By Chris Cooper

It’s Christian’s birthday today; it’s obvious by the ceaseless buzzing of his iPhone throughout the early morning, vibrating on the nightstand every few minutes. The recurrent rattling of polycarbonate against the wooden top produces a comforting hum, a white noise for a deeper slumber; the sound of attention accumulating soothes him to sleep, a lovely lullaby, knowing he’s going to wake up with plenty of notifications, like a real special boy with presents on Christmas morning.

A sunbeam sneaks through a crevice of the pulled window drapes; the warmthless ray rises from the ground and crawls up the comforter, striking Christian’s face with an invasive shine. Fluttering his eyes open, he stretches, extending his arms as he contorts his torso, kicking his heels into the mattress underneath the sheets; it’s an automatic response to daylight and morning body aches. Waking up in his casket like he does every day, his home, a 30-year fixed mortgage, he glimpses over at his device still dancing around on the table, demanding to be unlocked and looked at. Christian catches the time; it’s nine eleven, but there’s no reason to panic, no, it’s a pretty good morning actually. He didn’t experience either of his two recurring dreams last night; he wasn’t stuck in some suicide cult, struggling to drown himself while his cohorts executed without any difficulty, no. And he didn’t run out of gas in the middle of the desert either, like he usually dreams about, stuck on the side of the road, gazing at the vultures circling overhead as he holds up his phone, attempting to attain a signal to call for help.

The overhead fan spins, creating a gentle wind as Christian lies, and there’s comfort in the current, wooden blades wafting, passing in a familiar movement pattern; it’s a calming visual, a safe, secure motion, a representation of routine and the comfort it brings. Supine, watching as the wheel whirls up above, Christian pushes the back of his bald head into the sateen pillow, rubbing stubble against the smooth fabric; it’s a technique to stretch his neck, relieving suboccipital tension from the night’s sleep. His second morning exercise requires the flexion of extensor muscles if he wants to avoid mid-day migraines. Retracting his shoulder blades, Christian forces his sternum upward to alleviate gnawing discomfort in his levator scapulae, holding the position with steady breath, counting backwards from thirty. It’s a pain caused by a combination of acquired tech neck and an agitated disc from an old high school wrestling injury; it’s the reason he can’t sleep on his left side anymore without experiencing numbness in his fingertips, but that’s all right; he’s used to not feeling.

Sinking into his sheets for a binge of nostalgia, his favorite drug, he indulges in a vivid montage; closing his eyes and pulling the comforter over his head, he thinks about his most memorable birthdays, back when he had hair and mornings weren’t physically painful. He recalls his seventeenth when he got his license: his clammy palms gripping the cold leather of the steering wheel, an arrhythmic heart thudding in his chest as he barely passed the second attempt at parallel parking, missing the back cone by mere inches. The catchy guitar riffs and drumbeats of Blink 182 blasted through the speakers as he drove home that morning, rejoicing in his accomplishment, humming along as he glanced at his license, imagining being twenty-three some day.

The blistering headache from the morning after his twenty first birthday still throbs whenever he thinks of it; the blood pounding at the tips of his ears, the tension squeezing like a vice around his cranium. He remembers waking up from the night’s debauchery, cotton-mouthed and dazed, his body cramped on the twin bed; the sweaty back of his naked girlfriend pressed against his ribcage, the lingering smell of weed permeating the atmosphere, a blanket of smoke still floating above the room. His rickety nightstand used to be cluttered with beer bottles and paraphernalia, ashy residue, and empty cigar wraps, a stark contrast to the clean composite wood table he now lays his phone on to charge before he goes to bed, right next to his easel stand wedding photo with “Forever” emblazoned above the image. Christian usually silences his device or puts it in sleep mode before slipping into bed, but not last night, no, he’s been anticipating incoming messages, deriving joy every time his phone lights up and purrs, basking in digital affection. And he wants to savor every notification; today, he needs to feel validated.

The allure of stimulation within arm’s reach becomes too much, interrupting his reminiscence, so he pounces for the initial dosage of dopamine, grabbing his phone with immediacy as he falls back into bed.

“Happy Birthday Christian,” the top banner reads, listed above similar messages in a hierarchical chronology; they’re obligatory texts from his sister, brother, and other distant relatives, fulfilling family requirements with minimal effort.

