Fertile Soil

Q didn’t seem surprised when I showed up the following day. She gave me one of the tight-lipped smiles that would become her expression of joy and wasted no time with small talk.

“Why don’t you like Steve Jobs?” Q asked without a hint of humor.

I put down my Jansport backpack and sat in the chair across from her. I shot her a puzzled look. It was barely 9am. I had ridden my bicycle over the Brooklyn bridge and was sweating through my pores. I typically turned my brain on around 10:45am. 

“You said, ‘Fucking Steven Jobs – if he only knew what he did to this world.’”

I leaned back and laughed a bit. “You’re talking about my comedy routine last week?”

She nodded. “What did you mean by it?” she pressed. “What did he do to this world?”

A beautiful streak of light came through fast-moving clouds and glittered over the harbor below.

“That’s a good question,” I responded after thinking about it.  “There really isn’t an easy or quick way to explain.”  I still found it difficult to look Q in the eye for too long without fragmenting my thoughts.

The nameless escort knocked and entered. He set a fresh cup of coffee on the table in front of us and closed the door behind him. I took another glance at Q and noticed her hair seemed to have a lighter tone today.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said.

“Of course.”

“How old are you?”

“How old do you think I am?”

I had prepared for that question. “18.”

“I’m 23.”

“23,” I repeated. “So you’re not even a nineties baby.”

“January 18, 2001.”

“Incredible.”

“Why is that incredible?”

“You probably don’t even know what a modem is.”

I saw what seemed like a twinkle of light in her eye. “A modem is a device that was first introduced in the 1960s. It wasn’t until the eighties that it became more of a household consumer item.

I was shocked. Not just by the fact that she knew what a modem was, but the fact that she was 23, seemingly flawless, and spoke like the daughter of Bill Gates. 

She must have noticed my inquisitive expression. “Wikipedia,” she explained with a faint smile.

“How many languages do you speak?” I asked, half-serious.

“Eight.”

“Eight!” I exclaimed. 

“And two dialects. Not including computer programming languages. Why do you ask?”

“I bet you could do a Rubik’s Cube in under three minutes.”

She smiled in a way that resembled Mona Lisa.

“Okay,” I continued, trying to ground myself in something ordinary. Clearly she was not. “I asked your age because I need to know where you exist in the entire context of time.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“More specifically,” I added, “I need to know where you exist in the context of time and our relationship with technology.”

Q nodded. I could tell that she was digesting every single word. I had never met someone like this: sharp as a whip and emitting a tangible energy  that made me feel borderline uneasy. I felt like a parent who suddenly has to have the sex talk with their teenager. An urgent and papercut real sense of responsibility.

I sipped some coffee and plowed on into the unknown. “You asked me about Steve Jobs, right?”

She nodded.

“Well, unlike you, I was born into the bridge generation. A generation of people who knew what life was like before the modem.”

“So really, to answer your question, there is a whole evolutionary discourse related to that one Steve Jobs punchline.”

Q didn’t speak, so I continued.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that it would take a really long time to explain everything. Our relationship with technology. How it changed us as humans. How it happened subtly. How it penetrated us as a species and shredded the fabric of our human connection.”

I could see Q repeating my words. Shredded the fabric of our human connection.

I caught myself, realizing that I was getting into one of my rants reserved for the poorly-lit, sticky floors of Ludlow and Daniele’s uneven wooden stairwell in the West Village. 

“You know,” I confessed, “I’m not even sure where I am going with this. In fact, I have no idea what I am supposed to be talking about.”

“Well, this is exactly why we are here,” responded Q, unfettered.

“Why?”

“You’ve answered this yourself.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at Q’s comment, and regretted it immediately. She gave me an honest look.

“Why is that funny, Mr. Noble.”

“I’m sorry, Q. I’m not laughing at you, really. And please call me Sam.”

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t understand why this is funny?” she asked.

Suddenly I felt as if I was speaking to one of my telemarketing friends. How hadn’t I picked up on this before? There was some seriously thick ice on this windshield. A goddamn glacier, really.

I took a breath and leaned towards Q in earnest. “I’m not sure any of this is going to make you laugh.”

