Page 59 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
He plucked the hovering Faby and tried to move forward, but with every step, the simulation sent him back to the beginning.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, Georgie,” he said, anxiety coursing through his body as the child’s unrelenting cry threatened to burst his eardrums.
“Sanitizer!” VR Georgie called out, plucking a wipe from a dispenser and virtually cleaning the cart’s handle and the baby seatbelt buckle.
Jesus! This had to work otherwise—high-tech dream equipment or not—he was ready to chuck this VR headset into next week.
“Try now,” she said.
He walked over to the VR cart and gingerly slipped the baby into the seat and buckled the little belt.
“Bingo!” he cried as the wailing Faby digitally switched to happy Faby.
“That was intense!” Georgie said as they pushed the cart down the virtual aisle, and very non-virtual sweat trailed down his back.
Holy Faby wails! It was one thing to hear a kid cry at the store. But when it’s your own kid—even your own virtual kid—it flipped a switch inside that had adrenaline drilling through his veins.
“Let’s get our bearing’s, and then we can work on the grocery list,” Georgie said when a timer appeared in his line of vision.
“Are you seeing this?” he asked.
“The clock? Yeah, it’s set to five minutes.”
“Is that how long we have to shop?” he asked.
“Five minutes to diaper blowout,” came the robot lady’s monotone voice.
“A diaper blowout?” he repeated.
They stared at VR Faby, who had stopped crying, but now looked as if it were contemplating Einstein’s theory of relativity.
Oh shit! Literally, oh shit!
“I’m pretty sure this baby is going to take a massive dump in.” He glanced at the countdown. “In less than four minutes.”
“We have less than four minutes to shop for ten items, or else the baby will poop all over?” Georgie replied, her voice back in the freak-out octave.
“That’s my best guess, babe. Look at Faby’s face.”
The VR baby scrunched into a pruny expression as it stared into space.
“What’s the first item?” Georgie pressed.
“Milk.”
“Almond, soy, cow, or oat?” his wife rattled off.
“I don’t think it matters.” He looked around and spotted a dairy case. “There, to the right.”
They booked it through the virtual store, and VR Georgie touched a jug labeled milk.
Ping.
“Objective met. Proceed to the next item,” chimed the eerily calm robot.
“We need bread,” he answered, checking the virtual list.
“White, wheat, rye, pumpernickel, potato, or raisin?” his wife listed off like she was the spokesperson for the world of bread.
