Tamagotchi’d

SHORT FICTION

I’m assigned to the hilliest neighborhood in this city. On the shuttle bus, I study the virtual map on my tablet. I click the icon of each resident and study their profiles. Roonie. 33. First-time Hatcher. Mira. 27. Empty nester. Charles. 29. Experienced Hatcher. Up ahead, two sellers loudly strategize together. I try my best not to feel intimidated by their boldness but it’s almost impossible not to. Between their seats, I catch a glimpse of their Tamagotchi eggs and quickly avert my gaze toward the window. I watch the river pass beneath us as we cross the bridge to Hatchersville. My eyes revert back to the eggs but this time, I let myself stare and take them in. Their eggs are stained with a spectrum of pastels - sea foam green, lilac and peach. I turn my attention to the ones in my lap, appearing more dull and ordinary than before. A small fire glazes my cheeks.

The bus arrives at the mouth of my assigned neighborhood and I notice the perfect sellers packing their bags with their perfect eggs. I drape my flannel over my eggs as the three of us head down the bus aisle, passing the other sellers. Outside, we are greeted by a bald gentleman wearing an oversized, white button-up and a fake, quill feather behind his ear. I recognize him from the Tamagotchi commercials that regularly interrupt my Youtube videos. The commercials started creeping into everyone’s algorithms soon after the company launched its “Nostalgia” campaign, targeted at nineties kids. Well, mostly kids born in the latter half of the nineties - the ones who aren’t allowed to call themselves nineties kids. I have to hand it to the corporation’s masterminds who engineered this campaign - tapping into an existing consumer base and reigniting their love for a forgotten but nostalgic product is an effective marketing strategy. Tamagotchi was created in 1996, two years before I was born. I remember my first and only Tamagotchi: a baby blue console housing a digital alien who I was expected to feed, entertain, clean and tuck into bed on a daily basis. He lasted two and a half days.

The commercial guy practically hurls three clipboarded documents at us and requests that we follow along as he delivers the instructions for the day. Each of you should have a total of three Tamagotchi eggs. We will provide any substitution for an additional fee should you be missing any. His voice is drowned out by my louder thoughts. I stare at the perfect sellers’ perfect eggs until they obscure into one, giant egg…and each design is based on a facet of your being. I tune back in. What?, I hear myself ask with the rawest of inflections. I try again. Sorry, I think I misheard. Are you saying that our Tamagotchi eggs represent us? Like us as sellers? He sighs, which makes me all the more frustrated. No. Your Tamagotchi eggs do not “represent” you. They ARE you. Your Tamagotchi eggs are different versions of you, ones that you have presented to the world. Our data analytics team has tracked and collected every single one of your oral interactions with others since you received your company tablet at our orientation. Based on these data collections and analyses, we’ve digitized your personalities, down to every quirk, mannerism, value and trait. I feel my brain swelling against my temples. The orientation was six months ago. You mean to tell me you’ve been tracking us since then? I watch the perfect sellers exchange a look and I regret speaking again. He clears his throat before answering: All of this was explained in your contracts. I stare at the ground. Now, where was I? Right. Each of you will have a maximum of three hours to sell all three of your eggs. If you fail to fulfill this task, all three of your eggs will be returned to our headquarters for reconsideration. Reconsideration is a friendly way of saying product discontinuation, and product discontinuation is the corporate equivalent of death. This, I know, at least. I want to ask what happens to us when these parts of ourselves die. I refrain - partially to stop being a bother, partially because I’d prefer to move forward without knowing.

I head up the first of many hills and I feel my heartbeat outpacing my feet. I’m carrying my Tamagotchi eggs in a small shoebox until it starts raining. The drops eat away at the cardboard, prompting me to find a new spot for my eggs. My bag is already filled to the brim with company literature and a wide assortment of personal items. I balance the box on a fire hydrant and unbutton my coat in hopes of finding inner pockets. To my unexpected luck, I discover tiny loops of string to hang all three of my Tamagotchi eggs by their snap rings. As I complete my ascent to the first house on my list, I take out my company tablet to power it on. I catch a glimpse of my hair in the screen reflection, now drenched and disheveled. To my relief, the seller script pops up and replaces this visual. I review the minimal tips and prompts provided by the company: sustain eye contact, compliment the plants on their porch, pivot to the product, don’t die. I may have imagined that last one. I approach my first door, belonging to a thirty-year-old Ronan. My knock is too weak for my satisfaction so I try again and hope he only heard the second one. The peephole goes dark and I offer an uncomfortable smile as I step into his tunneled path of vision. Are you a Jehovah's witness? I look down at my rather godless outfit - a stained coat and cargo pants covered in cat fur. Nope, but good guess! I force an awkward laugh. I’m a seller with a product you may recognize! I release the breath I’ve been holding with mild relief that I successfully delivered at least one script line. The doorknob twists and Ronan finally appears with a Patrick Bateman styled slick-back and a tailored suit. Finance bro. I hand him one of our fliers and he looks at it, vacantly. Have you ever owned a Tamagotchi? He shakes his head. I was more of a Nintendo kid, he mutters. The script lines escape me. He looks up at me, ever so vacantly. I can tell he is displeased with my lack of preparation, let alone my entire interruption in the first place. I replay the commercial guy’s pep talk in my head: Sell what you know. Sell YOU!

