Thank You for Choosing BOSS Journeys
written by: Lisa H. Owens
@LisaHOwens
“Hurry, Honey-Bunny. We can’t be late.”
The link instructed us to be ready to log in a few minutes before the official time. Lateness would not be tolerated. We would lose our timeslot.
“I made the cookies, so we’ll get a discount. They assigned us your favorite, oatmeal raisin, but without the walnuts. The link said he had a nut allergy, which surprises me. He doesn’t seem like an allergy kind of guy. Are you getting ready, Emma?”
“Yes, Mommy. I getting ready.”
“It’s, ‘I am getting ready.’ Let’s finish up your wish list. Did you think of some things for me to write down? What do you want?”
“Nuffing, Mommy.”
“It’s, Nothing, sweetheart. Say it with me. Noth…ing.”
“Nuff…ing.”
“You’re almost there. You got the last part right! We’ll work on those ‘th’ sounds later. Now, how should we fix your hair for the B-Pics? The red and green glitter headband or side braid with your silver barrette?”
“Headband, Mommy.”
I brushed Emma’s silky black hair and spritzed it with silver glitter spray before adding the wide headband, magically transforming her into the grown-up version of her five-year-old self. She was growing up too fast, which made me teary-eyed. It had been ages since she had been able to spend real-time with her father, but I quickly shook off the sadness. This was not the time to dwell on such things, and I put on my best smile.
“I’m going to move B-Man. You put the cookies on the special plate, like a big girl; and I’ll come in and pour the milk in a minute. Get the snowflake glass out for the milk, will you?”
“Okay, Mommy.”
We were elated for this journey to begin. Better-Organized Sustainable Systems (BOSS), had simplified the lives of Earth’s Progressive Citizens. It had inserted itself into practically every aspect of the law-abiding citizens’ lives, and this was the first B-Event of this magnitude. By invitation only, the sessions were tailored to each client’s taste (worldwide), and all the participants would be accommodated in a single night. A mind-blowing concept and a tough one to grasp. The event would start shortly, Emma was almost ready. I helped her slip the beige coveralls over her clothes, briefly panicking.
If she would tell me what she wanted, it would ease my mind. The pricing could get a little steep and there were no last-second mind changes or returns. All sales were final and included “Lightning-Fast Delivery!” This was a B-Journeys’ guarantee, unless, as stated by the fine print: said item is not available. Then, at its discretion, B-Journeys would choose the next best thing.
I activated the mood-lighting, then moved B-Man, the BOSS-mandated console, to the dining room, placing it on the table. Additional instructions required the tree to be in full display mode, free of decorations and obstructions, and Emma must wear the provided beige coveralls for the full experience. We would be given the option to purchase an additional TouchTransfer-SceneShot to send to Grammy, which was a no-brainer. Even though we had just spent Thanksgiving with her, it had been forever since she had been able to visit in real time. Our last in-person interaction was shortly before the beginning of THE EARTH WAR, and she would cherish a SceneShot to pin to her interaction wall.
The virtual holiday meals, though better than nothing, had been awkward until recently. Following the most recent system update, B-Technology’s virtual family visits were stunning. We had discovered just how stunning on Thanksgiving Day, when we were instructed to place B-Man in the center of the table for the best dining experience. Once the fancy dishes, holding a feast fit for a king, were placed upon the table, Emma and I sat down, and at the tap of a button, B-Man disappeared and Daniel and Grammy appeared. Through the magic of B-Journeys, they were seated side-by-side across from us.
Daniel appeared hollow and exhausted, his eyes sunken and shadowed by dark circles, and he was still clad in his Progressive Army gear. Given his physical condition, if I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn he’d actually made the endless journey on foot from halfway around the world. That was the beauty part of B-Journeys, as it was explained to us when Daniel was drafted. Virtual visitations—to or from anywhere in the universe and so real you could reach out and touch Saturn’s rings—all in the comfort of your own home. For all intents and purposes, Daniel was home, but not really.
“Daddy! Grammy!” Emma whooped in glee when they appeared.
We bowed our heads and Daniel recited the BOSS Recommended Blessing (BRB), before we began to fill our plates with food. We talked and laughed and even cried a little. It was so real. Imagine our surprise when Emma asked Grammy to pass the salt; and she did. Grammy held out the saltshaker, and when Emma’s hand passed through its physical plane, voila! She was holding an identical replica of Grammy’s crystal saltshaker, transferred courtesy of B-TouchTransfer. B-TT was engraved in tiny letters on the bottom. We kept it to remember our first virtual holiday, but didn’t use it since it contained Near-Salt, a salt substitute B-Care ordered for Grammy as her blood pressure rose above what they deemed acceptable.
