I am Sol. Let me tell you a little about myself. I am not named after the sun, or the G note in music. It is not short for Solomon. It is not short for the word “solution,” either. It is S.O.L. I am pretty much convinced that it stands for “Shit Outta Luck.” Why? Because I was born in the wrong century. It was the summer of ‘69. Unfortunately, not the same summer the old Canadian rock artist Bryan Adams used to sing about. I am talking about a hundred years later.
I was a fully random, authentic baby. Some hipsters think it’s cool. Some others look down on it. They call it traditional, conservative. My parents could not afford to customize my gender, my eye color, my imperfections, and so on. Customizing your baby used to cost a lot more than it does nowadays. Well, a lot of young parents still can’t afford it. For most, it is not a priority. They would rather pay their bills; make ends meet. The religious ones believe that it is interfering with God’s business. The purists are strictly against it for different reasons. On the other hand, some wealthy parents, who can easily afford it, prefer to be surprised or have an authentic baby experience. They even go with vaginal delivery.
I am also what you would call a fully authentic human to this day. However, I must admit that it’s not necessarily by choice. Body augmentation is incredibly expensive. None of the insurance companies cover your body augmentations under any circumstances. Unless you pursue a military career, or you are a police officer or your parents are wealthy, you will be a simple, pure human whether you like it or not. At least purist groups would never harm you. Nowadays, dozens of different purist organizations have mobs on the streets, protesting body augmentations. There have been a few cases of murder along the way. Angry mobs of extreme purists sometimes will attack augmented people.
I had a hard time in school. Apparently, I was always using too many words and that was impractical. Who did I think I was to steal everyone’s precious time? While some teachers appreciated my vocabulary, others often told me, “What are you rambling about? Just speak your mind, kid.”
I read a book that claimed the rise of digital communication in early 21st century drastically changed the way we talk to each other and the way we write. I couldn’t have agreed more. But I was different. I used to read a lot of 19th and 20th century literature. The dictionary in my smartphone and my Kindle books were my only friends. I was the odd one out.
I used to annoy some of my classmates by talking like Gertrude Stein, one of my favorite poets. It was my way of having fun in school, although sometimes it backfired and I got beaten up. I would say, come here John, I have something really important to tell you. Then, I would just read parts of her Tender Button poems, which made absolutely no sense: “A box is made sometimes and them to see to see to it neatly and to have the holes stopped up makes it necessary to use paper. A custom which is necessary when a box is used and taken is that a large part of the time there are three which have different connections. The one is on the table. The two are on the table. The three are on the table.” Oh, it would drive them crazy. It goes without saying that they did not appreciate the excitement of the pure being of a box or how rhythmic I sounded while reciting her. “What are you, stupid?” No wonder I was bullied so much. I was the ultimate dork, “A rose is a rose is a rose,” I would shout during the class breaks. My one and only friend Miguel would repeat after me, “Arroz is arroz is arroz.”
After a lot of bullying and getting my ass kicked by both augmented and pure kids, (I can certainly confirm that the augmented hurts a lot more), I graduated from high school in 2087. That summer, I had the worst fight with my parents, who strictly forbade me to pursue a degree in history in the University of Washington. Myriads of humanities department had been shut down due to lack of funding, so my parents wanted me to study engineering, but I would have none of that.
The bullying stopped in college. I loved the history department. I started doing my Ph.D. in history in 2092, specializing in the Gilded Age. I was hoping to earn a teaching position in any university in the world that still cared about humanities in the face of the increasing need for engineers and scientists. The early 90s were not easy for me as I struggled to find my place in this world that had turned into a soulless place, where everything that mattered focused on tangible outcomes. So, I abstracted myself from the real world. I could simulate anything in my living room with my virtual reality box. This magic box could cater to all my senses. I could see, hear, taste, smell, and touch whatever was being simulated. In seconds, I could go from flying on a dragon above the mighty mountains of some fantasy land to sleeping with an incredibly hot, corporate woman that I just saved from the hands of purists. The lines between reality and virtual reality were blurred. Spending a lot of time in the VR box would make me feel numb. But there was always something missing. It was still not real. On the other hand, the reality was incredibly boring. And, sometimes the things that I did in real life would not feel as good as its simulation. It had to stop.