“Laughter is just one seed that might blossom from this conversation,” she replied, blinking delicately like a butterfly fluttering its wings. 

What the hell am I supposed to say to this? Honestly. I’m not a professor. I’m not a parent. I’m a washed-up writer who earns irregular paychecks writing commercial content for laundry detergent, stain remover, and animal biscuit brands. My run at comedy is just something I started doing as a confessional outlet a few years ago. I’m not even good and I’m not getting better. The only reason I still go is to continue having non-committal sex with Daniele. 

I sat back, defeated. “You want to know the truth?” 

Q nodded. 

I drew a deep breath.  “As a species we have lost the essence of our human connections. Our emotional fabric is torn. Shredded. Everything flipped. Technology influenced this in a seemingly natural, infinitesimal way. In other words, our connections as human beings are completely fucked.”

I felt ashamed. I knew that I had just blown $3,500. 

We spoke simultaneously: “You can fire me,” I said. “You can quit at any time,” Q said. 

An alarm sounded on Q’s slick black, digital watch. She stood and walked stiffly towards the area with the office plant.

She popped open the pill box, removed one of those metallic-looking pills and took it down without water. 

Suddenly the phone rang and Q answered. She spoke in what sounded like perfect Russian – harsh, yet with significance. Yes, it was Russian. 

Behind Q the clouds were still shifting at what seemed like cruising altitude. Once again, it all felt very surreal. She actually wanted me to continue. Quit? If I did this for one month I could take a trip to Mexico and idle away my days watching geckos on sandstone facades.   

“He would like to meet you,” explained Q as she turned to face me. 

My heart skipped a beat. I hadn’t been this nervous since college graduation. 

“When?” I asked.

“He’s on his way now.”

“I have a question,” I said, standing up desperately to approach her. “Why me? I just don’t understand why you think I am even capable of teaching you anything.”

Instead of responding, Q grabbed an object from the desk drawer. She lifted the Rubik’s Cube, handed it to me and asked me to mix it up. I did and returned it to her.

I think it was ten seconds. Maybe even six. But it was done. With speed and agility I have never witnessed, ever. I was in awe.

“Our family has good instincts,” Q said, and tossed the completed cube to me. 

“Incredible. Can I take a video of you and post it on YouTube or something?” I asked jokingly.

“I’m afraid not,” Q said with unexpected seriousness. “That part is in the contract. Also, my father doesn’t permit me to be on social media anymore. I don’t miss it, either.”

“I would have to agree with your father on this one. He seems like a wise man.”

“Yes, he is.”

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door and in walked a man wearing a smart gray suit.  While this man was pretty much my height, there was a dominating presence that entered. An instant energy filled the space, as if the room had just become a newly minted bubble. 

He extended his hand in my direction. “Hello Sam. My name is Emmanuel Quinn.”

We shook hands. His thick, dark eyebrows appropriately matched the feeling of his grip – present, yet welcoming. 

I managed to relax a bit as he released my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Quinn.”

“Please call me Emmanuel,” he said, glancing momentarily at Q who remained seated behind the desk.

“I simply wanted to thank you for your interest in collaborating with us,” he said. “I know it might all seem a bit strange to you, this form of education.”

His eyes had an intensity that I never encountered. I didn’t feel uncomfortable, or even nervous. In fact, I felt the opposite. It was as if he had an uncanny ability to reduce you to yourself – your core, genuine, being. Perhaps this is what it meant to meet someone truly extraordinary.

I repeated what I said earlier to Q. “Strange is no stranger to me, Mr. Quinn.” 

“Please, call me Emmanuel.”

“Right, Emmanuel.”

“Well, don’t let me interrupt. I just wanted to introduce myself. If you have any questions at all, Sam, please do not hesitate to track me down. I’m certain that we’ll meet again soon.”

Why me? I wanted to ask, yet held my tongue. I mean, look at those degrees. Look at this view. Don’t you understand that I live alone in a studio apartment with limited hot water and a creaky wooden staircase? I have holes in my socks, for Christ-sake, just like that Peruvian plant!
Q sat in the reclining desk chair, swiveling gently.

“I think he likes you,” said Q, as her father left the room.

I took a deep breath. “We’ll start with the modem.”