A short story By GPT3-3, the digital ghost of David Foster Wallace & Daniel Zautner.
Unlike the intentionally characterless “academic papers” I produced previously with GPT-3 (Lacanian Psychosis among pre-teen Tik-Tok users, The Effects of Artificial Intelligence on Modern Judaism (both of which ironically sound exactly like something DFW would make up as a footnote in Infinite Jest)) for the purpose of producing a convincing short story I might even enjoy myself I added guidance for GPT-3 to simulate DFW’s writing style. It was as easy as starting the text with “A short story by David Foster Wallace” at the beginning and GPT-3 took it from there.
The man sitting next to me on the plane is a lawyer. He is going to Boston to give a lecture to a group of manufacturers on the subject of juries. He has just finished explaining to me that he doesn’t especially like to fly, but that he likes to drive even less. He has also told me that his wife has gone ahead to Boston and that they’ve been having some troubles, though he doesn’t specify what kind. I don’t say anything about my own wife, who has gone ahead to Boston too, and I don’t ask him any questions about his lecture. I just ask if I can smoke.
“I never refuse anyone who asks me that,” he says. “At least you know you’re dealing with a real gentleman.”
“Well, I definitely appreciate it,” I say, and I light a cigarette.
“I have asthma, you know,” he says, “and my wife says that I should quit. But I don’t see how I can.”
“Well, I guess you have to do what you have to do,” I say.
“I don’t believe in that,” he says. “I believe in doing what you want to do. I’m a philosopher.”
“I’m a philosophy major,”
“You don’t say,” he says. “I’m a lawyer by training, but I’m a philosopher by inclination. I’ve been a lawyer for almost thirty years, but all I ever wanted to do was sit around and think.”
“What do you think about?” I say.
“Oh, everything under the sun,” he says. “I’m a generalist. I’m especially interested in epistemology. Do you know what that is?”
“I know what it is,” I say.
“I’m going to tell you what it is anyway,” he says. “Epistemology is the theory of knowledge. What do you know?”
“I know that,” I say.
“You’re a smart aleck,” he says. “I hate smart alecks.”
“Listen,” I say. “I’m a philosophy major, and I know a little about epistemology, and I know that it isn’t the theory of knowledge. Epistemology is the study of knowledge.”
“Well, it’s the same thing,” he says. “Knowledge is knowledge.”
“No, it isn’t,” I say. “Knowledge is knowledge, but the study of knowledge is epistemology.”
“That’s sophistry,” he says. “No one ever studied knowledge.”
“Plato studied knowledge,” I say.
“He was a crackpot,” he says.
“What about Descartes?” I say.
“He was a fool,” he says.
“Kant?”
“He was a nut,”
“Frege?”
“He was a dolt,”
“Russell?”
“He was a jerk,”
“Quine?”
“He was a putz,”
“Gettier?”
“He was a nitwit,”
“Chomsky?”
“He was a jerk,”
“Gödel?”
“He was a moron,”
“Kripke?”
“He was a schmuck,”
“I see,” I say.
“No you don’t,” he says. “I’m a generalist, and I can tell you everything you need to know about epistemology. Epistemology is the theory of knowledge. Knowledge is knowledge. That’s all you need to know. I’m a generalist.”
“All right,” I say.
“What do you mean, all right?” he says.
“I mean all right,” I say.
“You’re a smart aleck,” he says. “You remind me of my son-in-law. He’s a lawyer too. He just sits around the house and watches the soaps. You remind me of him. You’re a smart aleck.”
“All right,” I say.
“You’re getting on my nerves,” he says. “My wife’s in Boston, and she’s probably sitting in a hotel room right now thinking about how she’s going to dump me. And you want to sit here and act like a smart aleck.”
“I think you’re overreacting,” I say.
“No I’m not,” he says. “And I’m telling you now that you’re a smart aleck, and I don’t like smart alecks, and I don’t have to put up with smart alecks, and when we get to Boston I’m going to get off this plane and go to my hotel room and call my wife and tell her that I don’t want to see her anymore.”