Yawning as he scrolls through his alerts, Christian opens his Facebook, noticing an abundance of felicitations already posted on his wall, comments from people he used to know:

“Happy Birthday, Christian!!” Jeff, an old coworker from a recruiting agency posts.

“Happy birthday, Christian!!! 😊” his 6th grade history teacher Mrs. Gasparini comments with amplified friendliness, the antithesis of her austere attitude from decades ago when she used to give him detention for talking too much in class.

It’s captivating, really, the interminable engagement, the replenishing of red squares that pop up in the corner of his screen every time he gets a new comment, and he investigates each one, rewarded with feel-good neurotransmitters every time he clicks. The familiar names of commentors appear, but he’s more transfixed on the variance of the communications and their fluctuating punctuation. Sifting through posts and terse messages, he feels a strange affinity for the ones with superfluous exclamation points and apropos emojis, like the birthday cake, red balloons, and especially the confetti one, the potato chip-looking image that resembles a stale Dorito with glitter around it. And he hasn’t had any interactions in years with the people commenting, no, they’ve all just become digital characters from old episodes, collected profiles from different times in his life that now wish him a happy birthday every year and occasionally like a photo he shares. Which reminds him, he’s going to make a concerted effort to reciprocate the birthday wishes when it’s their turn, even though he pledges to do the same thing every year but never fulfills his promise.

Deliberating on whether he’s going to respond to every birthday comment he receives or if it’s sufficient to just like each one, he also wonders if he should match enthusiastic punctuation and emoticons in his responses, but he’s quickly distracted by his stomach growling, the thought of flavored tortilla chips lingers in his mind. He’s taken a half day from work so that’s nice, he thinks; he’s got some time to laze until having to get to the office; his wife Gabriella recommended he take a full one to enjoy his birthday, possibly get a workout in, or play a round of golf, since she has to work, but he couldn’t think of a single thing he’d want to do. He’s given up most of his hobbies to afford the nice home, have his kids Miley and Max, and check off all the other societal milestones. And if he has a shitty workout or plays a terrible 18 on his birthday, it’ll probably be just enough force to push him off the existential precipice he’s barely hanging from, a final plunge into the abyss of nothingness, succumbing to psychosis. But he’s thinking maybe he’ll give himself a break today from the self-criticism for once, let himself enjoy, if he can; but he’s not sure he’s capable of easing up the self-applied pressure, since he can’t even brush his teeth anymore without making his gums bleed.

Cooper, the Maltese, greets him in the kitchen with a wagging tail, venturing over from his floor bed, sniffing Christian’s joggers. He brushes against his leg with a firm, affectionate pass; it’s their second Maltese in the 13 years of marriage, licking its face in anticipation of breakfast, the frothy saliva milked on the little dog’s face, a dripping spit beard.

“Morning Cub, it’s my birthday,” he announces, partially anticipating a response.

“We’re getting old, buddy,” Christian quips, petting Cooper briefly before pushing the dog away, paranoid about potential pet hair sticking to his clothes and long, thin white curls gathering on his scraped Oak floor, defacing perfectionism.

Sometimes, Christian calls Cooper “Cub,” inadvertently, only because Cooper looks just like their old dog “Cub” with its same button nose and miniature teddy bear face. And they’ll probably always get another Maltese, since they’re hypoallergenic and barely shed, replacing with a copy; this way it’s like the dog never truly dies. And he knows Cooper doesn’t care if it’s his birthday since the dog is motivated by food, purely biological needs, but he’d like to think he does; Christian wants to pretend today actually matters.

Scooping kibble into the feeding bowl, the silicone one that slows down the eating process, Christian smiles and pats Cooper on the head because he can relate; he needs to slow down his own consumption and be careful devouring intrusive thoughts, or he’s going to choke sooner or later, aspirating on anxiety.

“Happy Birthday Babe, breakfast burrito in the fridge, love Gabby,” the Post-it note reads adhered to the kitchen island, the word “love” transposed with a heart sketch.

Gabriella’s scribbled script writing is an indication she was in a rush, volunteering for getting the kids on the bus in the early morning before leaving for work so he could get an extra hour of sleep. And Christian remembers the notes they used to write each other when they were first married, the love letters they left every morning, the passionate, affectionate words of two fervent sweethearts; they were longer, loving and whimsical, usually completed with at least several heart drawings, a romantic nickname, and maybe a smiley face or some cute cartoon illustration, the opposite of their current succinct notes, written with purely informative talking points to save time.

