The last man on the internet

What if they gave a platform and no one posted

He opened the door and picked up the sack from his front porch. A car on the curb struggled to start. He closed the door and went to the kitchen and set the sack on a table. In the sack was pad see eww, giving off heat like a brick in the sun. There was plastic wear and a stack of napkins.  

In three and a half minutes the noodles were gone, leaving an oily Styrofoam container and a glistening fork. His nose ran. He put his phone back into his sweats and threw away the sack and container and went into his living room. Blinds were down and closed. He opened his laptop and clicked the tab for Y?, a media platform, something of a salon. One of his hubs for information exchange.  

Seven notifications. His blood pulsed. Not bad, but I’m going to check again in a few minutes. Wait until I have 10 to see who said what or who liked what. He went through his drafts, thought about saying something else that would get him to 10 a little faster. Then he clicked on his screwtube tab but hopped back on Y?. I’ll look in a minute. This is boring right now. No one is saying anything fresh or interesting.  

One pompous idiot after the next. Who cares. A guy’s dog. Some woman in a sheer satin dress, side view of her ass. Lean meaty cheeks. If you bounced a quarter off that thing it’d put your eye out. And her face isn’t bad either. The stab of longing. I could send her a message. She only lives 14 hours away. She must not have a boyfriend. She has a boyfriend.  

Time passed and the room darkened except for the light of streetlamps still slipping through the blinds and his screen glowing like the eye of a lanternfish. He clicked and watched, switched between reels and feeds and notes. His main email account, then one of his anonymous accounts and then another. Messages from his bank. Digests and newsletters he opened at a rate of 14 percent. Porn spam, women who wanted to meet him tonight.  

It’s been long enough; I’m going to look. Seven notifications. What the hell. Where is everyone. He set his laptop aside and headed for the bathroom, took off his clothes and started the shower. Scalding water dimpled his skin and he let out a cross between a yelp and a sigh. Steam gathered and spilled out the top of the shower and smudged the mirror. Lulling hiss, the sound like television static at a low volume.  

You have to say the dumbest shit. No one’s sincere, they’re just pushing buttons. It’s all so obvious. And the ones who are sincere, jesus christ. What are you supposed to do. Can’t have a real conversation. A real debate. I don’t want to talk to anyone anyway. People always miss the point, make it about themselves or whatever stupid idea is clanging around in their heads. 

After the shower he put on pajamas and fell into bed. The room blazed with pale light when he flipped on the television. He browsed movies and shows on one of his streaming platforms. His eyes moved right every few seconds, pulled by the reflected flash of the television on his blank phone lying next to him. Something about the frrtility crisis. Say something about people not fucking. Make up some shit about how actually people are fucking. Just ask your mom about me and her.  

He settled on a series called Desperation Valley. Some critics called it a propulsive and atmospheric foray into the depths of the human heart. Other critics said it was a retrograde celebration of toxic personality traits. 5 seasons so far. Shit I still need to catch up on The Only Color You’ll Never Know. Everyone keeps saying it’slife-changing, heart-breakingly good.  

I’ve never felt my heart break over a television show or a movie or a book, or anything for that matter. It’s a poetic expression but what are people talking about. Rage hate disappointment bitterness sometimes when I open the silverware drawer I can see myself bringing a knife to human skin isn’t that tough and the organs are right there it doesn’t take much to kill someone it’s a wonder it doesn’t happen more often.  

The show carried him along for two episodes, deeper into a night with sporadic gusts of wind knocking branches against windows and siding, a night with cats howling in alleys and men wearing soiled blankets over their shoulders jumping into dumpsters under the phosphorescent streetlamps, the searing light for safety’s sake that illumines all the rubbish and mud and breaks into homes and steals the riches of sleep. 

Before going to the bathroom and brushing his teeth he thought up a post. It wasn’t his style, at least as he’destablished it. But he’d liked other posts like it and it fit roughly enough into what people might guess was his worldview, his online worldview at least.  

