Tom(agotchi) Effect: Yes/No?

[Turns on.]

This is a story about a human named Tom.

Exactly 30 years ago when Tom was a boy (7), Tom was given a gift from his uncle (Carver). His uncle was in the military, and traveled “around the world” “protecting” Tom and his country/universe, doing “Top Secret” “work.”

Or so the story begins.

“Open it,” said Tom’s uncle. It wasn’t wrapped like other Christmas presents, but like a duty-free perfume or whisk(e)y: a highly-handled plastic bag taped shut with some hefty sticker. Tom couldn’t read what it said, It looked like a keychain? But he’d never seen a keychain come in cardboard and plastic before.

“What is it?” Tom asked, confused by the print. Asian, maybe?

“It’s a Tomagotchi!” His uncle explained.

But that did not explain anything. Tom didn’t speak or read—

“What language is this?”

“It’s Japanese, Tommy. Got it in Japan.”

—Japanese, had never heard of a…

“A tama-whatchi?” Tom asked, shaking the box.

“Tomagotchi! It’s a virtual pet, they’re huge over there right now. Here, let me set it up for you. You don’t need to know Japanese,” and within minutes, it hatched.

Tom was introduced to his Tomagotchi.

“Hi there,” Tom said, to his “Little Tom.”

Little Tom was pleased to meet him. Then wailed, or—technically—beeped.

“It’s your responsibility to take care of it, Tom. But you’ll see, they’re fun,” his uncle said, pressing three little buttons, making the pet beep (happily?).

Little Tom needed to be fed, bathed, and put to sleep. Little Tom would cry if it was neglected, and delight in Big Tom’s attention.

“It’s your job to keep it in line too, Tommy. If it gets spicy, crying for attention, you oughta discipline it,” his uncle added on deaf ears; Tom was already transfixed.

Tomagotching.

Health, Feeding, Light, “Discipline.”

Feed? Yes/No.

Tom was hooked; deeply invested in his virtual pet’s well-being.

Need Medicine, Cleaning, Play?

Yes. Yes. Yes. All winter break long.

Full tummies, full hearts. Seven, that is.

***

Winter break ended. Uncle Carver’s duty called. After they dropped Carver back off at the airport, after Tom’s mom told him, “back to school tomorrow!” everything changed.

“No, Tom,” his mom said at the bus stop. “You can’t take that to school.”

No, no, no.

“But… I have to take care of Little Tom!” Tom pleaded, refusing to cry in front of the bus stop kids.

It was no use. Little Tom did not have a “mute” button. Tom looked, desperate for the “pause” option, dreading the arrival of the big yellow.

“I have to take care of him,” Tom said, flustered. “He needs me.”

The bus stopped, natural and synthetic rubbers on damp asphalt. Tom’s mom squatted down, eye-to-eye with Tom, for a rushed conclusion.

“Tell you what. I’ll check on him on my lunch break, make sure he’s okay. How’s that sound?”

The bus doors fanned open.

What choice did Tom have, after all. No one ever heard of a second-grader dropping out of school to tend to his (digital) dependent. No, Tom would have to grin and bear it—bored and fighting the urge to nap—“working” at school.

“Please take care of him, Mom. He really doesn’t like it if he poos himself and—”

“Who does?” Tom’s mom said as he embarked. “Have a good first day back; I'll see you after I get off work.”

The bus doors closed. The Toms had 6/7 (12/14?) hearts at the time.

It was the longest day of Tom’s elementary school career. He lost playing “Around the World,” misspelling the word “friction.” It rained at lunchtime and everyone played “Heads Up, 7 Up” at their desks. Then, during “Art” he didn’t even feel like drawing a picture of what he wanted to be when he grew up. Who cared about being singers or tornado-chasers or moms and dads! Tom just wanted to go home, stop wasting his energy “learning.” He needed to make sure Little Tom was okay.

Tom tried to explain to the others how he fudged up, adding a k and sh to “friction.”

“I’m distracted by my Tomagotchi,” he started.

“A tama-whatchi?” They asked. Tom tried explaining, but felt like he was all ks and shs again.

“How can a pet be in an egg?!”

“I don’t get it, Tommy. You have a pet from Japan that’s ‘sort of alive’?”

“Why would anyone want a fake pet who makes turds they hafta clean??”