Tossing the burrito into the microwave, Christian pauses, trying to recall the preset Gabby uses for breakfast burritos. He can’t remember even though she’s told him several times, but he’ll never forget how an ex-girlfriend once told him he’d never be happy, no matter who he ended up with as she screamed at him outside the bar that summer night. Christian settles on two minutes as the safest option for the burrito and watches as it spins, observing the lopsided flour tortilla as it tumbles around on the plate. The magnetron hums as it heats his food, a dull drone that lulls Christian; his sleepy eyes mired with morning fatigue, each blink heavier than the last as he debates maybe going back to bed.

Switching on the Keurig, he inserts his favorite K-Cup, a sustainable dark roast. Steaming spurts of java sputter into the mug, trickling against the glass as he breathes in the warm mist of percolating ground coffee beans, the fresh aromatic notes of brewing ambition. He remembers a time in his life when he didn’t need caffeine in the morning to function, an epoch when he didn’t require a stimulant for motivation or the manipulation of his adenosine receptors to operate, no, just curiosity for a new day, cartoons, and cheerios sufficed when he was a kid, a simpler existence, not tethered to responsibilities. Sipping his coffee, Christian notices the empty napkin holder over by the sink; its vacant vertical design abandoned by disposable tissue, forgotten in the corner of the countertop. Hastily accessing the linen closet in the hallway, the place he keeps a stash of cleaning essentials, Christian pushes aside stocked paper towel rolls and scented plug ins to retrieve a bundle of single use napkins, unwrapping the stack of its plastic.

Returning to the kitchen, he ventures past the utensil drawer, the one that always goads him with its brushed nickel handle and interior contents, battling the abominable urge to retrieve the serrated Cuisinart knife and slash his radial artery. The thought crosses his mind occasionally, usually during Thanksgiving when he’s cutting the turkey for the family with the same knife, slicing off meat with effortless precision, swift passes made easier by its soft silicone grip. It’d be a gruesome discovery, he knows, and he’s not sure if he’s fully capable of execution, applying enough pressure to puncture his wrist; he imagines he’ll chicken out during the process, resulting in permanent damage, possibly requiring an amputation, a risk he’s not willing to take. Instead, he opens the cabinet underneath the sink, pulling out a small bin by its extendable handle to toss out the wrapper. And he doesn’t care if only 9% of plastic in the world actually gets recycled, no, he’s still doing his part and it makes him feel better, so much so that he’s almost compelled to take a selfie while tossing out the plastic with a thumbs up; maybe he’ll post it to his Instagram story as a reminder for others to recycle.

Crushing the Post-it into the crevice of his fingers, pinching with its sharp creases, Christian debates on where to dispose of the morsel since they don’t have a distinctive spot for discarding paper products, no, just a corner by the garage door where boxes build up from weekly Amazon purchases. He settles by throwing out the paper in the regular trash because it’s just a small portion, and paper products aren’t hurting the environment as much as plastic, he thinks. It’s okay, since retailers now give out paper straws with their drinks, and he hasn’t seen any blue check marks tweeting about saving the trees in a long time. Besides, his primary focus is replenishing the napkin holder and then turning on his Roomba vacuum, that’s most important, really, because if he doesn’t refill the functional device or ensure his floors are spotless, it could lead to a slippery slope, a lack of tidiness and order, real entropy, and it starts with not refilling tissue paper or cleaning the house. Then it escalates into arguing with people in the comment sections, not paying bills, and not stopping at red lights or for pedestrians crossing the street. And eventually it leads to taking all the expired prescription pills and old cough medicine the family acquired from over the years that still sits in the medicine cabinet, like the entire bottle of leftover Benzonatate, just to see what happens.

“Michael Leonard posted on your timeline,” the alert reads, commanding attention from the countertop as Christian takes a bite of his lukewarm burrito.

“Happy bday bro, enjoy!”

