stories
for the information age
These bite-sized stories chronicle my efforts, both pitiful and successful,
to navigate the rapidly-changing world.
My hope is that they help you do the same.
The morning after I kick my cellphone out of the bedroom, I wake slowly. Pale, yellow light filters through the curtain. I feel strange. I feel rested. I look at the clock, and it is 7:15am. I have slept eight and a half hours straight – more than I have slept in months. More than I have slept in years, in fact.
I race to the next room, over to my phone, and there she is, lying on the table where I left her. I pick her up, and I check her, and I check her, and I check her.
When I was a kid, my family moved from California to Massachusetts during the high heat of summer. It was a trying move - we were two trucks, a car, two parents, an uncle, five children, two dogs, a cat, and my goldfish. We had little money, my parents' marriage was on the brink and this move was supposed to be our fresh start. Before we left, I carefully put my two goldfish, some pebbles, and a plant in a jar with holes punctured into the top. This makeshift aquarium rode on the rear dash of my mother’s car as we travelled east on I-80 through lines and lines of corn.
I was sure I had created a safe, tidy home for my fish. But the motion of the speeding car turned their adorable jar-house into chaos. Mile after mile, I watched in horror as my fish sloshed in violent circles, unable to swim or control themselves in the ceaseless waves. Their only peace came when we stopped for the night at roadside motels. There, they seemed perfectly fine again, dashing around the jar like regular-old goldfish.
On the final day of our drive, my uncle, tired of my incessant worry about the fish, suggested a way to stop the sloshing. “If you put plastic over the top of the jar, and screw the lid on over it, the water won’t swirl. It’s physics," he said, "Just don’t forget about them". I had never heard of physics, but I put a sandwich baggie over the top of the jar, closed the lid, and sure enough, it worked. The water stayed calm as we drove, and the fish swam happily, their world made motionless by the airtight seal. I was thrilled.
That afternoon, we arrived. The New England air was strange and thick, and cicadas greeted us with high-pitched song. We ran into our new yard, our limbs stiff and journey-heavy. The grass smelled of earth and our skin was sticky with the damp. It wasn’t until some hours later that I remembered the fish. When I went to fetch them from the car, they were limp, and bent over in the still water.
It turns out that an airtight life is impossible. It turns out that sometimes, sloshing senselessly in wild waters is the only way to move from one place to the next.
One evening before bed, I get up all my strength and kick my phone out of the bedroom.
Night, night, I tell my phone, as I place her on a table in the next room. I’m right here if you need me. You’re OK. I love you. You’ll be fine. Sweet dreams. Night, night.
I tiptoe out of the room and get into bed. That wasn't so hard.
But once I am settled, I realize I need to check on her. To be sure. I get out of bed and go back into the next room to see if she is OK. And there she is, right where I left her on the desk, silently recharging. I pick her up, check a few things - email, weather app, newsfeed - and then, gingerly, I put her back down. I have roused her, but she stays quiet and just looks up at me. I think she has a faint smile on her face.
Night night. I love you. You’re OK.
I tiptoe out of the room again, get back into bed and stare at the ceiling. The ceiling is gray and moonlight seeps under the window shade in a line of white light.