Sam Lipsyte - The Subject Steve

He got more Steve years on him. It was time to be in the world. The world was like God or some fucked-up dragon. You couldn't look at it all at once or you'd go nuts.

He fell in with a woman who believed in falling in love. They made a creature together. People made creatures to pass themselves onward, but that's not how he saw it. He wanted to stop the Steveness. He needed a family to destroy him, his Steveness. Someday he'd make a new name for himself. Before he died he'd have a new name, or no name.

It wouldn't be the name his mother used to call him when she called him in for dinner from the stoop.

"Stee-eeve!" she used to call.

Once, his buddy Cudahy grinned.

"Tell her fuck you."

They'd been wrestling in the grass. Greco-Roman. American. Fake American.

"Fuck you, Mom!" he called across the yard.

He had to eat dinner on his bed. The penalty for insolence is room service. He couldn't eat, though. He couldn't get it down. It was because of the guilt. He said it was because of the broccoli.

What does Steve eat?

He eats what's brought to him. Water, bread and water, sometimes stew. The Realms community decides his dinner daily. Steve has joked that he can gauge the mood of the nation by the size of his portion. Some days the nation is in a generous mood. Some days, maybe, the generous majority is busy. Those days the people Steve tends to call the bastards log on to the Subject Steve. Just Water, they shout at their screens. Of course, there are those who have already visitedThe Tool Shed and downloaded the latestthought command application. They don't have to say anything at all!

They just think just water, and just water it is!

When is Steve not available for viewing?

Never is Steve not available for viewing. There are camerason him all the time. There are camerasin him all the time.

Is the Subject Steve a game?

The Subject Steve (TM) is a revolutionary media space that binds together the most innovative elements of gaming, spectacle, democracy, and commerce. It is produced byThe Realms in association with theGoldfarb-Blackstone Life Lab.

What is the significance of the mothering hut?

The hut Steve inhabits, housed in the main facility, is an exact replica of the one erected by the late Heinrich of Newark at the now-defunct Center for Nondenominational Recovery and Redemption. It was used for purification purposes and to hasten personal growth. The Realms, as many know, is indebted to the teachings of Heinrich, but its methods and goals must be situated in a much larger context.Read Realms-founder Robertson Trubate's mission statement for more information.

How long does Steve have to live?

It's difficult to calculate. By our calculations there can be no calculations. He is dying of something no one has ever died of before. He is dying of something absolutely, fantastically new. Click here for his medicalchart or visit the Realmsarchives for a peek at the top-secret notes Goldfarb and Blackstone took during those first, exciting consultations. Click here for adimensional model of the deadly Goldfarb protein.

Is Steve's item book posted in its entirety?

It will never be complete until Steve himself achieves ultimate completion.

Does Steve deserve our sympathy?

We'll let the Realmers speak to that. Here's a transcript from comments made earlier this week in the Special Cases Lounge, one of our most popular rooms.

gary7:fuck steve. . anybody here?

burma: steve-O fuck that fucker die already!

nonabravo: he's misunderstood

burma: this twaddle again? i say fuck steve

gary7:bad dad bad hubby.

nonabravo: less than bad. worse.

reneelegs: He thinks he made me come.

bundiscakes: Sad Less than sad.

gary7:fuck him

machinaX: right on baby!

nonabravo: did you see that bio on his father?

seawolf: inner monsoon my ass.

steve: Hey, it's me.gary7: fuck you get the fuck out of here.

reneelegs: steve you should go.

burma: you're ruining it dude.

gary7: go the fuck you fuck.

"You're a hit," said Bobby Trubate. "But watch it with all the scribbling. Better you babble than scribble. Better yet, moan. Steve, they love the moans. They love the mealtimes. They dig dialogue, conversations, say. The conversation we're having now? They love it. We have data. Your pathetic attempts at masturbation? The rubbing? They adore this. Hell, they even tune in for your naps. But the writing, I mean, have you ever watched somebody write? What are you fooling around with that stupid item book for, anyway? The rest of us burned ours, you know. After we buried Heinrich. Very ritualistic. Very moving."

"I'm not done with mine."

"Well, I'm not going to stop you. More Steve content. For later. Do you know what I mean when I say for later?"

"Yes," I said.

"The bed restraints aren't too tight, are they?"

"No, they're great."

"Do you have enough arm motion?"

"Sure."

"How's your back?"

"I don't know. I'm restrained."

"I'm sure it's fine," said Trubate. "I'm sorry I shot you. But I bet you're pretty stoked it was a rubber bullet. I ordered them by mistake, but then I figured, rubber gets the job done. I'm not here to kill people."

"No, I suppose not."

"I mean Heinrich would have killed your ass. Bailing on his funeral like that."

"I guess so."

"I'm on your side. Not that there are sides, but if there were sides, I'd consider myself on your side."

"Thanks."

"Steve, do you know that I love you?"

"I didn't know that," I said.

"Now you know. I was going to say, not in a sexual way, but what the hell does that mean? I love you in every way. We're all post-human here, right? I'm not afraid. Are you afraid?"

He pointed to a canvas satchel on the wall, Heinrich's old pain kit.

Branks, breast-ripper, pear.

He looked up into one of the cameras in the thatch.

"Realmers," he said, "are you ready for more show!?"

The Philosopher came by for a visit.

"You," I said.

"Me," he said, bared his new blazing teeth.

"Nice," I said.

"Had to fly up north for them," said the Philosopher. "Find a mouth guy Blackstone hadn't turned against me."

"The Mechanic," I said.

"We're in heavy litigation."

"Sorry to hear it."

"Don't be," said the Philosopher. "I consider it a continuation of our collaboration by other means."

He smoothed his hand on his hood.

"Why do you wear that?" I said.

"I'm Code Blue Man."

"Like a superhero?"

"People are frightened by science. This makes them feel more comfortable. Are you comfortable?"

He lifted a long syringe from a felt-lined case.

"What's that?"

"It's just a prop. People want more injections."

"There's stuff in it."

"Yes, there's stuff in it."

"What's the stuff?"

"Prop stuff. Now, if you'll allow me to lift your gown for a moment."

"Why?"

"Because," said the Philosopher, his voice loud for the microphones, "I need to take this frighteningly large needle and inject the sensitive tip of your penis!"

"No!" I said.

"It's crucial to your treatment!" he shouted.

"Please," I said.

"Just trust me," he said.

I decided to trust him. I figured he meant to fake it. I could sense a weariness in him, some seismic disgust with the entire enterprise.

I guess I figured wrong.

Time went by, probably. It was hard to keep track. The Realms launched a news division, a twenty-four-hour, continuously updated wire service, but the news was always at least several hundred years old. "False Messiah Leads Jews Awry in Smyrna," read one headline. "Pre-Classic Mayan Ritual to Include Hallucinogenic Enema," went another. Maybe it was all part of continuum awareness training.

Maybe it was all part of a plan.