Michael’s not really his brother, it’s just a term of endearment, and Christian blanks on the person, unaware of anyone with two first names. Snatching his device with vigor, an energetic curiosity that’s almost thwarted by three incorrect attempts at unlocking his phone, he types his six-character password too fast for it to register. His greasy fingers slide off the numbers, but he prevails, finally, checking the friendship history. He uncovers that Michael is really Mike Adler from high school, and he’s a realtor now, using an alias, a more prestigious name, like a Hollywood actor, the type of accredited personality people trust to help buy and sell homes. And before Christian can glance at the 30 plus pictures that Mike’s wife Elyse recently uploaded of their new baby lying on a monthly milestone mat, he receives a birthday e-card from Aunt Debbie. His Gmail banner redirects as he accidentally taps the notification; Muenster cheese chunks drop from his mouth; egg droplets splatter against his screen, falling from his burrito as he scoffs down his meaty wrap, chewing with neanderthal etiquette. Wiping away residue with his thumb, smearing yoke, unintentionally clouding the bottom of his screen, he opens the pantry cabinet above to retrieve an organic heart-healthy protein breakfast bar since he’s still starving; it’s one that features adequate fiber and enough salubrious buzzwords to convince a consumer it’s healthy, regardless of the ingredients.

Chomping into the chocolate coated stick, indulging in the chalky cardboard taste, he dampens his finger to clear away the filmy glass; the high-definition fireworks burst with a heart-warming message: “Happy Birthday, Christian,” flashes in block letters against a sparkling background along with several fire emojis. It’s a real wonderful present, and he should probably thank his aunt for the eCard, send her a text, but he pulls up his Facebook feed and guzzles his coffee instead, even at its piping hot temperature, wondering what else he can eat in the fridge to satiate his hunger since he still feels so empty, what else can he consume to fill the void.

###

32 people have written on his Facebook wall so that’s all he’s really concerned about as he drives to work, a digital addict checking for updates every few seconds to see if someone else has commented. Switching lanes while shifting between texts and social media, he seeks constant stimuli, distraction, accessing his device with a spare hand. It’s not long before he’s in traffic on the Parkway, even after 10 A.M; lemmings blinded by sun glare, halting in line as they stop and go, creating a ruby procession of brake lights at the bridge, but he doesn’t mind since he can focus on his feeds now.

“Traffic ahead,” the automated woman’s voice announces, alerting from his Waze app.

He knows where to go, he’s done the commute for over a decade, but he still uses the app, just in case. And it’s not just because it’s better than Google Maps, and the app indicates where cops are located, no, it’s because even though he knows the route, he feels better with the extra guidance, reassurance that he’s on the right course, alerting of possible hazards and preventing him from ever going the wrong way.

The domino effect reflects in the rearview mirror of each car, drivers slowing, stopping abruptly to pull down their visors before proceeding. And he’s not one of them, no, he’s already prepared for the sunny day; he slipped his sunglasses on before he pulled out of the driveway. This way, he doesn’t have to see how old he looks in the mirror or view the polaroid he salvaged of his immediate family that’s paperclipped to the inside of the shade. He’s about 10 years old in the photo, smiling as he stares, admiring his siblings; his older brother and sister in high school with their discernible 90s look, washed denim and Tommy Hilfiger polos; his youthful parents look like kids with glowing skin and creaseless faces, their arms wrapped around the group. Everyone’s laughing like they just heard the funniest joke in the world, a captured heartwarming moment, a memory that feels like just yesterday. It’s been years since he’s had a meaningful conversation with his siblings, anything past surface dialogue, but it’s neither of their faults, he tells himself; they just grew apart once their parents died, the only commonality and connection they had to one another. And some days the photo puts a joyous smile on his face, a little sparkle in his eye, but not today, no, it’s a solemn reminder of how drastic his notion of family has changed as he’s aged.

“Happy Birthday, Christ,” the subject line of the email from State Farm reads; he clicks, hoping there’s going to be a discount on his premium for being born, but no, it’s just more glitter graphics and a template message, his full name cut off by the character count limit.

The squealing of brake pads stops, giving way to thudding tires and moving traffic, cars speeding over the bridge, clunking on each rivet. Crossing the decking, Christian slips into his routine reverie, his eyes lured by the glistening ripples of surrounding water motioning in the sunlight. Discerning a fishing boat off in the distance as he glances, a utility vessel, drifting along with fishing rods protruding out onto the water, one on each end; he wonders if the people are fishing for profit or leisure, envisioning a son and father for a Mom & Pop seafood shop. The salty breeze suffuses the car’s cabin, a sulphury smell that reminds him of playing on the beach as a kid, smiling as he skipped through the rolling sea foam pushed in from the ocean.

