RaisingDad
by Jim and Henry Duchene
The Simulatrix
“where’s Neo When You Need Him?”
Every morning when I wake up I have to blow my nose.
Maybe it’s my allergies. Maybe it’s my CPAP machine. Maybe, since my nose runs and my feet smell, I’m built backwards. Whatever it is, more often than not, when I toss the tissue into the small trash can my beautiful wife has thoughtfully provided, the tissue doesn’t make it in and I have to bend over, pick it up, and sadly come to terms with why I never played in the NBA.
I could understand this happening once in a while, but the MAJORITY of the time? What are the odds of that? I was an average basketball player in school, so I should be able to negotiate the three feet from my hand to the inside of the trash can, but something always happens. It bounces off the rim, it catches a nice breeze, it gets invaded by Putin.
That got me thinking, I must be living in some type of Matrix-like reality, much like the one Keanu Reeves keeps finding himself in, except without the cool clothes. What I’m talking about is The Simulation Hypothesis, which proposes that all of existence is an artificial simulation, much like my first marriage. Even Elon Musk, the smartest man in the world, seems to think we live in a Simulation similar to ones created by video game designers.
I first ran across this idea in college when a fellow student told a group of us his theory that we could all be bodies on a slab being fed information via electrodes implanted in our brains.
“Or what if we’re trapped like insects in some kind of cosmic jar,” he continued, “and the stars we see at night aren’t really stars, but holes in the lid for air!”
We laughed him out of the room.
His nickname became “Troid,” short for “electrode.” He finally moved to another dorm, but I’m sure it wasn’t because of our relentless teasing. “We weren’t laughing at you,” we told him on his way out, “we were laughing with you,” but we were really laughing at him.
These days, however, I’m more open to entertaining the idea. My personal Simulation seems to consist of avatars designed to keep me from getting to a destination or completing a task. For example, I’ll walk into an empty kitchen with the intent of sitting down and enjoying a cup of hot coffee. After making it, I’ll turn to sit in my chair at the head of the table and find my father sitting in it.
“Is that for me?” he’ll say, reaching for the coffee.
At the grocery store, why is the line I’m in always the slowest one? And, if I switch to another line, why does THAT line instantly become the slowest one? Some lines I've gotten in have been so slow I didn't bother to check my watch to see how much time has passed, I checked my calendar.
The idea of an Under The Dome-type alien entity messing with me like in Stephen King’s novel is especially convincing when I’m driving. Why, for example, do I catch nothing but red lights when I’m running late? Why do speeding cars immediately slow down as soon as they cut in front of me? Why do cops always pull me over when I have a dead body in the trunk?
On the freeway, I’ll move to the left lane to let other drivers entering via the on-ramp merge safely into traffic. Do those drivers then thank me for my thoughtfulness by letting me back into the right lane? No, instead they’ll stay at my side and match my speed, all to keep me from reentering my original lane. I don’t wish these drivers ill, but it wouldn’t bother me if all their teeth fell out.
At home—I hate to say this, but—my wife is always in the way.* Say I want to watch TV. If I go to the pantry for a snack, she’ll be there putting things in alphabetical order. If I want a cold drink, she’ll be at the refrigerator arranging things according to size. On my way out of the kitchen she’ll block the path like a Canadian truck driver.
When I finally make it to my favorite chair in front of the TV, there’s my father.
“Is that for me?” he’ll ask, reaching for my snacks.
I’ll hand them over because sometimes you just get tired of the Simulation making you take one step forward and two steps back.
It might sound like I’m complaining, but I’m not. If there’s a Simulation, it gave me great parents, a good life, a beautiful wife, wonderful kids, and, of course, my granddaughter. It gave me this column in Desert Exposure, readers like you, and everything but an ending to this story.
So I’ll end it this way:
My seven-year-old granddaughter has always liked to draw and, thanks to an uncle who buys her everything, has recently begun painting. She’s very good, and that’s not just the grandfather in me bragging about her. If I wanted to brag, I’d brag about her curly hair, her expressive eyes.
I took her to Beyond Van Gogh: The Immersive Experience, and was moved by the beauty and emotion of the exhibit, which puts you INSIDE his great works of art. Myself, I’m partial to Vincent van Gogh’s Cafe Terrace At Night, with its allusion to Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper, and a shadowy Judas slinking into a doorway.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, taking my hand.
Thank you, Simulation.
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*For a laugh, listen to the song “You’re There” by Pat Daily.
@JimDuchene
