Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom | Page 7

and he somehow grew to take over every conversation I had for
the next six months. I pinged his Whuffie a few times, and noticed that it was climbing
steadily upward as he accumulated more esteem from the people he met.
I'd pretty much pissed away most of my Whuffie -- all the savings from the symphonies
and the first three theses -- drinking myself stupid at the Gazoo, hogging library terminals,
pestering profs, until I'd expended all the respect anyone had ever afforded me. All
except Dan, who, for some reason, stood me to regular beers and meals and movies.
I got to feeling like I was someone special -- not everyone had a chum as exotic as
Keep-A-Movin' Dan, the legendary missionary who visited the only places left that were
closed to the Bitchun Society. I can't say for sure why he hung around with me. He
mentioned once or twice that he'd liked my symphonies, and he'd read my Ergonomics
thesis on applying theme-park crowd-control techniques in urban settings, and liked what
I had to say there. But I think it came down to us having a good time needling each other.
I'd talk to him about the vast carpet of the future unrolling before us, of the certainty that
we would encounter alien intelligences some day, of the unimaginable frontiers open to
each of us. He'd tell me that deadheading was a strong indicator that one's personal
reservoir of introspection and creativity was dry; and that without struggle, there is no
real victory.
This was a good fight, one we could have a thousand times without resolving. I'd get him
to concede that Whuffie recaptured the true essence of money: in the old days, if you
were broke but respected, you wouldn't starve; contrariwise, if you were rich and hated,
no sum could buy you security and peace. By measuring the thing that money really
represented -- your personal capital with your friends and neighbors -- you more
accurately gauged your success.
And then he'd lead me down a subtle, carefully baited trail that led to my allowing that
while, yes, we might someday encounter alien species with wild and fabulous ways, that
right now, there was a slightly depressing homogeneity to the world.
On a fine spring day, I defended my thesis to two embodied humans and one prof whose
body was out for an overhaul, whose consciousness was present via speakerphone from

the computer where it was resting. They all liked it. I collected my sheepskin and went
out hunting for Dan in the sweet, flower-stinking streets.
He'd gone. The Anthro major he'd been torturing with his war-stories said that they'd
wrapped up that morning, and he'd headed to the walled city of Tijuana, to take his shot
with the descendants of a platoon of US Marines who'd settled there and cut themselves
off from the Bitchun Society.
So I went to Disney World.
In deference to Dan, I took the flight in realtime, in the minuscule cabin reserved for
those of us who stubbornly refused to be frozen and stacked like cordwood for the two
hour flight. I was the only one taking the trip in realtime, but a flight attendant dutifully
served me a urine-sample-sized orange juice and a rubbery, pungent, cheese omelet. I
stared out the windows at the infinite clouds while the autopilot banked around the
turbulence, and wondered when I'd see Dan next.
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CHAPTER 1
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My girlfriend was 15 percent of my age, and I was old-fashioned enough that it bugged
me. Her name was Lil, and she was second-generation Disney World, her parents being
among the original ad-hocracy that took over the management of Liberty Square and
Tom Sawyer Island. She was, quite literally, raised in Walt Disney World and it showed.
It showed. She was neat and efficient in her every little thing, from her shining red hair to
her careful accounting of each gear and cog in the animatronics that were in her charge.
Her folks were in canopic jars in Kissimmee, deadheading for a few centuries.
On a muggy Wednesday, we dangled our feet over the edge of the Liberty Belle's
riverboat pier, watching the listless Confederate flag over Fort Langhorn on Tom Sawyer
Island by moonlight. The Magic Kingdom was all closed up and every last guest had
been chased out the gate underneath the Main Street train station, and we were able to
breathe a heavy sigh of relief, shuck parts of our costumes, and relax together while the
cicadas sang.
I was more than a century old, but there was still a kind of magic in having my arm
around the warm, fine shoulders of a girl by moonlight, hidden from the hustle of the
cleaning teams by