“To heck with it,” he grumbled and tossed the razor into the sink. He wiped his face and dabbed the second nick on his chin with toilet paper. He glanced up at his ordinary face, reflected back at him in the mirror. Half-baked and scruffy. I work alone anyway, he thought, studying the grey stubble. No one will notice … or care.
He checked his smart phone for messages before dressing. She’d left his freshly laundered clothes for the day on the bed and he put them on. Grey-black something or others. He grabbed his tablet that had been charging overnight. He slid it into his satchel, snagged his two smart phones, checked for messages again, and went into the kitchen.
She was just finishing her breakfast, toast in one hand and phone in the other. Without looking up, she pointed to his toast on the table. He grabbed the toast and with a gruff excuse about a project, pecked her on the cheek and left.
Once outside, he pulled out his ear buds and plugged into one of his phones. Retro-music from the 1970s soothed him into docile languor. He pulled out the second phone and checked for messages as he stepped out onto the street.
The city swarmed with bustling intent. He wormed his way through the daily migration. Every brush of a shoulder or arm was a violation. He glanced up at the blank faces, rushing past him with the urgency of routine. Faces that stared through him, talking on their phone, plugged into music; texting or simply staring at the phone clutched in their hand.
Damned people! Watch where you’re going!
He followed the gang of suits as they jaywalked across the street into the commerce building. The swarm took him down the escalator into the din of the subway station. People jostled past him, carrying Starbucks paper cups. They herded him down as they, too, felt the pressure of time.
God! I wish everyone would fucking disappear and give me some fucking room! he shouted in his invisible inner voice.
For an instant made eternity his steps stuttered into a cascade of staccato movement.
What the??!!
Like a drug-induced ballet, he felt himself move in a kind of robotic jerking slow motion. The rest of the world flowed past him, unimpeded. Apart. As though he’d entered a bubble in time. Then it was over and the chaos of speed returned to his limbs. And so did the jostling. What the?…The last time he’d experienced something like that was in Grade 12, when he’d smoked a really bad joint and time had literally slowed for a long instant. Even the voice on the radio had deepened with slow motion. What was in that toast today?
He shrugged it off and entered the station.
The crowd dispersed like a river in a sea. So many drops, he thought. I’m just one…
He slipped a token into the gate. It yielded and he descended with the horde to the subway platform, heading south to the city centre. Checking his messages, he shuffled to the right location on the platform. He didn’t have to look up; he knew, from the number of times he’d done this before, where to stand to get out at the best location in the destination station. He skipped through several messages from work on potential clients then settled on an article on Huffington Post about a Toronto blogger who spent thousands of dollars to identify an Internet Troll.
He barely heard the train lumber into the station over the music in his ears. Bobby V was playing. The doors opened and he trudged with the crowd into the already crowded car and nudged into a seat, sandwiching himself between two large people. Once in place, he tucked his satchel tightly between his legs and returned to the article on his phone: …Frank Ballard, a freelance writer and blogger, spent weeks and thousands of dollars in legal fees to track down the troll who spread lies about him on the Internet. The court petitioned to release the name of the X user with the handle DocVirus, who had posted defamatory messages about Ballard on X…
The train slowed at the first station. Several people got off, including one who had flanked him. He sighed and stretched out his body toward the empty seat for relief, and willed the other passenger to leave at the next station. He got his wish and triumphed by stretching out in all directions, legs pushing their length out and claiming the empty space. No one challenged him. No one made eye contact. Only three people were left in his train car. He checked his Facebook site, SilverBullet, and “liked” several posts; then, feeling cocky, he posted an update to his status: Riding the snowpiercer. I’m a minstrel man, firing my spray of words into the commons… Setting fire to the Internet…
When his station came up, he rose to get out and noticed that everyone had already gotten off; no one was left on the train. He stepped off and walked the platform to the stairs and left the station into the underground mall and pathway. No one was in the mall. He blinked. The usual crowd wasn’t there. He checked his phone to check the time: it was rush hour and no one was rushing. He blinked again then proceeded to the Second Cup for his regular coffee. The coffee shop was empty. He blinked and realized that he hadn’t seen anyone since he got off the subway train. A quick scan revealed that all looked normal. There was no sign of a sudden disaster or emergency. There just wasn’t anybody around. He felt his mouth curl into a smirk of guilty glee.
“Hello!” he called.