Shadows of the bridge barriers flicker as he coasts, like a flip book along the sides of the road, encroaching silhouettes, creating a claustrophobic sensation. His hand twitches on the steering wheel, cramping tendons lock. And it’s not the onset of carpal tunnel he’s starting to develop according to WebMD, no, and it’s not the occasional trembling fingers or the start of a panic attack, since he mastered breathing techniques and mitigating conspiracies of the mind by his late twenties. This gripping impulse is a more serious disorder, one he’s struggling to tame as he ages; it’s the uncanny compulsion to turn the wheel as he drives, a sharp change in direction wayward, careening the car through the guardrail and sending it off the bridge. His chest stings as he imagines the impact, the collision of speeding steel against unsteady metal; his stomach flutters with the thought of falling inside the vehicle, his hands clenching the wheel as the vessel violently splashes into the water. Visions of drowning sink into his cerebral cortex, floating imagery of a struggle to unbuckle his seatbelt and free himself from the wreckage; he sees himself fighting against underwater currents with wavering arms, just like the time he fell into the lagoon at his uncle’s shore house as a kid attempting to feed the ducks, a fearless five-year-old hanging over the dock. His dad jumped in immediately to pull him out that day, he remembers; his father’s wallet and clothes soaked from taking immediate action, saving Christian from going under, but his dad isn’t alive to rescue him anymore; there’s no one that can save him now.

A blaring horn shakes his semi-conscious state as he notices he’s veered slightly into the next lane. The beeping continues, sounding as an apparent female driver soars by, manically flipping the finger as she screams something about being an asshole; the breath from her diatribe fogs up the driver side window, slightly obfuscating the hand gesture as she passes; a circular ‘Coexist’ bumper sticker in blue and white bubble letters catches Christian’s attention as the hatchback disappears down the road. He’s thinking her bumper sticker probably doesn’t apply to people that don’t stay in their lane on the highway and that she doesn’t know it’s his birthday. The encounter will more than likely perturb him later, seeping in his subconscious for a little while before vexing him about his non-reaction; he’ll probably revise the incident in the shower tonight, hanging his head in the multi-streams of water, rivulets pouring on the back of his neck, pooling by his temples as he holds both his arms up on the marble wall. He’ll imagine a real witty comeback or some clever response he should have used, like giving her a thumbs down while blowing a kiss or maybe stepping on the gas to catch up with her in traffic, reciprocating the middle finger gesture. But it’s fine, really, because he is an asshole and not because he engages in distracted driving, no, it’s the dating app he’s downloaded that makes him a real piece of shit, he knows, storing it in a surreptitious folder on the third page of his home screen. He hasn’t filled out a profile or anything, just uploaded an old photo to fulfill the minimum requirements. It’s not like he’s really looking to have an affair or converse with anyone, no, he grew out of satisfying hedonistic desires in his 30s. He’s just bored and likes to browse, just like on Amazon and other user-friendly eCommerce websites, adding stuff to his cart and abandoning before checkout, since he refuses to pay for shipping and can’t afford to spend money on extraneous things; it’s really no different, even if it’s with people, he tells himself.

It’s not long before his mind wanders again, only a few exits away, fixating on the sweaty face of a truck driver with his arm hanging out the window in the adjacent lane. The driver alternates from letting his limb go loose to raising his elbow into a 90-degree angle, pushing his arm against the unrelenting wind. Christian imagines he finds his life freeing, venturing on the open road all day, traveling from state to state. He wonders what his life would have been like if he had made different choices, taking a different profession instead of finance, perhaps driving a truck, collecting miles instead of crunching numbers, and how it would affect his trajectory. Maybe after being on the road for long enough, he’d have a better sense of direction, a better idea on where he was going. Perhaps he’d have more insight on the path he’s traveled on; maybe spending a few nights asleep in the cramped cabin of his truck at a rest station instead of on his comfortable queen mattress would have an impact on his perception; maybe after being away for so long, he’d finally know what it felt like to be home.

###

“Happy Birthday, Cristian!”

