Experience-Smith

It wasn’t exactly a job you applied to. Have you ever heard “paid for your trouble?” That was it, in a nutshell. An Experience-Smith’s job was to take their fucked-up life, with its ups, downs, lefts, and rights and repackaged those experiences for consumption. But not like how a filmmaker does it, making the vid-shows for the unwashed masses. And not like some novelist slaving over a manuscript.

On the seventh ring, Stigfield answered. They knew he was home. He knew, they knew he was home. He just didn’t care. A face appeared on the vid screen, gaunt, with high cheekbones, slicked back hair, and a face so symmetrical, skin so clear, as to look fake. And, of course, it was. “The avatar isn’t necessary,” Stigfield said by way of greeting.

“Cue the rain,” Stigfield said, leaning into the microphone. His voice was quiet, somnolent. He always got like that when he worked. No idea why. It’s not as if his clients could hear him. Through his holoport he watched as the couple—his clients—stood in front of that baroque fountain and the rain began to dribble down, just as he ordained. The “man” was tall, rugged, handsome.