A picture of a fat tattooed woman. A picture of a fat tattooed man. Underneath it: This is why we’re not having babies. The fertility crisis is a beauty crisis. That should rustle some jimmies. Can’t post it at night, no one will see it. Time it to post at 8:30 am. 8:50. Most people are up scrolling by then, late to work, late to make love to their wives, husbands, boyfriends. I’ll set my alarm for 9:30, wake up to fresh followers. 

A dreamless sleep or a sleepless dream he forgot as it happened. He woke up at 10 AM, the alarm didn’t go off. A cloudy morning, damp. Must’ve rained a little at some point. His hand crawled about the bed like Thing from the Addam’s family. Phone should be right here, where is it. There it is. The first real flush of light, revelation. Zero notifications.  

That can’t be. No messages or likes, not even a quote or insult or death threat. Repost and like a bunch of similar posts and someone will notice. In the meantime, breakfast and coffee. One of those instant oatmeal paper cups and a pour over. Such a pain in the ass, tired of doing this every morning. I should go to the shop and have them make me a pour over, get some espresso.  

He ground the beans and poured the water into a kettle and set up his cup with the V60 funnel. His body moved like it was attached to ropes and pulleys and his mind puzzled over his dead post. I’ll get some work done, forget about it, take the day off, maybe people are getting tired of me, maybe it’s the algorithm. Cool sweat beading.  

Maple brown sugar, the spoon in the oats the sound of a boot in a puddle. Needs honey and dried fruit. Coffee tastes good I guess. How is coffee supposed to taste. Fake notes, they make it up, like wine, like everything. You have to see what someone else says before you know what to say. He sent a message to a mutual. Hey, am I banned, can you see this, do I show up on the feed.  

He completed a work project. Wrote some drafts of posts, scrolled through a few feeds. Work took him 20 minutes but he stayed on the clock through the morning and into the afternoon until he felt hunger again and then he logged his hours and fired up a food delivery app. Chinese, Indian, Tibetan, Mongolian. Tired of that region, spicy noodles and fried yak balls. How about ribs from Paul’s Back Country Pork Barrel. Can’t eat anything that saucy in the daylight. Hell with it. Uncle Al’s Anal Inferno, the hottest sauce in the tri-state area. I’ll have to eat in the shower.  

No message from his friend but three of his posts showed up on the timeline. Still no notifications. He went through all his apps. Write an email to a coworker. A short walk to bide the time until the food arrives. Dog walkers out, dog walkers always out. When he passed a dog leashed to an old lady he scratched parts of his body and put on airs of preoccupation, looked about as if studying the sky, deciphering its cryptic messages.  

A plastic sack on his step when he came back to his house. He took off his shirt and ate and used his shirt as a napkin and threw it in a pile of dirty clothes. His nose ran and his forehead tingled. That’s going to hurt later. Washed it down with sparkling water, his eyes welled up. Alright what’s going on here I must be banned but I see other people posting. It’s all stupid and pointless but they’re getting attention for it. I’m not sure if I love my mom, how does anyone know, it’s just something we say. If I die it would be a relief, when anyone else dies it’s a major hassle.  

His phone buzzed. A new follower. A woman with fake tits and fake lips. He could hear balloons rubbing together and he blocked her. The day slid off his hands like a greased hot dog. No more work to do. I’ll write that article, put those notes together and make a real statement.  

He typed for a minute and clicked tabs and looked at other people’s posts announcing milestones. Thank you everyone for a thousand followers, thank you a hundred subscribers. I started this newsletter ten minutes ago and I’m at ten thousand subscriptions. I used to be a heart surgeon a pipefitter a senator a chicken fryer but now I can quit and focus on writing articles about saving money by living in trash bag tents. Americans are so spoiled. They all think they deserve mansions but you only need six feet of living space, the same for your grave, six feet of length give or take, and you only need to dig three feet deep and the jackals and other scavengers can’t get to you.  