A foreign phone number appears on his device as he sits at his desk, but he doesn’t care to discover who the text is from based on the misspelling. It’s an understated insult in the form of a typo, which annoys him worse than the nagging pain irritating his traps already, a deep ache that’s frequently elicited by poor posture, sitting all day, hunching over a keyboard and phone.

He gets a new notification on his Teams app at work that he can now choose his preferred pronouns to appear in his name for messenger, so he thinks he’ll either choose “it,” since he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have a soul anymore, or he’ll go with “us,” since he’s almost positive he’s hearing voices in his head that aren’t just his. He tries to pick his options, but he’s limited in his selection, which feels like pronoun discrimination; he’s not sure if that’s a thing. He’d probably bring it up with HR, but he doesn’t want to come across as ungrateful, since the company decorated his cubicle and left a vanilla cupcake on his desk with rainbow sprinkles and a little birthday card. It’s a thick stock of paperboard with golden embellishments too, featuring the facsimile signature of the CEO and a $25 gift card to Chili’s that will cover at least an appetizer. Yeah, he feels pretty special with the glitter banner that’s wrapped around his square box, an ornamented fishbowl; there’s confetti on his desk too, along with a few “Happy Birthday” balloons, tangible emojis.

Oscillating between Microsoft Excel and a calculator, Christian spends his day typing numbers, streamlining arithmetic, entering formulas into columns, and checking the accuracy of company finances. He’s inundated with blue light, glancing at his phone in between tasks while listening to Pandora, tolerating 30 second commercials since he refuses to pay for Premium. The minutes add up as he adds up the client acquisition costs, ensuring the spending is within budget; and it’s during this tasking, the tapping of keystrokes, adding and subtracting integers, and discerning business liabilities and equity that Christian experiences an equanimity. It gets him out of his head for once, an ephemeral moment of peace where he’s engaged in what he does best, a monotonous function he’s repeated countless times, a role that makes him feel purposeful, a modern Sisyphus. It’s the nucleus of his identity, accountant, the only way he knows how to define himself, an occupation that pays him $87,800 a year to live within his means. And he was destined to do something with math since he was a kid, learning his times tables before any of his peers and excelling in all advanced arithmetic classes; he always thought one day he’d might become an acclaimed mathematician, solving impossible equations for some noble, righteous cause, maybe something that would help change the world. But altruism isn’t as lucrative, he found out, and having dreams is naive and not conducive to becoming successful.

He’s checked his phone 101 times by the time it’s time to leave work, sustaining the optimal level of dopamine to get through the day. He’s up to 60 birthday posts on his Facebook with an array of messages from old teammates and girlfriends, which is nice, but he’d really prefer a message from his late Aunt Gale that used to take him to haunted houses when he was a child every Halloween; he regrets not paying more attention to her anecdotes when he was younger. But he really could go for a phone call from Max, his childhood friend who accidentally overdosed on painkillers for a torn ACL, the only friend he ever used to confide in; he wishes he could tell him how guilty he feels for not noticing his addiction, being too wrapped up in his own schedule to bother. And he’s rehearsed a different interaction than the last one they had; yeah, it’s one where he’s not distracted by his company’s stock dipping for the day and tells him how much their friendship means and actually listens to what Max is saying, instead of just waiting to talk.

The phone clatters on his desktop, grabbing his attention, sucking Christian into the vortex; it’s an unfamiliar phone number calling with a familiar area code; maybe it’s something important, he thinks, snatching the device. Holding the phone with both hands, Christian stares at the enlarged numbers appearing on the screen, illuminated on the black background; he fixates on the recognizable first three digits, like it’s a picture of his past. It continues to ring, a tacit sign it’s not a mistake, but Christian waits, letting it vibrate against his fingertips. It could be someone he might know, perhaps someone he’s just been dying to talk to, he debates; what if it’s someone he lost contact with, and it’ll be great to reconnect. Maybe they come bearing great news, and he’s a click away from a life-changing conversation. The ringing phone icons motion on his screen, prompting him to choose between green or red, two call-to-action buttons. But he’s not in the mood to talk, even if it’s his birthday; it’ll probably be some fucking telemarketer asking if he wants to extend his car’s warranty, anyway, he assumes; it’s most likely a coincidence that the caller has the same area code of his family’s phone number, completely arbitrary, just how life seems to progress. Besides, the caller can always leave a message if it’s urgent, if someone really wants to talk to him, he concludes.