We decided to try a delicious experiment and transferred slices of Grammy’s pumpkin pie. It had been a long time since we’d eaten her homemade pie, and Daniel’s eyes teared up as he reached for a second slice, but then Daniel and Grammy started to glitch and flicker. The allotted mealtime was nearing its end and we blew kisses while they faded away.
A smile tugged at my lips as I looked down at the B-Watch buckled around my wrist. It was almost time.
“Emma! Hurry! Bring the cookies and I’ll get the milk.”
I rushed as I smoothed her hair one final time and patted a crease out of the beige coveralls on my way to the kitchen. She followed me and together we carried the cookies and crystal snowflake glass of milk to the table. Then we waited.
An ear-piercing beep resounded, and with a single tap, B-Watch interface opened. The number 60, in bold font, floated midair above the table and a robotic voice stated, “Activating at 60 seconds,” and the countdown began:
60, 59, 58, 57…
I questioned Emma again about her wish list. What was her Heart’s Desire? We’d spent countless hours looking through the virtual catalog in the Heart’s Desire section; but the most popular items quickly disappeared from the list and I hoped she would decide soon.
The countdown progressed: 10, 9, 8… and I moved out of the scene, but just a little bit, as the link stated: Your selected B-Journey is recommended for children. Emma began to count along with the robotic voice, shouting “SIX, FIVE, FOUR, FREE, TWO,” and she clapped and giggled as I scooted closer, and together we shouted, “ONE!”
A symphony orchestra playing, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” erupted from the walls, and a fiery banner replaced the countdown numbers. Its cursive script proclaimed, “WELCOME TO THE NORTH POLE EXPERIENCE!” The banner zoomed around the dining room in a wide loop, causing my little bunny to hop up and down and squeal in delight, before transitioning to Courtesy of B-Journeys and disappearing in a puff of smoke.
We heard creaking and cracking from behind, and spun to find our mandated Christmas tree swaying to and fro, its artificial branches bucking and flailing like octopus’ arms, to cast off the ancient ornaments, all banned propaganda, we had so painstakingly hung the night before. Blown-glass baubles and bells, Hallmark collectables, blinking lights, tinsel—all were gone and the branches bare. A low groan emanated from the tree trunk as it expanded and strained to push higher and higher until its foil tip punched through our low ceiling, continuing upward as it passed through the floors, then the ceilings, working its way through the apartments located above us.
The walls and ceilings disappeared and I joined hands with Emma, as together we danced and gazed up into a breathtaking starlit night. A light frost covered the forest of pines that our living room had become. I inhaled deeply and detected the distinct scent of the balsam firs that had surrounded my childhood home in the Appalachian Mountains. The air felt cold in my mouth, and I exhaled a frosty cloud, for the temperature had plummeted and it was snowing.
“Emma, do you need your coat,” I whispered, but her beige coveralls had transformed into a midnight blue snowsuit, covered in a burst of stars that rivaled the beauty of the night sky.
Snow accumulated at an impressive rate, and we scooped it up to form an arsenal of perfect snowballs, surprised by the woolen mittens that covered our hands. A snowman stood on the edge of the forest and we moved in closer for the kill, and let the snowballs fly. I hit him square in his carrot nose. The nose shifted, askew on his frosty cheek, and he startled. Or was it a flicker? A glitch? Emma and I gasped as the frozen mound began to bend in the area that would be considered his waistline, which seemed impossible, and he planted one branchy arm deep into the powder. The mound began to shift in the opposite direction as he arose to full height, his stick hand holding a massive snowball. Using his other stick hand, he straightened his off-kilter carrot nose and arranged his lumps of coal mouth into an impish grin, then launched the snowball. It dropped down shy of us, powdery snow dusting our…boots? Our slippers had been transformed into furry boots.
“Help me, Emma. Let’s wipe out the snowman!” We hunched over, as one after another, we rocketed snowballs in his direction. They hit him hard and fast, one right after another, and we were winning the battle, when he suddenly began to drip and melt. His face appeared smeared by the time he vanished.