One term to encompass every irritating and destructive trend and you mention it every three seconds. The regime the system the cathedral the longboat the short bus the clown car the outhouse.  

Well all that’s still going on but I’m getting nothing. I was doing okay. I made a little money with my posts. They weren’t genius but I said smart things on occasion. He turned off his notifications and put the phone in a small box and wrapped it in a heavy padlocked chain and buried it all in the backyard. I’m not digging this thing up until I finish my article.  

The sun never broke through the clouds, the earth seemed to stop. He wrote 300 hundred words in three hours, stomped through the house, clutched his desk, poured over more pour overs, raised a shaking cup to quivering lips. His ears were red and he felt pain in his left arm. Am I having a heart attack. I’m too young for that. You do hear about men in their thirties having heart attacks. They’re usually in worse shape, I’m not doing so bad. He grabbed his belly fat, rubbed his chest. I don’t want to die, not like this, I need to call my parents. His arm felt better.  

He dug up the phone and saw the stock background image of a mountain and the time and date mocking him with its stupid numbers. Birds called overhead, also taunting. Singing garrulous nature all around him, chittering squirrels disputing nut shares, possibly following amorous impulses. For the love of a god that doesn’t exist why isn’t anything happening. I’ll post my penis. Show hog. At the very least someone will be interested in that. My penis isn’t impressive.  

No one from work responded to his emails. He sent a few more. His mutual said nothing but had posted a picture of his hog, an actual hog, a prize winning one. Hungry again but I need to eat healthy. A salad with grilled chicken and a vinaigrette. He ordered a stuffed crust pizza with extra pepperoni and cheese bread and cheese sauce. Sometime later his phone alerted him to the delivery.  

A heavy slice of pizza in one hand and his phone in the other. Sauce on the screen, he wiped it on his pants. Damn this is salty but good. He ate with such speed he nearly consumed his own hand and almost bit down on his phone a time or two. Half the pizza and all the breadsticks were gone and he had cheese and red sauce and crust on his face and no new notifications even though he’d posted two more thoughts, one reflective and the other inflammatory. Almost as inflammatory as his belly now, with all that poorly chewed food.   

I’m going to bed. I want to watch something. I need something to talk about. There are many degrees of taking a life. We’re all guilty, we’re all born in blood. I killed a dog once. It was dark and I was driving and fiddling with my phone on what seemed an empty street. The dog came out of nowhere. The loud thud of the impact and then thumping like heavy shoes down the steps as its body rolled underneath. No one was around, nothing, the area was especially quiet, not even the usual rustlings of the night, the sounds of the city at all hours. I stopped the car and waited for a while and got out and saw that the dog was dead. But I didn’t look too closely or wait long. 

He stumbled about the house in a daze, as if recently beaten or drugged. Too late in the evening to post anymore, past the point of engagement density; he’d be seen by strange Europeans and maybe Indians. Who needs them. Without brushing his teeth or flossing or washing any part of his body he fell into bed, sauces hardening on his clothes.  

When he woke up his phone was flashing and buzzing. He was back, surely the shadow ban was over. 20 plus notifications. Better than an acceptance letter from an ivy league school, better than finding a bag of money on the street. People had finally noticed his last few posts; he had new followers. 

Looking into it, each of his new followers had no followers themselves. Usernames a string of numbers. The comments on his posts; butthole in bio. Financial strategies, bitcoin investment, paid advertisements. What in god’s name. Are they all like this. Did anyone real respond. A thousand new followers. Go through them all, sit on the toilet, done shitting in ten seconds, keep sitting for forty minutes. Diabetic foot a thousand needles in his toes, each like and comment from a mannequin, a blow-up doll.  