Christian still hasn’t figured out what he’s supposed to do now or what the meaning of life is as he enters his early forties, even though he’s checked off all the societal achievement boxes. He’s thinking the answers might just come to him after he gets a semicolon tattoo on his wrist like he’s seen influencers do or maybe after he makes a bucket list like popular positivity blogs suggest, but he can’t think of a single thing he’d like to do before he dies besides see a Platypus. Maybe he should travel, become a wanderlust, like inspirational articles highly propose, but he knows he can’t get away from himself, no matter how far he ventures. Maybe he just needs some more vitamin D, like wellness reads recommend, more sunlight is probably just what he’s missing, a little boost for his circadian rhythm for it to all make sense, but he burns easily when he’s exposed, and he can’t seem to escape the clouds. Maybe he needs to turn to religion, start a conversation with God, but he hasn’t talked to imaginary characters since he was a child.

He’s saved a motivational quote from David Goggins in his archive that he thinks is pretty insightful: “Suffering is the true test of self.” He even took a screenshot of the graphic so he’d never forget it, big white letters against a silhouette to really emphasize the depth of the sentiment. He’s also got one from Gary Vaynerchuk too, “You didn’t grow up driving, you figured it out,” and he likes that one because it’s inspiring, like maybe everything will just click and he’ll figure it all out one day, like how to let go of the past. The Hemmingway one he screenshotted is his all-time favorite though, it’s the background of his phone: “Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know,” and he loves this one because it means he’s probably just too smart for his own good; he’s really just a genius.

Christian sends a group email to thank his team for the decorations and cupcake, including a Seinfeld GIF for a jocular touch, the one where George, Jerry, and Elaine embrace one another with a happy dance, something wholesome everyone can identify with before he leaves, appreciative for the lack of face-to-face interaction. He accesses his desktop organizer, opening the bottom drawer to dispose of his annual birthday card, the same place he’s kept the other 10; a pill bottle slides out with the old stack of birthday cards along with the drawer, rolling out like a soda can from a vending machine. It’s his Prozac, and he hasn’t taken it in a long time, giving it up on his last birthday, convinced he could find happiness without a prescription or guidance from a charlatan shrink that costs $180 an hour; he shoved the anti-depressants into the bottom drawer after he ate his birthday cupcake last year. But he’s thinking maybe it’s okay to need a little help, even if that makes him a coward, since he can’t seem to get his mind in order without a steady serotonin intake, requiring mental training wheels to navigate life; it’s really his only chance, since the pessimism is becoming too much, deafening and disgusting, tainting even the most optimistic of his thoughts like a terrible aftertaste. He’s afraid if he waits any longer, it’ll be too late, becoming permanently hardwired, impeding neurons with irrevocable despondency. Popping a handful into his mouth, he washes it down with the remnants of his cold afternoon coffee, a bitter relapse for the better, he concedes; the hefty serving, an abundance of mood enhancing neurotransmitters, is just what he needs to stop the nihilism from further infiltration, the pervading negativity, even if it comes with possible adverse side effects.

###

The orange October sun casts a vibrant glow through the thick gray clouds, setting against the livid sky as the day transitions to night; the glistening water from the morning, now dark rigid tides, an unwelcoming sea, a blackened chasm he avoids gazing into. Keeping his eyes focused on the road ahead, Christian speeds up as he travels back over the bridge, the portion of the drive home when he used to call his mother.

“Tell me something good,” she’d plead with an eager optimism, like even the littlest of good news would suffice.

They’d chat about trivial matters, like what the forecast was going to be the next day or what was for dinner as he carried out his cumbersome commute; she’d share something silly that happened and often humorously complain about an app or something not working properly on her phone, technology being her biggest gripe. And Christian would listen and engage, covertly assessing her cognition while they spoke, noting any repetitive statements or questions.

Her phone is disconnected, but she’s still stored in his phonebook, and he can’t call her, so he listens to an old voicemail he saved from his mom instead. It’s one where her voice is vital, not whimpering with confusion, her words articulate, not babbling yet from dementia, the message where she laughs before saying goodbye, giggling about newborn Max looking just like his father.

