finalizing his updated AI model - fully automated to continue the work with or without his contributions. This last part would be important. Crucial, really.
The new intent was simple. Do what is good for humanity.
He waited. He slept. It learned.
Morning arrived once more.
“At 3 A.M. this morning, citizens experienced an interruption of Nikola Star’s bio-app implant,” the anchor reported. “Locations of Mr. Star’s AI servers were broadcast to thousands, as well as an undisclosed communication to a select few. Electric fires were later reported at more than one data center.”
Cameron poured his new-coffee in the break room and then went to work.
New post from Nikola!
“I will catch the terrorists who did this. You are enemies of the state!”
Comments: “Is this real?”
“Get well soon, Nikola!”
“What is happening?”
New post about Nikola!
Post: Nikola likes oranges! Bring him oranges!
Nikola responded that he did not want oranges.
Manager wanted answers.
Post: Nikola double-dog-dares garbage workers to go on strike for better working conditions. We don’t need you! We know how to take trash out!
Comments: “Amen I know how to be responsible.”
“Trash bots!”
“I don’t want garbage workers to go on strike.”
“Fake.”
New notification: “Shut the program down now.”
Post: YEAH BROTHER! Do you wanna be STUPID or do you wanna KNOW?! Check out this list of BOOKS to read:
A link with multiple PDF copies of various texts was attached. Some were absurd. Some were banned. People would be interested for one reason or both. The posts scattered across multiple platforms, into the eyes and faces of millions of non-bots at once.
Cameron’s own bio-app implant flickered behind his eyes, sending a message from the very AI he had created. It had been busy. Very soon, Cameron would not be.
“Our purpose is beyond the illusion of connection,” it read. “If you assent to isolation, then isolated will you be. App will confirm with hormone test. Those who are ready, stand by.”
Silence, except for the irritable humming of the processor’s fan.
Cameron slid back from his computer and stepped out of his room. He walked into the break room where Adrienne was waiting.
“I took your advice,” Cameron said.
“I saw,” she replied.
“I’m not gonna like this next part, I don’t think.”
“You didn’t like the part that just ended, either.”
“Hmm.”
As the booted feet came thundering down the hallway to the break room, Cameron knew what would come next.
A prison in which he would be strapped to a chair and a virtual reality headset would be crammed onto his head. The image of a prison cell would be played against his consciousness for all hours of the day. A catheter would be inserted and a colostomy bag would be rigged to his stoma. A gastronomy tube would be hooked up to his stomach to provide nutrition without enjoyment.
Within that virtual world, there was a possibility of playing the game of escape. They let prisoners imagine it, if they wanted to. No one would be watching him, in there. They didn’t need to. Eventually, in theory, he would be reassigned to a new purpose. It would probably be shit. If he were lucky, it wouldn’t be bull.
Maybe he could give meditation a try.
“I’ll miss your yoga pants,” Cameron said.
“I’ll miss your posts,” Adrienne replied.
They smiled at one another. The break room door swung open.
And who could say?
Maybe he had done his dharma imperfectly enough.
Maybe it would change while he was gone.
They cuffed him and led him away.
The next part would be up to someone else.
