The constructor phalange was equipped with several swiveling bendable arms and a large tank full of liquidized construction material—generally a type of synthetic photopolymer that rapidly hardened upon exposure to light at a specific wavelength—attached to its walking base. The photopolymer was dispensed by nozzles on the “head” of each arm and layered to create extremely complex structures in no time at all. I was, admittedly, not familiar enough to recognize the material in the phalange’s tank as that photopolymer on sight—I just knew it as the material used to construct virtually all residential buildings.
I watched as the phalange scurried around the construction site on its crablike legs. Judging from the size of the plot of land, and the framework it had already completed, I guessed it was constructing a residence of perhaps fifteen or twenty rooms. This was a reasonable amount of space for a single adult to live in, and in a fairly nice area too—I honestly wouldn’t mind moving in if it didn’t immediately get snatched up by someone else. I’d forget if I didn’t actually make a note of it, so I told Titan to remind me to check for the listing later, and it responded with a little electronic ding. I stood watching the constructor phalange go about its work until the sun began to set, then set off at a brisk pace toward the restaurant.
4
When I stepped inside the little French place where we’d made our reservation, I saw that my date had already arrived. The bespectacled young man flashed me a gentle smile and rose from his chair to greet me.
“Hi there. Naoyuki Takasaki,” he said.
“Seika Naisho.” I bowed slightly.
“Oh, uh… Here, let me get that for you!” he said, flustered, as he came around the table and pulled my chair out for me. I smiled politely and sat down. We then proceeded to make small talk and get to know one another a little bit as we waited for our food to arrive.
At 28, Takasaki was two years older than me but was so energetic and sociable that I would have thought him younger. His primary hobby was ballroom dancing, and he was so passionate about it he even participated in regional competitions. Being the modest guy that he was, he immediately downplayed this by insisting he was all passion and no talent.
“Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m at a natural disadvantage in the looks department already. Hard to stand out from the crowd when you’ve got a face as plain as mine,” he said bashfully. I honestly didn’t know what to do with myself; he was so my type, it was uncanny. Not that Titan’s matchmaking service had ever done me wrong in the past—generally, my personal assessment of the guys I’d dated more or less aligned with the compatibility rankings they’d each been assigned beforehand. But now that I was sitting straight across from a 98.1 percent match, I couldn’t believe the difference between him and every other guy I’d dated.
I loved plain-looking men. Loved soft-spoken guys with a humble demeanor. Loved the type of person who you could tell wasn’t obsessed with being in charge. He was exactly my type in just about every way I could think of. I had to give Titan major kudos for selecting this total catch for me.
Our food came, but we continued talking between bites, thoroughly enjoying each other’s company and the instant rapport only people with a 98.1 percent compatibility rating can experience. With only a 1.9 percent margin of error, the conversation flowed effortlessly back and forth, with no friction whatsoever—like a pair of figure skaters on the smoothest of ice. It was an extremely delightful meal. But right around the time our bottle of wine ran dry, we hit a small bump in the road.
“So hey, um… I wanted to ask you something, Naisho,” he said, then paused for a long and awkward moment before continuing. Almost like he knew what he was about to say would completely kill the evening’s momentum—and sure enough, it did. “How do you feel about…work?”
“Work?” I said, widening my eyes in confusion. “As in work-work?”
“Correct.”
“I mean…”
I trailed off, and the conversation died. My confusion was justified; it was a ludicrous question to ask so boldly, especially on a first date, especially to a woman you’d only just met. I had no idea of his intentions, nor what he was hoping to get out of this date. To even broach the subject of work was highly eccentric—something he understood well, judging from the sudden burst of flop sweat coating his face.
Wait a minute. Perhaps this was the missing 1.9 percent of compatibility rearing its ugly head. Assuming it was, then it would be best to find out right here and now whether it was a 1.9 percent we could paper over, or the minuscule difference between us that we’d never be able to move past. And so I answered this exceedingly bizarre query in the most careful, unassuming, and predictable way I possibly could—hoping it might draw out his true colors.
“I’ve never worked a day in my life, so I guess I wouldn’t know…”
5
“Right… Yeah, no, of course,” Takasaki said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, I’ve never done a day’s work in my life either, so neither would I.”
Work. A word only used today in purely idiomatic contexts, so it tasted strange and unfamiliar on my tongue. I tried to recall what I’d learned about the antiquated concept back when I was in school.
It all started around a century and a half ago. Up until the midpoint of the 21st century, the vast majority of human beings on Earth had “occupations” they needed to perform in order to live—or so my social studies textbooks explained. But then, right around the year 2050, the Labor Revolution began, and work was slowly but surely phased out from the lives of the general populace. And now, here in 2205, work was nothing more than a memory—a primitive social construct from an age gone by, now obsolete.
“Right, and it was already mostly abolished by the time we were born, so…” I said, fumbling around for anything more I could possibly say on the subject. Strictly speaking, work had actually not been completely abolished yet—but the few remaining traditional jobs were all highly specialized and reserved for a small handful of uniquely qualified individuals. Still, it was something ordinary citizens never even had to think about, so from our perspective, it had indeed been effectively abolished. “Yeah, sorry… Not sure I’ve ever really thought about it that much. It’s just so far removed from my own life, y’know?”
“No, no! It’s fine!” he assured me. “That’s totally understandable. Sorry for killing the mood by bringing up such a strange subject. I’m pretty much in the same boat as you, honestly. Don’t know that much about work, nor do I really feel any desire to have a job myself. I guess I’m just curious, is all.”
“How so?”
“Well, I guess I just like to imagine these types of things. Like, if I were employed, what would my job be, and how would I feel about it,” he said. “That sort of thing. Would I find it fulfilling and want to keep doing it, or would I hate my life and want to quit?”
“Hm. Yeah, I guess that is kind of interesting to think about.”