Love Lockdown

Somewhere in Western Civilization, September 2nd, 2274, 4:54 pm

Buzzzzz

“That goddamn locket, back at it again with another perfect match alert,” I exclaimed, to no one in particular. Somewhat ironic timing, I guess, given the current contents of the recording. Still no reaction from Mike, who had recently taken to tuning out my grumbling about most things, with a particular aversion to my grumbling about Hinge. I suppose I’ll still see what my third quartile genetics have in store this time.

Abigail Bronson has been identified as a perfect match!

She’s actually not bad looking at all! Brown hair, hazel eyes, straight white teeth, and a truly spectacular caboose. Well, at least from the suped up, perfectly curated photos that popped up out of the locket screen. Unfortunately, past experiences with similar profiles have taught me all too well that everything isn't always as it seems. Abigail is in my pool for a reason, even if the photos themselves are to be taken at face value. With a profile like that, it she’ll be relatively dull (although I’ll take that in comparison to the other infamous lurking drawbacks.) Can’t have the clingers. Can’t have the controllers. But hey, that’s the point of all this right? Can’t achieve perfect balance without a little trade off.

I deserve a pat on the back for censoring that snide remark for Mike's benefit, if I do say so myself. Baby steps. No one likes a grumbler!

The screen droned, “…even as these alterations grew more and more radical, the speed of human evolution was contained by the fact that all enhancements were performed after birth, generally well into adulthood…”

I get it, screen! I’ve gotten it since the unbearably cheesy level 4 play about the boy who grew too tall! Certainly since the level six activity where we had to take the final exam without studying, while the class next door got to use the internet. You would think the educational council would figure out something else to teach during Human Evolution by the time College began. I guess that’s why they call it an intro course.

Only three minutes left in the recording, and thank god for that. I’m really looking forward to getting the fuck out of here for the week.

“Hey Mike, come check this match out…she almost looks like she might be one of yours by mistake!” I screamed over the fading dialogue of the screen.

“Gimme that” Mike said, snatching the phone and popping the Hinge extension back into full view. “You might have finally caught a break here McGill! Maybe old granddaddy McGill wasn’t as much of a looker as we thought.”

“Although the cast of characters that have been showing up at our doorstep recently still suggests otherwise. This girl has gotta have some drawbacks, she's in the second quartile after all” Mike continued.

“You’re probably right” I muttered. Mike passed the phone back.

“I guess we can’t all have as a lineage like mine.” He announced, reverting to his criminally overused catchphrase. “Thank god my great grandfather smoked so much, really set the table for me on Hinge. Those carcinogens really can stick with a gene pool for generations! Not to mention the lack of self-control.”

The doors to the classroom finally opened, and the mad dash towards the weekend began in earnest even as the screen prompted us to ask any follow up questions. That screen, the poor bastard. Never understood when to stop talking, a complete lack of feel!

“So you going to try and get sanctioned with that Abigail girl? Looked like she had already proposed a time tonight.” Mike said as we emerged from the room.

“Yeah I probably will, can’t hurt to see what it’s all about. Unlike you, I have to take advantage of the few opportunities I have to get sanctioned with good looking girls,” I said.

“You’re damn right you do! Alright, I’ll catch you later. Heading over to grab a beer,” he said as he waddled away.

Mike was a rare candidate uniquely advantaged by The Gap protocols. As someone who could only have been described as ugly and probably pretty stupid by traditional standards, he was placed in the 1st quartile genetics pool. Yet despite his stout, balding, young George Costanza-esque appearance, Mike had a lot going for him. He was friendly. Funny. Great awareness and feel. Lots of nurtured traits that never showed up on the Hinge evaluation form. And he knew it! Just as humans always had, as the screen had probably taught us at some point, Mike was taking advantage of the situation he was afforded.

“Anyways,” I muttered to myself, turning the corner toward my tower “time to get ready for that sanctioning.”

Somewhere in Western Civilization, September 2nd, 2274, 7:31 pm

Sitting in the Match room, one can’t help but think about how future generations will eventually avoid these feelings entirely. The lockets will no longer be necessary.

