A Fictional Story. (Or Is It?)
By MICHAEL C. PATTERSON
On a bright November day in the year 2038, the family gathers to celebrate Bobby Fitzgerald’s 95th birthday. The temperature is in the upper 80s and the air quality is bad, so they gather in Bobby and Jasmine’s climate-controlled living room.
Bobby’s son, Josh (70), and daughter Liz (75), “the kids,” are clearly excited as Bobby opens his gift card from them. As he carefully breaks the seal and pulls out the enclosed card a shimmering, rainbow-colored message emerges. A female voice says, “Congratulations, Bobby! This is your ticket to immortality!”
After a moment of stunned silence, the room explodes with noisy shouts from Bobby’s extended family. “Oh, my God!” “Is that the thing where they create an avatar of you?” “Not an avatar, a freaking hologram. A hologram!” “Holy shit.” “Hologram of whom?” “That is so cool.” “Of Bobby!” I heard about that!” “No way!”
Bobby and his wife Jasmine exchange raised eyebrows. Jasmine gives Bobby a, “Well, I wasn’t expecting that!” expression. Bobby nods in agreement.
“Thank you,” Bobby says. “I think I know what this is, but what exactly does this mean—my ‘ticket to immortality?’”
With a dramatic flourish of his arms, Josh announces, “We signed you up for an afterlife hologram service, IMMORTAL ME. You get to create a hologram of yourself that will live on, you know, after . . . you know. . . You’ll be immortal.” Then more quietly, to his dad: “We will all be able to be with you and talk with you whenever we want.”
“It’s a present as much for us,” explains Liz, “as it is for you. I mean all of us.” She gestures to everyone in the room. “And, we thought you should have the chance to work on it before you die, you know, so you can have some input about what information can be accessed.”
“You mean,” Jasmine asks, “you can create these hologram things after a person dies, without their permission? Is that even legal?”
“No, no! Josh answers. Well, . . . yes. The laws are kind of vague and unenforceable, but . . . it’s possible to create a hologram without permission, you know, after a person has died, but we wouldn’t do that. We want your permission in advance of . . . you know . . . and want you to have some input into the information the program has access, too.”
“Some input?” asks Jasmine. “I’d want full control over the information. And don’t you dare create a hologram of me without my permission or I’ll kill you.”
“No Mom,” both kids reply. “We would never do anything without your express (written) permission.”
Liz adds, “You should write specific instructions into your will or your advance directive. And I really hope you give us permission. It’s your legacy! It’s a way to keep you with us.”
Jasmine frowns and shakes her head. “I don’t know. I would not be me. I might just want you to keep whatever memories are in your head. Positive memories. You can forget the bad stuff. And make sure my hair looks okay.” She looks at Bobby. “What about you?”
“What kind of information are we talking about,” asks Bobby. “What kind of data does it use, or need to create to . . . I guess, to recreate a reasonable facsimile of me? Is that what we are talking about?”
“Your hologram will be great, Dad,” says Josh. “You have so much data to input.”
“The program uses any data that is available, anything you have produced and digitized,” explains Liz. “Anything that has been written or said about you.”
You have written so much stuff,” Josh continues, “through your books, your articles, your newsletter. And you have so much writing that you never even show anyone. Right? Even to mom. It would be a waste if all those deep, profound thoughts were lost or forgotten.”
“Yeah!” Bobby rolls his eyes. “Great loss!”
“No, we’re serious, Dad,” says Liz.
“And all your podcasts and the videos,” adds Josh. “The hologram will be great at duplicating your voice, your gestures, your vocal inflections, your facial expressions. … You know, the funny slapstick movies you make.”
“No one’s very interested in my ‘profound insights’ now,” Bobby says. “Not even me. I don’t see why anyone would be interested in the future.”
“Well, you never know,” says Josh. “I mean . . . I’m too busy now, you know, with work and all, but when things calm down, you know, I might be curious about what Dad was writing about all those years.”
