Extra Time - Part Two

Tech entrepreneur Mark wants to live for two hundred years and has the money to do it. Finding happiness is more difficult...

If you haven’t read the first part of the story or need to refresh your memory.

Once Mark enjoyed hosting the staff summer party, but now it bored him. He found more-and-more that the things that used to excite him no longer did, space travel, white-water rafting, climbing, work. They’d all lost their lustre. When he mentioned this to his therapist, she said it was common amongst high achievers, particularly after the eighth decade. The brain needed ever-increasing stimulation to produce the same response and, for someone like him who’d done everything and been everywhere, there was nowhere left to turn for an adrenalin rush, except, perhaps… and she paused so he realised she was joking, a brush with death. Falling off a cliff or being chased by a wild animal - if he could find one. Not ‘ha ha’ that she’d recommend anything so drastic.

He’d floated the idea of re-locating the party or even cancelling it, but Lydia, the Head of Human Fulfilment, disabused him of the idea. She said motivation would suffer and, stupidly, he’d capitulated. This year, the theme was ‘circus’, something the younger members of staff had only experienced digitally, if at all. The Joy Division (responsible for events amongst other things), promised authentic candyfloss (in twelve different flavours), assorted bands (marching, brass, rock, country, jazz), circus acts drawn from the four corners of the earth and holographic animals performing tricks. A woolly mammoth pulling a chariot of Roman centurions was to be the highlight of the show.

First was a ceremony celebrating the company’s nine billionth registered user. The user, a fisherman from Tristan da Cunha, a remote group of islands in the South Atlantic, had been flown in on the company jet to shake Mark’s hand and receive an engraved plaque before enjoying an all expenses paid week in Disneyland with his granddaughter. Mark had been to Tristan da Cunha once and found it wet and woefully lacking in facilities. The tiny amount of data that trickled out of the place was of no value, but journalists loved big round numbers and they loved ‘real’ people even more.

By seven thirty, the lawn was packed with people in fancy dress. There were ringmasters in top hats and tails, clowns of all shapes and sizes, acrobats, strongmen, magicians, and several fortune tellers in Gypsy garb (presumably the wearers had confused the circus with the fairground). Mark changed into black pants and a shirt; he didn’t do fancy dress and nor did Suki, who was at the opposite end of the terrace conversing with a member of the Japanese royal family. A waiter bot hovered next to them with a tray of canapes.

Mark was debating whether to join Suki when he spotted the delegation heading towards him. Lydia was leading and behind was her assistant, who was clutching the arm of a very old man as if to prevent him from falling. It was such an unusual sight several people turned to watch and one girl clapped, as if being ancient and doddery was somehow laudable. Lydia introduced the man.

‘Mark, this is Peter Swain, our nine billionth user. He’s come all the way from Tristan da Cunha to be with us today.’

Peter Swain extended his hand. His skin was dry and papery and reminded Mark of the wasps’ nest he’d found in the eaves of their Montana ranch house.

‘Thank you for flying me all the way over here. I’m honoured to meet you.’

‘We’re honoured to have you.’

Mark forced a smile, but inside he was seething. He gave Lydia a dark look. Didn’t she realise how bad this was? Peter Swain was the worst possible ambassador for a company which prided itself on its youthful image. They were selling a dream, and Swain was a nightmare. Chronologically, they were about the same age, but whereas Mark’s arms were toned from Dr Zimmerman’s injections and twice daily sessions with a personal trainer, Swain’s withered skin hung in folds. He should have been in a retirement home, not parading around on Mark’s lawn making a spectacle of himself.

The odd thing was how cheerful he was, smiling and waving throughout the brief ceremony as the granddaughter who’d accompanied him took pictures. After Mark had presented him with the plaque and made some investor friendly remarks about profit and growth, there was an opportunity for the audience to ask Swain questions. A few people wanted to know about life on the island and a man with a pigtail asked how he liked America. Swain put his arm around his granddaughter’s shoulders as he answered.

‘After I’ve seen Micky Mouse, I can die happy.’

He grinned revealing the gap where his front teeth should have been. Mark couldn’t understand how anyone could let themselves go like that. Surely there was a dentist in the God-forsaken hole he came from?

‘Aren’t you afraid of dying?’ The pigtail persisted.

Swain shook his head.

‘I’ve had a good life. It’s the youngsters’ turn now.’

He planted a kiss on his granddaughter’s cheek and Suki whispered in Mark’s ear,

‘Isn’t he amazing?’

Her eyes were moist, as if she was on the verge of tears.

‘Incredible.’ Mark said.

The man was clearly a fool. Probably the result of living on a windswept rock where inbreeding was rife. No one in their right mind was OK with being dead.

The following morning, he was still brooding on Swain’s bizarre behaviour when he spotted the girl with the rat like dog. This time he remembered her name, Danielle, the marketing executive who thought he reminisced too much. He jogged alongside her.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

Her eyebrows lifted when she realised who he was. She was pretty, petite, with fine features and a pixie haircut. Not his type, but attractive, and young, perhaps a couple of years out of college.

‘How old do I look to you?’ Mark said slowing to a walk.

The girl glanced around nervously.

‘Is that a trick question?’

‘No, I want to know and don’t worry, I won’t be offended.’ Mark gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

‘Well, um, I’m not sure.’

‘Go on, take a guess.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, and be honest, I don’t want any BS. You’ll be helping me out.’

She glanced at his face trying to read his expression, which was conveniently frozen in a Botox induced rictus.

‘Forty- five maybe.’

‘Forty-five?’

‘Something like that.’

She was playing it safe, knocking a few years off to keep him happy.

‘And does forty-five seem old to you?’

‘No, no, not really, and you look great, in great shape, I mean.’ She added hopefully.

Mark started to jog again. The ache in his hip was getting worse. When he reached the office, he would tell Tammy to fire girl and then he would call Doctor Zimmerman and fire him too.