The glee swiftly gave way to impatience. No barista appeared from the back. The tables were neat and clean and he could smell the coffee brewing. He waited for a minute, wandering the café and looking out toward the mall path. The place was deserted. He checked his phone and noted that the Internet was still working; people still posted by the minute to Facebook. The X feed continued to stream by the second. Washington Post: The average number of drinks men and women have at every age, charted… HuffPost Canada: Alberta town develops severe fun allergy… PoweredSecurity: How to protect your anonymity online…NYTimes: Popular Yik Yak app confers anonymity and delivers abuse…
There was nothing amiss. X was streaming as usual. He shrugged and checked his text messages again. His boss urged him to get his anonymous reviews of Planet Game posted and SEO’d—preferably viral—by 10 am. Their client needed it up and moving through the Net before their product placement event. He nodded and made a point of not getting ruffled. He was the SilverBullet. He worked best with deadlines.
He wandered behind the coffee bar and felt the coffee dispenser with his hand; it was hot with fresh coffee. Deciding to just help himself, he poured a piping hot coffee into a paper cup, grabbed a heat-sleeve and a top then fished into his pocket for some change. He only had a toonie. He normally used the change he got from it to throw into the tip jar, which sat empty now.
He found a scrap piece of paper and a pen on the bar and scrawled in poor printing: helped myself to coffee; keep the change. Then he placed the toonie on the paper.
Coffee in hand, he left and walked the deserted hall, heels echoing, to the elevator that took him to the tenth floor of the tower office, where he worked.
The office was devoid of people. He shrugged, checked his phone for the time and noted that it was definitely office hours. At his office cubicle, he dialed home. It went to voice mail. He called the office. It went to voice mail. He checked Facebook again. People were posting still. His latest update had received ten likes already. He shrugged and logged on his computer. He had to get those thirty anonymous reviews of Planet Game out, and viral by 10 am. He sipped his coffee and set to work.
…Planet Game is great escapist fantasy that intrigues with complex characters in a smart super-layered plot that appeals to the rising “mass intelligent”; the series explores a panoply of intelligent themes while serving up juicy sex and gory violence as a nice counter to the talkier bits. There’s no good and bad here; just one giant orgasmic dopamine rush for both dumb and smart folk.
He hadn’t seen Planet Game. He didn’t need to; the producer’s blurb gave him enough to write something that reflected what they wanted people to think. That’s all he ever needed. When you write hundreds of these a day, you can’t afford to waste time watching the products. Never let the truth get in the way of a good story, someone once said. Who was it?…
Time stilled as the keystrokes flew. He had twenty-nine more to write and send all over the Internet. When he finally stretched back and glanced at the time, he sighed with a grin; he’d made the deadline. Thirty reviews by “different” reviewers now graced several key Internet sites and had already gone viral; and it was 9:47. Close to coffee break time, he figured. He decided to leave for his break ten minutes early. Feeling like a kid playing hooky, he slunk past the boss’s office and peered inside. It was empty. He met no resistance; no one interrupted his escape to the elevator and down to the mall for his second cup of coffee. He strode like a cowboy, clicking his heels, along the empty halls to the Second Cup.
When he entered, the shop was still empty. No barista either. He approached the notepaper, still on the bar, where he’d left it with the pen. In large looping cursive, Thank you was scrawled below his printed note. He could barely read it; it had been a long time since he’d seen anything written longhand. The toonie was gone. His gaze drifted to the tip jar. It was no longer empty. A shiny dime and a nickel sat in it; the change for his coffee.
A smile ghosted across his face. Someone had cared enough to thank him. He wondered who had written the note. Was it that young blue-haired gal who’d smiled at him once? What was her name? Amy? Or something? He picked up the pen and leaned over the notepaper. Below the handwritten Thank you, he printed you’re welcome. He was about to put the pen down then decided to sign his name.
He hesitated again. What’s my name?…
This story was previously published in Polar Borealis, 2016
Edited by Marie Ginga
Nina Munteanu is a Canadian ecologist, novelist and award-winning short story author of eco-fiction, science fiction and fantasy. Her short work has appeared in Neo-Opsis Science Fiction Magazine, Chiaroscuro, subTerrain, Apex Magazine, Metastellar, and several anthologies. She teaches writing at the University of Toronto and currently has ten novels published and several non-fiction books on writing and science.