I open my coat like a sleazy salesman selling contraband to minors. He watches my hand shake as I reach for the piss-yellow Tamagotchi egg. I have a feeling you’ll like this one, I narrate as I activate the screen. The pixelated outline of an alien duck appears and dances next to a pile of its own feces. I quickly press the B-button to clean it up. This is Dopey. She’s soft-spoken, highly agreeable and slightly stupid. Your secrets are safe with her because she’ll likely forget every single one of them! You seem like a busy guy who works in a pretty cutthroat industry. Dopey’s lightness and naivety will serve as a nice counterweight to the constant pull of your stress. Her silly little dances will break up your monotonous schedule. Her adorable little squeaks will wake you in time for your work commute every morning. I pause, then immediately break the silence. What do we think? I make a mental note to practice saying that line with less obvious desperation. Ronan raises his wrist to check his ridiculous watch and I feel the weight of my chest. I wish I had a better egg to offer. A more serious and sophisticated one would be far more relatable to a guy like Ronan. I’ll take it, I hear him say, interrupting my rumination. I illuminate the multi-colored QR code on my tablet and he scans to pay, selecting “No Tip”. As expected. I pull a deconstructed paper box from my bag and stuff Dopey inside of it. Congratulations on being a new Hatcher! Would you like your birth certificate emailed or mailed to you? He snatches boxed Dopey from my hand and begins closing the door. Just text it! The door slams before I can ask for his cell.

The next Hatcher is twenty-seven years old. One year older than me. I immediately recognize her as CJ from fourth-period social studies. She smiles way too enthusiastically as she also makes this connection. Wow, it’s been a minute. We had math with Mr. Harris way back when, right? I nod instead of correcting her - I fear my accuracy of this memory might come off as creepy and obsessive. What’s new with you?, she asks with hesitation as she assesses my current state. Mostly odd jobs, I say as I force eye contact. There’s a slightly prolonged lull. So, have you ever heard of Tamagotchi? History’s worst segue. CJ shrieks with delight. You are asking the right gal! I actually received a Tamagotchi as a gift from my parents on my eighth birthday. I remember building a miniature fort out of paper clips and napkins to protect it from our family’s dog. I guess people are more nostalgic about these glorified keychains than I thought. I feel the tension in my shoulders ease. You know, she says, smirking, it’s actually funny you should show up here. I just watched a Snapchat memory of you the other day. Remember when you got super drunk at that Lawrence kid’s party and climbed into his washing machine? I can’t believe I still have that video. The shoulder tension returns. I laugh a little too hard in order to mask my discomfort, my overwhelming sense of cringe. I revert back to my sales persona. I have a feeling you’ll like this one. I reach inside my coat and present Beepy the bunny, whose egg is gray like a fossil. Don’t let her exterior fool you; Beepy is an absolute riot! Real life-of-the-party, type! She actually never shuts up! Your laughter will be her life force and your entertainment will always be her goal. Beepy juggles three carrots on the screen and CJ claps with unadulterated joy. She’s the kind of friend you go to when you need a giggle fest or a highly non-serious conversation. That’s Beepy’s best quality - she’s never serious! Before I can even ask, CJ claims her. Where do I pay?

The next series of sale attempts are futile. Many of the Hatchers are not home. One Hatcher’s irritated wife answers the door and informs me of his recent passing. The Hatchers who are home and alive are annoyed and uninterested. I don’t understand why this last Tamagotchi egg won’t sell. I run several diagnostic tests to find out if it’s defective but they all come out normal. By the twentieth house, I am panicking. We’ve entered our third and final hour of selling. My tablet’s battery icon is violently flashing at me and I can feel the thickness of new calluses growing against my socks. The next Hatcher lives over a mile away so I use a light post to stretch my limbs before I embark on the next hill. Across the street, I see the two perfect sellers linking arms and skipping together. We’re free! We’re free! I take their theatrical chants as signs of their completion. They’ve successfully sold all six of their Tamagotchi eggs. I feel them look in my direction so I pretend to be engrossed by something on my tablet. I hear them laughing and I imagine them mocking my remaining Tamagotchi egg and its soulless, black exterior. It starts to rain again as I begin my ascent, just like earlier. I face the sky and feel my eyes sting with sweat and rain water.

At the top of the hill, I hunch my body over, sinking my hands into my knees as I catch my breath. I approach the last door on my list, silently praying for a miracle. I deliver my finest knock, a four-beat pattern with an emphasis on the final beat. I hear the knock echo through the house. I wait a full minute then try again. Still nothing. I feel my eyes start to sting again, this time with a hot stream of tears. Before I can bring myself to walk away, I hear a knock on the other side of the door. I stare at the door, as if this will help me understand what just happened. I hear the knock again, this time louder. I reach for the doorknob and twist it with trepidation, pulling the door towards me in slow motion. It’s dark inside the house. I take a few steps back and take out my tablet to check the Hatcher’s name. No name is listed. Then, from deep within the house, I hear a whisper: I have a feeling you’ll like this one. An activation noise erupts from the inside of my coat, prompting me to reach inside and pull out my last Tamagotchi egg. The screen produces an outline, this time of a human wearing a coat and carrying a tablet. This one doesn't dance or juggle. It just stands and stares back at me. We blink in unison. I feel a buzz from my tablet and see a notification from the commercial guy: Sellers, your sales window has officially concluded. Please make your way back to the bus stop for departure. I hang the egg in my coat and head down the hills. The rain picks up again and seeps through a gap in my bag’s zipper, turning all of my remaining company literature into a mound of paper-mache. When I get to the bus stop, I report my sales to the commercial guy and slump into a seat at the very back of the bus. The perfect sellers sit in front of me again and exchange felicitations with the other sellers onboard. The bus rolls forward and I watch the neighborhood hills, once so large and harrowing, shrink into molehills behind us. Once we reach the bridge, I open my coat and grab my last Tamagotchi egg. I lower the window, feeling the wind sweep my face, and push the egg through the crack. I hold my breath as it plummets into the river below.