“Well,” I say.
“You don’t have to say well,” he says. “You’re a smart aleck.”
“I’m not a smart aleck,” I say. “I’m just a philosophy major.”
“That’s exactly what a smart aleck would say,” he says.
“Well,” I say.
“Don’t say well,” he says. “I’m serious. I’m going to get off this plane, go to my hotel room, call my wife, and tell her that I don’t want to see her anymore.”
“Are you going to tell her that I’m a smart aleck?” I say.
“No, I’m not,” he says. “I’m not going to tell her anything about you. I’m done with you. I don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t want to see your face, and I don’t want to hear your voice. I’m done with you.”
“Well,” I say.
It’s a long flight from Akron to Boston, and I want to get some sleep. But I can’t get comfortable, because the lawyer sitting next to me is still ranting and raving. He hasn’t stopped talking since we took off. He’s been telling me about his marriage problems, but mostly he’s been telling me what he thinks about things. He has strong opinions about everything, and he isn’t shy about sharing them.
The flight attendant comes by with a drink cart and asks me if I’d like a cocktail. I ask her if she has any vodka. She says that she does, and she brings me a double. I make a little toast to her, then I take a long drink. She takes the empty glass and smiles at me and says, “It looks like you could use another one.”
“You could be right about that.”
“You have a nice trip now.”
“Thanks.”
The lawyer asks me what she said.
“She said that I could use another drink,” I say.
“That’s what I told you,” he says. “I told you that you could use another drink. I’ve been telling you that all along. I’ve been telling you that you shouldn’t smoke either. I told you that you shouldn’t drink. I told you that you shouldn’t ride in a car. I told you that you shouldn’t eat anything. I told you that you shouldn’t breathe. I told you that you shouldn’t get on a plane. I’ve been telling you that you should do a lot of things. I’ve been trying to help you. I’m your friend. You want to know something? I’m your only friend. I’m your friend, and you don’t appreciate me.”
“Well,” I say.
“I asked you not to say well,” he says. “I asked you not to say well. I’m serious. I’m telling you now. I don’t think you appreciate me. I’m telling you that you don’t appreciate me.”
“Well, I guess I don’t.” I say.
We landed in Boston at five o’clock in the afternoon. I didn’t get to sleep until just before we landed, and I’m feeling groggy and disoriented. I can’t find my cigarettes. I keep patting my pockets, but I can’t feel any cigarettes. I ask the lawyer if he has any cigarettes, but he doesn’t have any either.
“You want to know something?” he says. “We’re both addicts. We’re both nicotine addicts. We’re both alcoholics. We’re both drug addicts. We’re both sex addicts. I’m an addict, and you’re an addict. We’re two addicts. We’re two addicts in a world of addicts. We’re going to be dead in a few years. You want to know something else? I’m not going to be able to make it. I’m going to be dead in a few years. I’m going to be dead in a few months. I’m going to be dead in a few weeks. I’m going to be dead in a few days. I’m going to be dead in a few hours. I don’t have any months, weeks, days, hours, or minutes left. So you might as well know that I’m dead. I’m a dead man walking. I’m a dead man talking. I’m a dead man sitting.”
“Well,” I say.
“Well, what? You want to know something?”
“No.”
“I’m going to tell you anyway. I’m going to tell you anyway, and you can’t stop me. You want to know something? I’m going to tell you anyway.”
“Well, go ahead and tell me.”
“You’re not as smart as you think you are. I’m maybe not as smart as I think I am. I know that. But you’re not as smart as you think you are. You’re not as smart as you think you are.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I’m feeling a little better. I’m standing in the airport smoking a cigarette and drinking my third double vodka. The lawyer is standing next to me. He’s smoking a cigarette and drinking his third double vodka.
“You know what I’m going to do?” he says. “I’m going to take a vacation. I’m going to go to Florida. I’m going to go to Orlando. I’m going to go to Disney World. I’m going to go to Disney World. I’m going to ride all the rides that I can. I’m going to go on Space Mountain. I’m going to go on the Matterhorn. I’m going to go on the Space Needle. I’m going to go on the Skyway. I’m going to go on It’s a Small World. I’m going to go on the Carousel.”