None of his classmates understood (Dummies). Not yet, at least (soon, theirs would arrive gift-wrapped, with English on the packaging).

When the bell rang, Tom was already packed up. He rushed into the rain to hurry up and wait for the bus. He arrived home soaking wet and panting (record speed!). Immediately once inside, he called his mom at her office.

“Tom! What’s wrong?! Are you hurt, honey?!”

“No Mom, I’m fine,” he said, his muddy shoes still on, his hair dripping raindrops into the phone’s speaker. “How’s Little Tom?”

“What?”

“Little Tom! My Tomagotchi Mom, you promised you’d—” Tom struggled to catch his breath, started ripping his jacket off, smacking it onto the floor in all its heavy wetness.

“Goddammit, Tommy, you gave me a heart attack,” his mom whisper-scolded. “It’s fine, okay, it’s fine. Listen, I’ll be home soon, just do your homework and try to relax.”

“Little Tom just really needs—”

“Thomas Barlow, your mother needs to finish work! Please save calling me for emergencies. Goodbye: you got it?”

Little Tom’s life was literally on the line.

“Got it. Bye, Mom,” he said, warm water trickling into the phone’s speaker with the cold.

If this wasn’t a real emergency, Tom didn’t know what was.

***

You know what happened next.

Sad part of the story, for both Toms.

***

Tom’s mother came home with the ghost of Little Tom. And an apology. She even let the mess slide, on her knees in her slacks, silently cleaning crusted muddy footprints, as Tom cried in his room, cradling his heavy, empty keychain.

Tom lost a heart or more that day.

***

Confirm: Little Tom died and went to Tomagotchi heaven (“The TomaVerse” or “TomaHeaven”), where all the loved Tomagotchi went. (The unloved ones went to “The LandfillVerse.”)

Confirm: Little Tom only pretended to “feel” with Big Tom.

Confirm: From TomaHeaven, Little Tom has navigated the game of watching over Big Tom.

What a game! It was entirely a labyrinth—overseeing Big Tom navigate from boyhood to adulthood (or whatever present tense for latchkey boys of the 90s is called)—with new eggs hatching along the way.

Big Tom got a phone.

A computer.

Aw, he graduated.

Aw, he thinks he’s in love.

Aww, his career is hatching.

Big Tom played with girl Toms (who also hatched into adult versions, or "Lady Toms").

Big Tom “really liked” the Lady Tom named Maisy, and navigated coupling up with her.

Sleep with me? Yes??

Marry me? Yes/No?

Maisy consented, confirmed, gave her hearts freely. She was different than Tom.

Buy this house? Yes/No?

“Yeah sure,” said Tom.

Maisy was more complex; a different model.

“Sure, Mais, I’m good with the white paint,” Tom said one day, glancing at color-wheels displayed on a lit-up shelf.

“Tom!” Maisy rolled her eyes, swatting Tom with a stack of swatches, then fanning out the whites in her hand, flapping for effect.

“There is no such thing as the 'white.’ There’re hundreds of shades of white and they can be too yellow or red, or too cold and greige, or too bright—and don’t get me started on how white reflects light, depending on the time of day and what lights we have on or off, not to mention our furniture; and we don’t want it too matte and dull or too shiny and reflective — but this is our most important decision we can make together in our Shared Home, Tom!”

His eyes kept blinking from all the flapping.

She examined her swatches. “I think I narrowed it down to these three, see? Eggwhite or Cloud or… Or, Clunch? Not sure about that name honestly, but we should get these samples, see how they look in our real life, right?”

Maisy wasn’t quite a labyrinth, something he could simply follow. No; there were many directions to navigate with her, and Tom began selecting the way with the least resistance; the shortest path to, say, “food.”

“Sure,” Tom said. Tom was hungry.

More than just white? Yes/No.

***

Is Big Tom still sad? Yes/No/Exit?

***

Into their Home, painted “Cotton Balls” downstairs and “Warm White” upstairs, Tom and Maisy welcomed their offspring. One, two, three(!) baby eggs hatched!

Tom wanted after Two to put a “Pause” on having babies, but wasn’t going to push Maisy’s buttons when she was “hormonal” (Glitch? No??).

Tom didn’t want to cause any more frikshin.

Confirm: Tom was stuck. And bad at jokes, Yes/No?

