Free The Future for Curious People: A Novel by Gregory Sherl

younger brother, Teddy, who came by to unclog a drain once.
    I hear the ambient noise of a crowd. The monitor reveals that Jason Binter and I are at a mall, but I hate malls, or at least the now-me hates malls: the recycled circulated air, the two lanes to walk back and forth but nobody can figure out which way is back and which is forth what with all the old people doing laps.
    I could have a not-weird future, right? I’m capable of that. Maybe it’s even something to aspire to. And, so far, so good. Binter and I are here, together, at a mall—being not weird at all.
    And I quickly remind myself that it’s too easy for things to start so well. That could be the first line to the memoir I’ll never write: It’s too easy for things to start so well.
    At the top of the staircase, Jason turns around. Even through the fuzz, he looks like he did the last time I saw him, about a week ago, pawing through African American sheet music. Maybe his frat-boy vibe transcends aging.
    “Do you want a pretzel?” I ask him. I point to what I assume is an Auntie Anne’s pretzel kiosk, if those are still around fifteen years from now; the sign above the pretzel kiosk looks like it’s covered in a mirage. “Something cinnamon maybe?”
    Jason opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
    It was a simple question. I ask again, “Do you want a pretzel?”
    But his mouth—just nothing. Is he thinking over the existential crisis of salt or no salt, to splurge on a side of icing? Adrian couldn’t shut the fuck up; Jason can’t seem to get himself started.
    “Carbs,” he finally says, shaking his head.
    Jason doesn’t eat carbs. This is bad. I love bread. My favorite food groups go cheese, bread, cheese bread, and soup served in a hollowed-out loaf of bread.
    Half of the mall is blurred because of brand merchandising. Half of the nonblurred parts of the mall are foggy anyway, because this is the future and the future seems insecure in completely showing itself. I sympathize.
    I wonder which mall this is. It’s so blurred I could have been here a thousand times and wouldn’t know it. I try to find a specific landmark: a fountain, maybe that hallway I dipped into to kiss Josh Teerman through most of middle school, but nothing.
    The session is briefly interrupted—I’ve gotten used to these advertisements. This one is to adopt a baby from a third-world country by way of Chin’s adoption program.
    And then I’m back at the mall. Jason and I have wandered to a kiosk selling nail buffers. We’re discussing the pros and cons of buffed nails. We also discuss, in no particular order and with no depth and/or irony, painting a living room beige or off-beige, which is different from ecru; a couple who wants to join our bunco group, but the wife lacks a filter and sometimes states things she shouldn’t—for example, that her male collie often gets humped at the dog park by girl dogs, which strikes us as completely inappropriate conversation for our bunco crowd; a brief comparison of kitchen appliance brands; the benefits of galoshes; and why we love Crate and Barrel.
    I realize quickly that this conversation represents a long, slow death in suburbia, the quiet suffering of the imaginationless masses, the soul dulled by commercialism. We might as well be screaming We’re dead! We’re dead! We’re dead! Or, better yet, stuffed and arranged in a display case of a mall—beside a tiny nail-buffer kiosk—by Fadra the taxidermist!
    I look down at my ring finger. The diamond is the size of my knuckle. I would never wear anything this gaudy. I bet this future-me doesn’t ride a bike; instead, she opts for an elliptical in an air-conditioned gym while reading Us Weekly. I realize I’m being judgmental, which feels bitchy even though it’s self-directed.
    Then I look through the glass storefront of a clothing store and see a fogged and pale version of a self I do not ever want to know. I’m in better shape than I am now; I’m tan in an orangey