Dragging his numb feet from the bathroom he went into the kitchen for breakfast, poured water into the kettle and sat at the table. His mind spun and blanked out and spit up. Heat faster. Fellow my ass. I don’t want to stand here like a moron waving a kettle around. Coffee is a scam, caffeine is real, the only thing that matters. It’s a damn good drug, it’s probably raising my blood pressure. My dad always said he was going to die of a heart attack; that was his morbid joke, but he’ll outlive me, I’ll be the one to die of a heart attack.  

He sent more messages to coworkers, managers and his mutuals, mutual fund managers, unmuted mutuals who used to annoy him. Unblocked the race-baiters, shameless grifters and gimmick accounts; the guys who post women with gigantic cans I can’t stand seeing anymore; men what’s stopping you from dressing like a wild west train robber, women what’s stopping you from dressing like a French princess. Here’s a picture of a fast-food restaurant next to the Sistine Chapel, which way western dipshit. Conan the barbarian next to a fat mongrel eating barbecue. Liking it all, engaging, quoting, commenting, sending messages, upping his following count past his follower count even though father algorithm would spank him and send him to bed without supper.  

More work automatically assigned. He finished in five minutes, stayed on the clock through the day, ordered more food, kept the door open. Self-driving cars launched screaming hard shell tacos from the street to his table. Days and nights passed and messages from Japanese sexbots piled up and he heard a high-pitched whine in his ears. Everyone is on the edge of killing someone, deadly weapons everywhere, you could kill in a blink. Living with it, that’s the hard part.  

A coworker got back to him. Hey man, I only check this thing once a week or so now, just when I have to, for work. Everything’s good. Hope you’re doing well. As the weeks went on he occasionally heard from real people. They all said similar things. I’m not really on here anymore, just every now and then, for work or to pay a bill. But I’ve seen you posting. I think they automated it, it’s not me, I take walks and read to my kids now. Sometimes I stare at the ceiling or do pushups.  

This can’t be right. I saw your effort posts, I read your article on information overload. Very informative. I read every second or third paragraph of your article on particle physics. You’re telling me you didn’t write it, it’s under your name. No, that wasn’t me, I stopped checking all that, it got boring, I lost interest.  

Work assignments flowed in and his boss sent him messages once or twice a month. Funny how we keep getting bigger and fatter and our electronics smaller and thinner. Our computers used to be huge when everyone was slim. I’m not in as good a shape as I thought. My latest laptop is weightless sheet metal, a razor blade, I could cut my goddamn jugular on it.  

I’ll write some posts on how no one real is on the internet anymore. It took him three more days to write, 898 words over three days and the response was instantaneous. I agree, so true, gorgeous and evocative, heart-breakingly heart-breaking, gut-busting, lung-tearing, tear-jerking, colon-blowing, turned me inside out and upside down and made me puke with joy and rage. None of them real accounts.  

He staggered out of his house into the burning metal daylight. I don’t know what month it is, what time, it must be around noon judging from the sun that’s pressing down on me like an iron spatula. Down the street to the end of the block before he felt the pebbles and twigs in his heels. Forgot to put on shoes but he was wearing long boxers and a shirt with an obscene saying from an adult cartoon. A park with lush grass and trees with downcast limbs shimmered on the horizon and he moved with an ungainly gait as if his parts came from different places.  

Sometimes I think well if that dog was left out at night to run free then its owner didn’t give a shit about it. But to die like that, alone in the street. Bones shattered in a snap. Probably lived long enough to feel it, the bewildering pain.  

He accosted a man on a bench gazing at a cloud. Do you have an account on Y? Or Faceblast. Or Squirm or Squirt. What about CrapChat. I deactivated most of those, they make it hard to delete though. Why isn’t anyone talking about how they’re not online anymore, I’m not seeing any posts about it. If people were talking about it online, they wouldn’t be offline now would they.  

He rubbed his eyes and walked between two majestic oaks into a clearing where grass leaned in the breeze. A frisbee landed at his feet and he looked up and saw a couple, a man and woman, both wearing ballcaps and androgynous athleisure suits. They waved and said sorry, the wind took that one. He picked up the frisbee and reared back to toss it.