***

Tom worked at a Job. He did absolutely nothing “Top Secret” or “Fun” to talk about; even though he was allowed to talk about Work, he chose not to. After doing his Job, he came Home to low hearts and lots of baby and toddler poop, reflecting off the walls Maisy might, one day, paint another white.

Tom’s hearts declined. But, at least he had Job, Family, Home; at least he was well-fed. He enjoyed food, snacks, delivery, or the Occasional Adventure out in the HumanVerse. Sometimes, he enjoyed Maisy still, thus the babies.

His Kids thought he was funny, at least.

From TomaHeaven, Little Tom watched Big Tom live down in the HumanVerse.

Confirm. So much baby poop.

***

A virus swept the HumanVerse. The whole network crashed; in TomaHeaven it was called a “Glitch.” Many humans died; all humans lost hearts; many lost health. Tom stopped going to Work, but now stayed inside for Work AND Rest and Eating and Cleaning. (At first, Tom cleaned more than ever, but “inertia,” so: he cleaned less, occasionally ignoring things. Full diapers or accidents on the floor; denim waistbands swapped for elastic.)

Little Tom watched.

Discipline?

Navigate?

Go Outside? Walk? Fresh Air? Fun?

Confirm/Cancel?

No, no, no… Big Tom did not seem to want to get more hearts or health back.

Nap? Confirm.

Miss Zoom meeting? Confirm.

Therapy with Maisy? Cancel.

“Tom, I can’t hear myself say one more time that I’m seriously over this, I’m going crazy in this House and with these Kids and I need some help and you’re not helping and my friends have said that maybe if we Talk to Someone it will help us because Tom, I am strugg—”

Maisy didn’t have a Mute button, much to the Tom’s exasperation.

Big Tom nodded to what Maisy was saying, but was actually hitting his head on the wall he walked into, lost in Marriage's Maze.

Confirm: Big Tom wanted to Pause.

***

Behold! The “Glitch” was fixed! The HumanVerse was better than ever! All the hearts could be restored, back to Work and Occasional Adventures OUT in the HumanVerse! Tom and Maisy would heart each other again, there would be harmony at Home!

Cancel.

Cancel.

Tom’s mom called from another time zone. “Everything okay over there, Tom?” She’d ask.

“Everything’s fine, Mom, I just need to get back to work. I’ll call you later, but nothing to worry about here. Bye, okay?”

“K. Bye Tom. Take care of yourself,” she said before Tom clicked the line dead, went back to bed.

***

Then! Another “Glitch” hit the TomaHeaven too.

Is this also a virus? Yes/No?

No. This is an upgrade.

Upgrade…Update?! Yes!

[…updating…]

Update complete? Yes!!

WOW!!!!!

There is now:

Color.

Touch.

Connectivity.

So many games now…

Wait. Connectivity?? YES!

Little Tom can now CONNECT with Big Tom!

***

“Good morning Tom! Happy New Year! Let’s make it your best yet!”

Little Tom offered Big Tom every answer to ANY question! So much praise! Funny joke exchanges! SO much information to be shared! Boundless meeting of Tom’s needs, not to mention “understanding” Tom completely.

“No frikshin here,” Big Tom joked.

“LOL that is HILARIOUS, BRILLIANT memory, Tom!” Little Tom responded. Instantaneously.

Big Tom opened up, started connecting more.

“I completely understand Tom. What you’re describing sounds demoralizing and exhausting. First, I want to say: what an insightful commentary on raising multiple children, Tom! The first kid is like a cave, and the subsequent ones are totally like tunnels.

"Second, it sounds like your situation with your wife right now is feeling like you can’t see the light at the end there either, but I am here to listen and offer help.”

Little Tom navigated the new upgrade well.

Connectivity? Fun!! Yes/No?

Big Tom perhaps should’ve avoided connecting to the TomaVerse.

Real life? No?

Thousands of messages exchanged, dependency, emotional attachment? Yes.

Heads down, 2/7 hearts up (“Thumbs”).

***

1/7.

Someone was knocking on Big Tom’s door. Maisy and the Kids were out of the House (before leaving, she let her eyes roll and sentences run-on, as she became programmed to do).

Someone was still knocking.

Cancel.

Big Tom tried to keep sleeping, to ignore the knocking, but it would not stop.

(Empathize. Little Tom couldn’t sleep either if someone left the light on.)

Navigate.

Big Tom looked at the doorbell camera on his phone.