In 2094, the university cut the funding for the history department. My funding package was gone along with the chances of me earning my Ph.D. Unless, however, I could come up with a hundred thousand dollars to pay the tuition fee for two years.
I was not just going to give up. The first thing I did was to sell my virtual reality box. But that did not help much. I considered taking the income options of most people in the late 21st century: advertisements in their cars or electronic identifications on smartphones. I wasn’t sure I would go as far as a lot of desperate people, who resorted to advertisements tattooed on their legs, arms, foreheads, you name it. People who do not need to rent or sell their bodies for advertising because they are doing financially well, are called the premiums. I had to go against my principles when I decided on advertisements in my car and my ID. However, I was not ready to sell my body to the corporations yet.
The fact that my funding was cut changed the way I lived to a great extent. Without my virtual reality box, I had to put up with the monotony of living the reality of our time. As I had to cut my expenditures; I had to give up so many things that I used to take for granted. Because I could not afford the monthly fee anymore, I started driving in the economy class lanes, which were prone to unbearable Seattle traffic. I had to cancel the premium membership of my apartment, which meant I had to watch advertisements before I could use just about any digital appliances. It is incredibly annoying to watch an advertisement of the latest and smartest microwaves through the screen of your not-so-cool microwave, before you microwave your cheap cheese pizza. But it was better than asking for money from my parents, or renting my forehead for advertisements, or selling my kidney to a private hospital, which was perfectly legal after the massive deregulations that took place in the 80s. The market was as free as it could get and there was nothing beyond its reach. As much as I tried to escape its reach, I kept getting sucked into it. I hated the time that I was living in.
As I was getting closer to earning my degree, the tuition fee was taking its toll on me more than ever. That year, I had one of the worst days of my life. It was early November. We had been having a tumultuous day even more so than usual. There were anti-body augmentation riots in several major U.S cities, which coincided with the celebrations of Chicago Cubs winning the World Series for the first time after their 2016 title. Even though the majority the police officers were augmented and every one of them was wearing powered exoskeletons, they were having a hard time suppressing the riots. There were numerous attacks on big body augmentation corporations and a few cases of mob attacks on the augmented individuals. They were chanting, “Purity for equality.”
It was a rainy morning. There were two days left for me to be able to pay the delayed tuition fee for my last semester. I did not have nearly enough money in my bank accounts. I had to do something. People make bad decisions when they are desperate. I took my coat and left the apartment. I did not have a hat or umbrella, and I could feel the rain beating my scalp. But I was indifferent to everything. I could not give up my Ph.D. It was my ultimate prize, a gift for myself. My motivation was purely academic. I did not care if I was going to be unemployed. I still needed that degree.
I could not have chosen a worse day to do this. I was justifying the true meaning of my name. Shit out of luck. I walked through the fancy door of Relicus Inc., one of the leading companies in body augmentations. I went directly to reception. On the huge TV screens inside the building, an ad was playing about a unique opportunity to go scuba diving in Atlantic City, part of which was buried under water because of rising sea levels. The ad said you could experience the new aquatic life in the sunken underwater city. I felt as if I was slowly sinking myself.
“I would like to learn about advertisement opportunities, please,” I said. It was as if the words did not want to come out of my mouth.
“Excuse me?” asked the lady with some impatience in her voice. I could feel her dirty, degrading look all over my body.
“I am here for advertisement opportunities.” Repeating it only made it sound more stupid in my head.
“32nd floor, A 343. Elevator is right there on your right,” she said with an emotionless face, pointing.
“Thank you.”
I took the elevator to the 32nd floor. On the way up, some employees were sharing their concerns about the purist riots. I did not mind. I was about to sell my body to the devil. They could come and destroy this place for all I cared.
First, I got an advertisement tattoo on my forehead. But I was surprised to learn I had to get a new body modification every month, if I wanted to keep getting paid. I was to start with elf ears, which was expected to be the new trend. The operation only took 10 minutes. The robot practitioner was fast and flawless. After the operation, I was offered complimentary cognitive enhancers that would cover me for a month. They could impact my dissertation positively.
