I toss the Times to the recycle pile. Too much bad news with crazy men shape-shifting the world into a scary place. I pick up the phone and scroll through social where algorithms feed me what I want. Rants about my enemies, signs the hooligans are on their way out. But soon I feel nauseous, as if I’ve indulged in too many chocolates.
Who to believe? What to think? What to do? So many talking heads, on screens, buzzing in my ear buds selling strategies, scandals, prophecies. Maybe I’ll move to Canada. Maybe take up meditation (Canada for the mind). Maybe fall off the wagon and spend the next few years in a sex and drug-fueled haze like the writers of the Beat Generation–Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs.
Now there’s an idea. I wouldn’t have to relocate, and from my experience, getting messed up takes less effort than trying to focus my thoughts. If I survived, think of the tales I’d write. Stories for folks who gave up on the 24/7 news cycle and returned to reading books. I’d get snatched up by a big-time agent, get wined and dined in the big apple. My books telling of my reckless life and near-death experiences would climb the bestseller lists, get optioned for the movies. Big stars like Leo, Jake and Ryan would compete to play me. I’d become a celebrity, hang with the Kardashians, maybe escort one of them to the Met Gala. Papparazzi would snap my photo whenever I leave my new digs in L.A. and New York. Designers would send me clothes, put me in ads, maybe give me my own line of merch. Everyone would want to be where I was, wear what I’m wearing, quote the lines I write.
But would I become so ubiquitous that people start tuning me out? Kind of like Seattle people did to Starbucks when they turned corporate and expanded to every corner of the world? How long would it take before I start getting dissed online? Until younger folk hear my name and associate me with their parents? Until my brand gets blackballed?
The horrors come into focus. Reviewers toss my books aside in favor of the next big thing. The movie project stalls when the A-lister drops out, my agent blocks my calls, the Kardashians change their locks. My books end up on half-price tables in faded bookshops, my name so quickly forgotten I don’t even qualify as a Jeopardy question.
Maybe falling off the wagon isn’t so smart. Best to stay safe. Retreat to the sofa, reach for the phone, resume scrolling. Let the algorithm be my guide.
Brian Christopher Giddens writes fiction and poetry from his home in Seattle, where he lives with his husband, and Jasper the dog. Brian’s writing has been featured or is forthcoming in the New York Times (Tiny Love Stories), Sequestrum, Litro, Allium, Raven’s Perch, Rue Scribe, Chiron Review, and other publications.
Website: https://www.brianchristophergiddens.com
Featured photo by Mahmoud Yahyaoui (Pexels)