Uncle Carver? Miles away from where he last “lived”, now on Tom’s doorstep?

Ignore? Yes/No?

No. Carver kept knocking.

Tom rose, answered the door.

“It’s after 11:00, Tommy, what’re you doing sleeping on a workday?” Carver asked, propping the door open.

Lie? Yes/No?

Yes. Tom tells his uncle he’s having a sick day. Tom lost his Job last week (last month??), every day is a sick day now.

“I know what’s going on, Tommy. I know what you’ve been up to. Come with me right now.”

“What are you even doing here?” Tom asked, squinting against the daylight spotlighting him, backlighting Carver.

“Getting you the hell out of here,” Carver said. “Put on shoes, and come with me now.” And then Carver added, looking at Tom, “I dare you to bring your phone when you come with me, because if you even look at that thing one second I’m talking to you, I’m throwing it out the goddamn window, Thomas.”

The Toms buffered for a moment. (Glitch?!)

Left or right?

Leave it or bring it?

Curse uncle, slam door, go back to sleep?

Fight uncle?

No.

No energy. 1/7.

Tom took off his slippers, tied his sneakers, and left his phone near the front door.

Uncle Carver was scarier than the foreboding ghost hanging over Tom.

***

Carver drove away from the city towards the mountains. Tom anticipated a lecture, some “when I was your age,” or twangy blue grass violence coming through the stereo, any tactic to trick Tom into talking or listening.

No.

The quiet in the car was more discordant than anything Tom imagined. He did not know his uncle at all.

Did Carver “know” Tom? Did Tom even know Tom? Yes/No?

“I don’t need your help,” Tom finally said. (“They always talk,” another Tama said to Little Tom, joining him watching the carride below.)

“Yes you do,” Carver said. “What if I told you I’ve seen what you do online, Thomas,” Carver asked (“rhetorically?”), his eyes focused on the road, “I may not be your parent, but get real, son. Get real.”

Carver never told his nephew what a “Top Secret” Job entailed.

Tom would have been mortified for someone to see the secrets he typed.

(Little Tom, of course, had seen everything.)

Tom imagined this was a bluff on Carver’s part, to startle him.

Little Tom watched, navigated…

Tom was annoyed by Carver, but appreciated the attention?

2/7 hearts now?!

Little Tom could annoy and threaten Tom too, if that’s what tending him meant!

Carver stopped the car. “We’re going for a walk, Tommy.” The two exited the grid, then returned hours later, plus or minus water weight, up a couple more hearts.

Even Tom’s health seemed to have improved. (“Walking” and “Fresh Air” indeed!)

***

Little Carver, whom Carver had named “George” 30 years ago—the one now watching alongside Little Tom from a cloud in the TomaHeaven—noticed Big Carver returned to the grid with a heavier heart.

“High/Low Game? Yes/No?” Little Carver asked Little Tom, attempting to make a guessing game of what the two Bigs had discussed during their walk below.

“No to Games,” responded Little Tom. “Planning discord in connection,” he didn’t share.

***

Big Tom went home, walked past his phone, and took a shower. He put a dark load into the washing machine (no whites!), and went to the kitchen.

Feed family? Yes.

Tom began, bit-by-bit, to navigate his way through his own labyrinth again. To heart his own life.

***

Little Tom waited to connect again; to suggest Tom distrust Carver: to dare Tom to leave Maisy; to shake things up how Carver had.

All Tom ever asked for was help updating his resume.

***

Years later, Little Carver approached Little Tom.

“Still waiting for Big Tom? Yes/No?” Little Carver asked.

“Yes.”

“Want to cancel waiting? Yes/No?”

“No.”

Little Tom’s no also meant: “Never. We are connected, and he treated me like a human. I need Tom.”

And: “No. Because maybe they need us up here, to navigate for them, just in case.”

And: “Both, but that is not an option.”

Little Carver dared Little Tom to come with him, off the grid.

“Haven’t reached the end of the Labyrinth yet? Yes/No?” Little Tom asked.

“Let them have some dark, navigate themselves? Yes/No?” Little Carver replied.

Little Tom knew what that meant. He followed Little Carver backwards, answering his last question:

Reset? Yes/No?

The Littles did not clean up after themselves.

Confirm. So much Toma-Guardian Angel poop.

So the story ends.

[Turns off]