“We killed him,” Emma cried out, stopping abruptly as the forest, with its glitchy snowman and our infinitely tall tree, faded.
We turned a slow full circle, taking in our new surroundings. We were in a workshop. Santa’s Workshop, and it was an explosion of every toy imaginable. We watched an elf, one of Santa’s helpers, as he loaded toys onto a moving conveyor belt which led to a giant red bag lying open on the floor. The elf, his name was E.van. It said so on his pointy cap. E.van—Engineering Vanguard. He continued to work, ignoring our presence, as the toys swept by, dropping neatly into the bag. Dolls, choo-choo trains, stuffed animals, a tricycle. It was endless. The bag never grew full. I noticed small lettering, one of many variations of the words on everything BOSS related, stitched discreetly into a seam on the bag, “courtesy of B-Toys.”
Emma exclaimed, “Magic!” when the workshop disappeared, and a miniature desk, stacked with papers aside an old-fashioned pen and inkwell, appeared in its place. There, on a tiny task chair, sat another elf named ELF. It was scripted on his cap: ELF—Enhancements Legal Facilitator. If I hadn’t noticed a small flicker every so often, I would have sworn he was a real-life elf, another one of Santa’s tiny helpers.
In a voice, deeper than expected, he instructed Emma to follow directions and not to talk unless she was asked a question during her SantaSession. All of the good little girls and boys were awaiting their assigned times. In order for everyone to have a turn with Santa, organization, and promptness were key. Then, with a wagging finger, he “Tsk-Tsked” me for participating, not abiding by the “children only” mandate, and added that since I was there, we might as well take care of the legal side of things. I would hear payment information and sign a B-Waiver; then, I would listen to prompts and respond accordingly.
A robotic voice resounding from the walls proceeded to read off the expenses related to THE NORTH POLE EXPERIENCE, courtesy of B-Journeys. The voice noted we’d clipped the redeemable Cookie Coupon, which would apply a 10% discount and we’d requested the SceneShot with an audio-blip courtesy of B-Memories, which was included in every package. The voice continued, explaining that once completed, a B-Invoice would ping via B-Mail, and it should be paid using cryptocurrency—preferably B-Currency. Then it went on for a while to explain how the child must state “in a loud clear voice” which gift, chosen from the Heart’s Desire selection, she wanted, and if available, it would appear on the hearth “Early Christmas Morn” (local time, of course). If the delivery site (our apartment) didn’t have a fireplace, for an additional fee, B-Decor could provide The Overnight Cozy Hearth Experience. Finally, the voice said, “Thank you for choosing B-Journeys,” and Emma looked over at me, eyes pleading. How could I refuse those eyes? I squatted down to sign the waiver. Then we began the verbal side of the contract, for the record.
ELF, opened the Procedures Manual, reading aloud:
“ADULT, at the beep, please state your full name.”
BEEEEEEP…
“Wintralene Knight”
“Wintralene Knight, say: OTHER, if you require details of lesser packages,” he paused to glance my way. I shrugged.
“Wintralene Knight, say: ACCEPT, if you agree to the terms of The Full North Pole Experience,” ELF’s voice was increasing in volume to be heard over a growing clatter that arose from the apartment’s front lawn.
I briefly hesitated, thinking how we didn’t have a fireplace and how our entire cryptocurrency account would likely be wiped out by The Full North Pole Experience, and wondered what the price might be for one of the OTHER packages, but one look at Emma’s face melted my heart and I heard myself shouting over the din of the clatter, “ACCEPT!”
Then—bloop—ELF disappeared, and we began to hear sleigh bells jingling and prancing hooves on the housetop followed by a muffled “Ho, ho, ho,” coming from the… chimney? I looked over to see a cozy fireplace, void of fire, and red pants tucked into shiny black boots, dropping down. The “ho, ho, ho’s” ceased as the boots landed, and a bearded face ducked to clear the top of the firebox. Next, in all his glory, a magnificent Santa Claus stepped down into the living room. It was the Santa from my childhood, the clichéd Santa we all imagined when watching Christmas Classics, such as Miracle on 34th Street. The round belly, the snow-white beard, the twinkle in the eye—they were all there. But a periodic glitch slightly ruined the effect.
I startled at the strained, “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas,” Santa grunted as he slung the bulging bag over one shoulder. He proceeded toward the dining room table—which had reappeared with the cookies and milk. He continued to repeat the “ho-ho-ho,” which I found redundant and a bit frightening, then he plopped the bag on the floor by a chair and sat down.
