“For myself? I haven’t ever really felt the urge to merge my life with someone else’s. I’m not the market my app is targeted at. If I want to getlaid,I reach for the same apps as everyone else. You know how it goes, swipe right, have a nice night.” He mimics waving goodbye to his booty call. I spray him in the face again.
“I’d be mad at you for that if it didn’t feel so damn good,” Jackson smiles, wiping the water from his eyes. He pulls down the collar of his shirt, exposing his chest, and I notice the small green medallion on the chain around his neck again. It looks like a pet tag. “Hit me again?” he says tilting his head back.
I spray the water at his face, aiming up his nose, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He just uses the hem of his shirt to mop it up.
“So what makes your app different from all those others?” I ask, a little pointedly.
“I’m so glad you asked, Isla,” Jackson smiles charmingly, and I see the college professor side of him rise to the surface as he launches into his pitch. “My app isn’t just about facilitating hook-ups. My app makes compatible life matches based on proven data points, rather than fleeting attraction. We’ve done over a decade of computer learning enhanced research. In short, my app makes it easier for people to findtheir most ideal partners.”
Somehow, while he’s distracted me with his talking, he’s also managed to sneak the mister fan off the table. He sprays me in the face now, catching me completely off guard. I gasp at the icy blast. Unexpected, but not unpleasant. It reminds me of the shock of running through sprinklers as a child, chasing rainbows.
“All’s fair!” Jackson gloats.
“Do it again,” I say, closing my eyes this time and sighing with pleasure when he switches on the fan and holds it in front of me.
“Can you two please turn that thing off? We can’t risk getting the equipment wet.” One of the tech guys pointedly reprimands us and mops his brow with a microfiber rag. He’s a large man, and he’s sweating profusely, a situation which isn’t being helped by the beanie and flannel shirt he’s got on.
“Sorry,” I apologize, reflexively.
“We haven’t aimed the fan anywhere near the electronics,” Jackson argues. “It’s a pretty targeted spray. Here. Just chill.” He offers the fan to the techie who stubbornly waves it away and returns to his console.
“Or not,” Jackson shrugs. “Nowthatis a real-life grumpy nerd,” he whispers in my ear.
We both turn our attention to the monitors now, as a four foot tall robot rolls into the center of the filming area. It is decorated with a colorful “Playing with Matches” themed vinyl wrap and has a flashing LCD screen for its face. Right now the screensaver is cycling through a deck of playing cards featuring each of the contestant’s faces and animated hearts. There’s a little shelf on top of the robot’s ”head” where a stack of envelopes is arranged.
Peeking outside the tent, I can see the robot is being controlled by Rory. She’s standing next to Rob’s folding director’s chair, and she is clearly holding the controller. She says something to him and he nods, then she presses a button and fidgets with a dial. The robot starts to loudly play the theme song for the show, the 80s classic “Playing with Matches.” The robot spins around at the center of the clearing in the middle of the stage, doing a little dance of sorts. Alexis watches from the sidelines, and she shoots me a thumbs up.
Everyone stops and claps. “Three minutes everyone!” Rory calls out.
The robot suddenly spins around, revealing Jackon’s company logo in the middle of the back side. Right where the robot’s “butt” would be. If a four foot high rolling robot could have a butt.
I snort.
“What?” Jackson smiles and raises his eyebrows at me. “You want to let me in on that joke?”
“You called your app AI Swiper?” I say, blinking back tears of laughter.
“Yeah, that’s because the research showed that people are totally addicted to swiping. It’s all about the dopamine.” Jackson sighs, “Powerful stuff.”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” I fan my face with my hand. “Didn’t you run the name past anyone?”
“Of course!” Jackson rolls his eyes. “We did the market research, hired a firm, ran focus groups….”
“And you’re sure that none of them were trying to sabotage you?” I ask.
“Of course!” Jackson is looking at me like I am crazy.
“Then how could they ever have let you name your app ‘Asswiper’, Jackson?”
He looks at me quizzically, then follows my gaze back to the robot that is still doing a little dance center stage, shaking its branded booty. His eyes suddenly go wide, and he blanches.
“Oh my God,” he says, seeing it for what I can only assume is the first time. “Oh my fucking God.”
“Places everyone! Quiet on the set! We are ready to roll!” Rob calls out.
* * *
Marco stridesout into the center of the gazebo to greet the cast. Jackson is still scowling, and his fingers are twitching, likely with the unmet urge to text someone.