The voice suddenly came over the speakers:

“Welcome to your perfect match sanctioning! We know you all have a lot to look forward to, and this will only take a few moments. Before we get started with the sanctioning process, we would like to take a moment to remind you that pursuing relationships and/or sexual activity outside of a perfect match is strictly prohibited. As a result, if you and your potential match do not pass the sanctioning process today, you are strictly forbidden from interacting after you leave the facility.”

“Please step forward into your love boats!”

I walked across the room into the white “love boat”, which was just a translucent elevator (for all the advances in genetics and governance, humans had a difficult time improving on gauche, apple store interior designs over the past several centuries).

After about 30 seconds, I stepped out of the “love boat” and into a familiar room, where I was greeted by one of the Hinge “Matchmakers.” She had already begun to give her spiel:

“… and college is a place to start doing your part to further our great reversal, to close The Gap!”

Snapping back into focus, I looked up to see a girl who I could only surmise was Abagail. Stunning. What the heck was going on here? I guess I should wait to hear her speak before I get too ahead of myself.

“Step forward please, you two! We’ll just need each of your Hinge Lockets for verification and then you can be on your way.”

After passing our lockets to the Matchmaker, Abigail and I took a step back, now standing side by side. She leaned over slightly and whispered “You know, you’re a lot better looking than my last several matches. What’s wrong with you?” with a wry smile scampering across her face for a moment before quickly resuming her professional stance. She grabbed my hand playfully.

Before I could respond, a loud horn sounded from the desk of the Hinge Matchmaker, who eyed us quizzically. “Let me just run these one more time, sometimes this system is a little wonky…you would think they would have gotten the kinks out by now, right?!” she exclaimed with a nervous laugh.

This was certainly strange. Usually, the process was over by now and a cheesy voice would be reading off popular (sponsored, no doubt) date ideas for the evening.

Abigail dropped my hand, sensing the strangeness as well.

The monitor on the Hinge Matchmaker’s desk sounded the horn again. She looked up, almost fearful.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “There seems to be something wrong with the system, we’re going to have to ask you to report back to your Match Rooms for just a moment while I get Hinge support on the case.”

I looked at Abigail, as we parted ways. She doesn’t meet my gaze.

Somewhere in Western Civilization, September 2nd, 2274, 8:46pm

I’ve heard stories about these types of mixups. They happen every so often. Two Hinge Matchmakers finally enter the room after a while. As they approach, one man and one woman, they try smile reassuringly.

The man begins, “So you might have an inkling by now about what has happened here…But essentially, the locket network had a bit of a mixup with your latest match.” He paused.

The woman, maybe sensing my lack of comfort, jumped in stating, “As you know, you are part of the third quartile of our genepool due to a variety of factors, and, as such, your perfect matches are all pulled from the second quartile of the genepool.”

The man began again, stating, “In order to limit the expansion of the human genetic gap that ballooned during the late 22nd century, the Hinge Matchmaking system was implemented to ensure every relationship produced more genetically similar offspring.”

“As you well know,” he added, gesturing towards my university sweatshirt. I nodded.

After an awkward pause, he said, “unfortunately, despite what your lockets indicated, Abigail also belongs to the third quartile genepool as well.”

There it was, my suspicions were confirmed. I knew there was something a little bit off. I knew it was a little bit too good to be true.

As the Hinge Matchmakers continued to finish up their explanation about how genetically irresponsible it would have be for us to have matched. My mind wandered back to the comment that Abigail had made. How similar it was to my own sentiment at the time. How nice her hair smelled. What a shame!

“And finally, here is your Hinge Locket sir!” the women exclaimed. “Due to our mistake, we have expedited the algorithm to find two additional perfect matches for you! Would you like to review them now?”

“That’s OK,” I said. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for the evening.”

“Well, I can certainly understand that! Just to reiterate, although you may have gotten to know Abigail briefly, we must remind you not to pursue any sort of relationship with her once you leave this room. Doing so would jeopardize our efforts to close The Gap! Would you mind providing verbal confirmation that you have understood that statement?” the man said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Great! We’re all set here, so feel free to continue out of those “H” shaped doors if you have no further questions!” they exclaimed in unison.

Reverse evolution and reversion to the mean. Who would have thought, at the beginning of the 21st century, that we would end up here—matte-white vibrating lockets governing our sexual and emotional experiences. All in the name of equality. What a bore.