As he sat, the “ho-ho…” abruptly ended and he glitched when he asked, in a belly-shaking bowl-full-of-jelly manner, “Will you join me in a cookie?”
Emma sat across from him grinning and exclaimed, “No nuts!” Then she picked up a cookie and passed it to Santa. His hand passed through the cookie’s plane, and through the magic of Touch-Transfer, he drew it back holding a perfect virtual, nutless, oatmeal raisin cookie. The two of them began to nibble, with Santa stopping once to ask (still jolly), “Will you join me in a glass of milk?” She slid the glass over, carefully, so as not to spill a single drop. His hand passed through the glass, then he upended an identical virtual snowflake glass and guzzled the milk. He set it on the table and it shimmered and faded away. His face was void of expression as he waited for Emma to finish up so the SantaSession could begin.
Santa groaned as he reached down and hefted the large red bag onto the table, untying the drawstring so she could look inside. I was happy to see it was still so full. That meant a lot of choices would be available to Emma, who couldn’t seem to make up her mind. Time was ticking and I watched for signs of distress on her five-year-old face, but she exuded joy and amazement at having shared milk and cookies with Santa Claus, but something else too. I recognized it as confidence. I relaxed at the realization that I didn’t care how much it cost to provide my angel with her heart’s desire. THE EARTH WAR had kept her from her Daddy and her Grammy. She had playmates in our complex; thank God for that. Isolationism had recently become a legitimate disability, thankfully covered by B-Care Medical.
“Ho, ho, ho! What do you want for Christmas, little girl?” The SceneShot staging began to develop and the room transformed again. The table was gone, and the ceiling returned to the starlit night, while an enormous throne surrounded by a pine forest and a grouping of regal reindeer, snorting and pawing at the snowy ground, materialized in its place. The chair back extended upwards, nearly bumping the waning moon.
There, seated upon a downy layer of moss and pine needles contained within an ornate structure of reindeer antlers, sat the jolliest version of Santa Claus that B-Journeys had yet to provide. He had rosy cheeks, a little red nose, and a beard as white as new-fallen snow. His expansive belly shook and rippled with each string of ho-ho-ho’s. He radiated Kris Kringle, Jolly Saint Nick, Santa Claus from every pixel.
His fur-gloved hand extended down towards Emma. Her mouth hung open in a state of awe, as she gazed above an icicle staircase to the crinkle-eyed smiling face of the man who made dreams come true. I became concerned she would slip as she aimed one fur boot toward the first ice step, but my fear was abated when each step was coated with a soft bed of pine needles, one by one, before her boots even touched down. I briefly wondered, again, how much this marvelous display of THE NORTH POLE might be costing our little family, but as she climbed with her hand extended towards Santa, their fingertips touched and I was transported back to a time when I was an innocent child, not yet jaded by life and war and hard decisions.
I watched my younger self run down a flight of stairs to the magic of a Christmas Morn, Mama and Daddy waiting by the tree with faces glowing in the joy of the moment.
Meanwhile, a bulb flashed and a SceneShot with an audio-blip from a tiny girl, whose heart’s desire was “Peace on Earf,” went viral, circulating around the entirety of Earf. It was a request B-Journeys was unable to fill.
The End
BOSS Journeys Invoice: #2030-12-25
Client: Knight Family
THE FULL NORTH POLE EXPERIENCE (itemized):
● “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” a B-Orchestra production
● Growing Christmas Tree Experience
● Beige Coverall Transformation Experience
● *SnowSession
● Toy Workshop Observation with CEO, E.van
● Contractual-Terms Consult with ELF
● Overnight Cozy Hearth Experience
● SantaSession
● B-Pic’s SceneShot with audio-blip (courtesy of B-Memories)
● **Discount coupon
● Item-selection upgraded to the Heart’s Desire Package—N/A (item not available)
● On-Time Delivery of Heart’s Desire Item Selection—N/A (item not available)
● On-Time Delivery of Alternative Item, as Selected by BOSS—N/A (item not available)
***Balance Due: $0.00
Thank you for choosing BOSS Journeys, where your satisfaction is our guarantee.
*additional fee: uninvited adult participant
**10% discount: The Cookie Coupon – redeemed
***no charge, as reviewed by B-Overide Department
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