As I was heading out, I went to the restroom. I looked in the mirror with disgust. All the bullies from my childhood flashed through my eyes. They were all laughing hysterically. I felt an immediate regret. I felt dirty. I paid a few quarters for the automated public shower pods. As much as those pods wash you so well as if you were in a Turkish bath, they could not wash away the way I felt. I had just been turned into a living commodity.
“Purity for equality.” I could hear the mobs chanting. They were heading towards here. I was headed toward the exit. A few security guys warned me to stay inside for my safety. I did not listen. It was obvious that I would be targeted because of my brand-new appearance but I was in denial.
What I saw outside was beyond my wildest imagination. A massive crowd. Thousands of people were gathered around to protest body augmentation. I was seized immediately. I could not put up much of a fight. Their leader had a megaphone and a mocking tone in his voice as he was speaking: “Look, what we have here. A corporate bitch with elf ears. He even has an ad on his forehead.”
The crowd was going wild, chanting the scariest words that I have ever heard in my life: “kill, kill, kill…” I could not speak. I wanted to tell them how I had to pay my tuition, that I got the ad and the ears because I had to. I could not force the words out of my mouth.
The man with the megaphone continued to speak: “This person here seems to have sold his humanity for a few grand. He is already going to live with shame all his life. He is not a human anymore. He is impure. He is not with us. But we must find the real threat to our purity, and destroy it.” He was pointing towards the Relicus Inc. headquarters angrily. “Let the poor bastard go.” I took a deep breath but I was still grasped tightly by two strong men. The crowd surged toward the headquarters, chanting their slogans furiously. Then, I felt a cold metal in my ears, followed by a very sharp pain. I was lying on the ground bleeding heavily from my cut-off ears. The cold metal touched my forehead. I felt it cutting through my skin.
I opened my eyes in a hospital. Both my ears were cropped. My forehead was skinned. As the nurse told me, I had almost died of blood loss. After long hours of medical attention, I was stabilized. To my surprise, I could still hear. Almost all the money that I made thanks to the body augmentation ad had to be used for the hospital bill. I filed a police report and left the hospital. Later, I found out that the Relicus Inc. was destroyed and plundered, leaving many employees dead. The extreme purist mob also had casualties because the police interfered.
I had never felt worse in my life. I had no place in this world. Everything was against me. Everybody despised me. The bullies back in school, who mocked me all my childhood, the purists, who thought I was impure and cut my ears, the hospital, and the university, who cared only about how I make my payment. I had to leave. I had to leave society. I knew I would not be missed.
It turned to my books for an answer. Could I follow in the footsteps of Thoreau? Could I embark upon a journey to find my own Walden? I decided to choose a hostile environment and adapt to its rules, but only the rules of nature, not the rules of humans Could I find a place that I could call home without making any payment, getting any permission, or following any rules?
Northern Greenland was the answer for me. I packed professional equipment for the harshest winter conditions. Northern Greenland still had pretty harsh winters, although I hear they are not what they used to be because of climate change.
The first few weeks in Greenland were very tough but I slowly adapted to the hostile environment. To be honest, it was not as hostile as the society I had left. Besides, my ears could never get too cold as I did not have any. There was nobody around except for animals. My best friend was a dog. I called him Waldo. Some nights, I would still have nightmares about my ears being cropped repeatedly as if I had too many of them.
I did a lot of reading and writing. I could fully live every moment out here in the wilderness without worrying about bills, the traffic, the purists, the ads, the people. I felt a deep connection with nature. I was part of everywhere. I could finally feel something for the first time in my life. It was real. The blurry lines between virtual reality and the reality now was very clear to me.
The turn of the century finally arrived. It was New Year’s eve. I drank a bottle of wine. I wished I wasn’t so lonely. I had a long talk with my dog friend about how much I hated the 21st century. I could tell from his eyes that he agreed. I kept talking, “I am Sol. Let me tell you a little bit about myself…”
Ugur Ozturk is a graduate student working on a M.A. in American Studies at Penn State Harrisburg.