“You’re going to be dead in a few days.”
“I know. I know. I know. I know. But I’m going to do it anyway.”
“You want to know something?”
“What?”
“I’m going to Disney World too,” I say. “I want to go to Disney world with you.”
“You’re going to Disney World?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you going to do there?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do there. That’s why I’m going there. I’m going to find out what I’m going to do there. You want to know something else? I’m going to go to the beach while I’m there and get a tan. I’m going to have an all-expenses-paid vacation. I’m going to have a fucking blast.”
“Where are you going to stay?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll find a hotel. I’ll find a hotel and spend some time in the sun.”
“You’re going to be dead in a few days,” he says.
“I know.”
We stand there smoking and drinking our drinks. We don’t say anything for a long time. We just smoke and drink. The lawyers looks at his watch and says, “Well, I guess I should get going. I’ve got to meet my wife.”
“What time is it?” I say.
“It’s time for me to meet my wife.” He puts his cigarette out in the ashtray. Then he picks up his briefcase and walks away. I continue smoking and drinking.
I’m feeling a little better. I’m walking through the airport, and I’m looking for a pay phone. I want to call my wife and tell her that I’m in Boston. I want to tell her that I’m coming home. I find a pay phone and start dialing. I hear a voice on the other end of the line.
“You’ve reached the Brown residence.”
“It’s Gordon.”
“Hi, Gordon. It’s John.”
“Hi, John. I would like to speak with my wife.”
“She’s out right now.”
“Does she know that I’m in Boston?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m in Boston.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
“You shouldn’t have called here,” he says. “You’re a drunk. You’re not supposed to call here.”
“Well, I’m not dead.”
“That’s not my problem,” he says. “You’re a drunk, and you shouldn’t call here. You’re not supposed to call here.”
“I’m not a drunk.”
“I don’t care what you are.”
“Well, I’m not a drunk.”
“You’re a drunk. You’re a fucking drunk. You’re a drunk, and you shouldn’t call here.”
“what’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“You don’t want to talk to me? What’s the matter with you? I’m your brother.”
“So what? I should talk to you just because we came from the same sack of balls?”
“Just put my wife on the phone, John.”
“No.”
“What? What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no Gordon. You’re drunk, you shouldn’t be calling here. And she doesn’t want to speak to you anyway.”
“She doesn’t want to speak to me?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not lying. She doesn’t want to speak to you.”
“Don’t be so fucking mean.”
“I’m not being mean. She doesn’t want to speak to you.”
“You’re being mean.”
“I’m not being mean Gord, she doesn’t want to talk to you. I’m hanging up now Gord.”
I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot of a Burger King drinking a cup of coffee. I’m drinking my coffee and watching the people in the parking lot. I’m waiting for someone to get in a car and drive away. I want to take that person’s parking space. I want to take that person’s parking space, and I want to have my car in the shade.
I’m watching the parking lot.
I’m watching the people walk in and out of the Burger King.
I see a man and a woman get out of their car and go into the restaurant.
The man is carrying a briefcase. The woman is wearing a short skirt and a tight blouse. She is holding her high heels in her hand.
I’m watching her walk across the parking lot.
She is walking on the hot asphalt in her bare feet. The asphalt is burning her feet. She is walking fast.
She is trying to hurry across the parking lot.
She doesn’t want her feet to blister. She doesn’t want to have to go to a doctor. She doesn’t want to have to take time off from work. She is walking fast. She is moving her feet as fast as she can. The asphalt is burning her feet.
I’m watching the man. He is standing at the entrance to the restaurant. He is holding the door open for her.
He is standing there, and he is smiling.
I want them to come out of the restaurant, and I want them to leave.
The woman left crying. She is running to the car still holding her high heels in her hand. The man is walking behind her slowly. He is laughing.
“Wall Marsha, you really outdid yourself this time.”
“Fuck you, Jim.”
“Yeah, Marsha, fuck me!”