Hello there. Evan in his thought chamber.

Evan Elberson is a writer, copywriter, and comedian based out of Chicago. He spends his spare time dabbling in wild flights of fancy, free-form mono-conversation, and biting satire of day-to-day mundanity. Evan has been kind enough to share them here with the Caotica audience. A series of stories and lists from his sharp and incisive mind appears here before you, free of charge, today. Enjoy.

Today Evan looks ahead to the future, and all the miracles it holds for him.

A day in ten years

Someone once asked in a job interview where I see myself in ten years. It got me thinking. This is how I imagine a typical day of my life in ten years:

The smell of coffee wakes me up. The view of the mountains and the ocean out my bedroom window still captures me.

I enter the kitchen. My wife, Xernabelle, is making future-juice, two glasses. She turns around and her nipples instantly go hard, nearly piercing through my T-shirt she’s wearing.

“Is it cold in here?” I say, as she hands me my future-juice.

“Oh, Evan, you know that happens every time I see you.”

“Coffee is ready, Mr. Elberson”

“Thank you, Mr. Coffee machine,” I say, as the coffee machine extends its mechanical arm to hand me a steamy mug of Joe.

My wife wipes a future-juice moustache off her face and says, “I’m going fit in a yoga class before heading to the music studio. They’re going to teach us how open jars with our thighs.”

“Do you need some money?” I ask.

“No, but I always love when you hand me a big wad of cash anyway.”

I hand Xernabelle a wad of cash and kiss her on the head, then slide into my form-fitting jumpsuit and head to the office.

People understand it’s okay for me to be a few minutes late because they know I was probably doing something very important.

“I love that jumpsuit,” says Christopher, my handsome secretary.

“Oh Christopher, it’s the same uniform we all wear here,” I say.

“I know, I was making a joke.”

“That’s very funny Christopher. Maybe one day you will be as funny as me…”

I point toward my office.

“…and that will be yours.”

“I could never be as funny as you, Mr. Elberson. You’re the funniest person who has ever lived.”

“I’m only a man.”

I run through my schedule with Christopher. I have a pitch at two with a potential client that could elevate this agency to the top of the big leagues.

In my office, I check my emails, sifting through all the fan mail from past work I’ve done.

            I have to think of a really good idea for this pitch today, I say to myself.

I shut the door.

“Computer, let’s make some magic. You know what to do.”

Yes. Initiating brainstorm mode.”

The lights dim, classical music clicks on, and a 10×10 foot polycrobanon whiteboard lowers from ceiling.

I furiously scribble – webs, graphs, charts, sketches, webs of webs, graphs of graphs, charts of charts, sketches of sketches. I am a bolt of lightning.

Half an hour goes by. I collapse on the floor, sweating and heaving. The whiteboard is so packed with ideas you can’t even see the white. I regroup, take a shot of whiskey, and return to the board. One of the ideas (which I don’t even remember writing) stands out among the rest. It’s almost glowing. I place my finger on the idea, smudging it a little.

That’s the one… I whisper.

Time for a workout and lunch.

I meet Juan, my handsome trainer, at Ripples, the best gym in the city. While pumping we talk about cars and motorcycles. And women (Juan always gives the best advice when it comes to women). Half way through the workout I begin to train Juan instead of the other way around. I know I’m paying for it but I don’t care, I like to help.

I meet an old friend for lunch. I know he only wants to meet to convince me to write some stuff for a big thing he’s producing, but I don’t mind, it’s nice to catch up. We talk about cars and motorcycles, where is the best spot to vacation in Monaco, and the business. He timidly drops the request that I write some stuff for the big thing he’s producing, and I accept, for a fraction of the price, because I treasure our friendship.

The big pitch.

After an hour of barking orders at the interns and juniors, the presentation is ready. I tell Christopher to remind the other executives they’re not allowed to talk about my ideas during the pitch.

The potential clients arrive. They wear different colored jumpsuits from us – that’s how we tell them apart. They’re more handsome than I expected.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Elberson, we’ve heard a lot about you,” says the president as we shake hands.

“Good things, I hope,” I say.

The clients laugh.

“Let’s go to the pitch room, shall we?” I say.

I see a woman walk by wearing our agency’s uniform. I don’t know her name so I make one up.

“Gretchen, get these clients some future-juice,” I shout.

“Right away, Mr. Elberson,” she responds.

A standing ovation. Even some whistling. The pitch goes perfectly, as usual. One of the client executives laughs and cries at the same time. Another client looks at him,

“Bill, are you laughing or crying?”

“I don’t know. The pitch was so funny and beautiful, I don’t know.”

I place a hand on Bill’s shoulder.

“That’s a perfectly normal response,” I say. “You’ve been so emotionally overwhelmed your body doesn’t know how to react.” I look up at the client president. “It will be a pleasure working with you.”

I leave the room and let the account people handle the financial details of the contract.

In my office I pour myself a glass of whiskey, alone, gazing out my window.

“Computer, what’s life really all about?”

I do not know, Mr. Elberson.”

            “Of course you don’t, no one does…”

There’s a quiet knock on my door.

“Come in.”

It’s Stacey, one of the new interns.

“I’m not bothering you, am I?”

“No, of course not. What is it?”

“I… I don’t want you to be mad, but…”

“It’s okay, what’s going on?”

“I sort of, listened in on your pitch through the door. I know, that was wrong because I’m only an intern, but, I had to know how you did it. I always hear about your pitches, and… how do you do it? It was like… listening to a bird create a planet or something.”

I pour Stacey a drink.

“Is it okay?”

I nod, handing it to her.

“I’ve lived, Stacey, I’ve lived fast and hard. That, what you heard over there? Is the product of a lifetime of masochism.”

She brings her face toward mine. I turn away.

“I’m married.”

“I don’t care, I need you.”

“You have a whole life outside of this place. Don’t let me stop you from becoming who you are.”

“But, I think I love you, Mr. Elberson.”

“You’re a smart young woman, but you don’t love me, you love the concept of me. Sometimes I don’t even feel human. I can’t be loved by someone like you.”

She wipes a tear from her eye and smiles a fake smile.

“Thanks for the drink.”

Just as she reaches for the doorknob she stops to turn around.

“I’m sorry…” she says.

“Don’t be. I understand.”

She leaves and I stare at the two unfinished drinks on my table.

I come home to find Xernabelle sitting on the kitchen floor opening a jar with her thighs, nipples erect as a robin’s beak.

“Looks like those yoga classes are paying off,” I say.

“What do you want to eat tonight?”

“Japanese.”

Xernabelle tells the computer to order Japanese for two.

I slip out of my jumpsuit and join Xernabelle on the couch with our Japanese cartons. We watch our favorite show, Jungle Dust, on the Opio-Screen, talk about nonsense, and stroke each other’s hair until we fall asleep.