“And the thing is,” says Liz, “it’s not like your hologram is going to read us your full essays. It will pick and choose. I might ask you, ‘Hey Dad, what made you change your thinking on spirituality?’ And it will give me a little summary of your early writing on the subject, then summarize your more recent stuff, and give me its best guess about why your ideas shifted. You know how Chatbots work, right?” Bobby nods. “So, it would be like talking to you.”
Liz looks down, spins away, grabs a tissue, and blows her nose.
Bobby reaches toward his daughter. “Come here.” Bobby stands and they give each other a big, long hug.
“I love talking with you. I’ll miss that,” Bobby whispers.
“I know!” Liz takes a deep breath. “Me too. That’s why, I thought. . . I wanted . . .” Bobby gives her a big squeeze and a kiss on her forehead.
“Will the hologram be as silly as the real papa?” asks Lara, Bobby’s great-granddaughter.
“I’m not silly.” Bobby feigns shock at the accusation. “Who said that?”
“Me!” Little Lara puts her hands on her hips and gives Bobby her famous snake-eye look.
Bobby wags an accusing finger. “You are the silly one.”
“No, you.”
“I am never silly, never have been,” says Bobby as he grabs Lara and tickles her into screaming submission.
“The hologram won’t be able to give us a real hug, or tickle us, right?” Jasmine asks.
“Isn’t it expensive?” Bobby asks. “It’s too expensive.”
The family responds in chorus. “We all chipped in.” “Prices have really come down.” “You are worth it.” “Yeah, immortality doesn’t come cheap!” “It’s an investment in our future.”
“Is it available to everyone?” Bobby says as he looks around the room. “How long would I—would the virtual me—last?”
“You could be immortal, Dad! Forever!” Josh shouts. “And the hologram program would be available to all of us. It’s cool. You could be in two places at the same time, or more.
“Your hologram program will live for as long as coming generations decide to renew the license agreement.” Liz finds this part a bit awkward. “There’s an annual fee that is renewed automatically, until . . .”
“Until someone decides to finally pull the plug,” Bobby says.
“If you don’t want to do it, Dad,” says Liz as she reaches for the card, “we can cancel and get a refund.”
“No. I mean, it won’t matter to me. Right? I’ll be dead,” Says Bobby as he holds the card against his chest. “And, frankly, I’m vain enough to want my ideas—the few good ones—to live longer than my body, and possibly have some small influence on,” nodding to the grandkids, “your grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”
“Yeah. We’ll program your hologram to spout only pearls of wisdom. None of the nonsense,” says Josh. “No, seriously. It would be nice to have your advice and even just, you know, to hear your voice, and . . .
Liz picks up the thread, “And you’ve said there are so many questions about your mom and dad you never got to ask. The avatar would give us a chance to ask you questions we didn’t—or couldn’t ask—while you were alive.”
“If you guys really want it . . .” Bobby says with a shrug and smile.
“We do.”
“Jasmine?” Bobby looks to his wife.
“Sure. Your choice. It might be good for a laugh every now and then. I’m planning to outlive you, by the way, so who knows, I might miss you from time to time.” She turns to the kids. “Can it be programmed to focus on the best sides of his personality? Can we dial up the tenderness and dial down the cynicism, for example? Cut out the silly jokes and the stories I’ve heard a million times?”
“I think you kinda get the full package, Mom,” says Josh.
“But I could turn this hologram thingy on and off when I like, right?” asks Jasmine. “That might be refreshing.”
She leans over and gives Bobby a kiss and a pat on the cheek.
“So, it’s a yes,” asks Liz. “You want it?”
“Yes. I want it.”
As the family applauds, Bobby says in a whisper to Jasmine, “The irony is that I won’t be able to experience my own immortality.”
Michael C. Patterson had an early career in the theater, then worked at PBS, developing programs and systems to support the educational mission of public television. Michael ran the Staying Sharp brain health program for AARP, then founded MINDRAMP to continue to promote physical well-being and mental flourishing for older adults. Michael currently explores these topics on his MINDRAMP Podcast and his Synapse newsletter. His website is www.mindramp.org.