Solar powered LED lights line the edges of the driveway, sharing a welcoming radiance as Christian pulls into his split-level home. The front door decorated with a harvest wreath of delicate pine cones, faux leaves, and orange bow accents to match the season; the stoop lit by miniature glowing lanterns with realistic glimmers, arranged in a tasteful display by his wife, the heart of his home. Smiling as he drifts past Gabriella’s car, entering the garage, he’s amassed 75 birthday messages for the day, but he’s over checking his phone for notifications, even if it’s still buzzing and beaming in his pocket. Nothing seems to matter anymore, and maybe that’s always been the crux of his problems; he can’t find the medium between caring too much and not at all.

Putting the vehicle in park, Christian presses the overhead button to close the garage door. Slouching in the driver’s seat, idling with the engine, he rolls down his windows and pumps the accelerator a few times; smoke billows from the exhaust like bowling tides as he lets his noggin fall back against the headrest. And it’s not his birthday that upsets him, no, today’s been just splendid; it’s the next day that derives dread, when he’s no longer significant and the connections throughout his life fade back into obscurity, distant entities merged with memories to be forgotten, until next year.

Fantasizing about a deep eternal sleep, his weary eyes flicker; he imagines carbon monoxide entering his blood stream, the slow constriction of his lungs, his body depleting of oxygen and red blood cells. And it’s enticing really, the possibility of it all ending, to close his eyes and stop the perpetual rumination: to no longer experience the weightiness of anxiety, the heavy, at times unbearable heat and acute pressure that twinges his chest every morning when he opens his eyes, the swarming melancholy that grips his heart. He imagines not having to obsess about his 401k’s rate of return or endure the internal monologues that keep him up at night, the biting cynicism, moored with worries and doubts, like if he’ll lose his job one day and the house, or maybe Gabriella or the kids might develop cancer, some fucking malignant brain tumor, and he’ll have to bury another person he’s loved. It’s the hypotheticals that get him, the permutations of destruction and possible misfortune, suffering more often in his imagination than reality. And he’s always been free, completely autonomous, capable of picking whatever he wants for himself, but it’s the fear that consumes him, the uncertainty, like maybe he chose the wrong life.

Christian’s breath slows; the tension in his fists release, and he really could fall asleep, just drift off into oblivion, but he’s shook from his haze by a jarring vision; the snarling face and bitter expression of the fucking irritable redhead from traffic flipping him off sends him into a frenzy; the jackal with her middle finger pointing, revealing shards of teeth as she curses. He can’t let her outlive him, he forbids it; he can’t let her win, and the prospect of his children and wife being abandoned hurts more than any disturbing thought. Jolting up from the driver’s seat, he turns the engine off, overcoming his fugue state. Exiting his car, staggering to his doorstep, Christian barges inside, driving his shoulder into the door with immediacy to see his family.

“Daddy!” his cattle cheer, galloping from the kitchen, their hooves pattering against the hardwood.

The elated calves dart to their father upon his arrival, wrapping their arms around his legs; the alert barks of Cooper resound as he beetles to the garage entrance.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Gabriella smiles, a gorgeous fox holding a cake with lit candles; she leans over to kiss Christian on the lips, her natural, filterless beauty easily surpassing the selection of profiles he swipes for; her long, sinuous tail wrapped around her torso; wisps of her soft majestic striped fur skim his face, tickling his chin.

His head weighs, heavy with a perceived headache, pressure pushing from his mid scalp; Christian places his free hand to his skull, touching pointy lesions, one on each side, curved backwards horns jutting from his head. And it’s a dreamy scene as a poignancy pierces his chest, penetrating his heart, shocked at his transformation and long, dense goatee. Sitting at the antique wooden dining table, he wonders if he should panic, since he’ll never make it grazing; he almost puked once after trying one of Gabriella’s smoothies with wheatgrass; it was earthy, way too gritty for his taste, so he might starve. But he’s not concerned about his appearance, no, he’s more ashamed of his suicidal ideation and tendency to dissociate, his lack of awareness. He knows there’s a profusion of lonely people who come home to their empty houses on their birthdays, greeted by desolate spaces with sad furniture, the diametrical opposite of his welcoming.

Miley and Max spring into his lap with a coltish verve, shaking him from reticence, occupying each knee as they huddle over the cake.

“Haaaaapy Birthday to youuu. Happy Birthday to youuu. Happy Birthday to Daddyyyyy…” the family sings, reciting joyfully.

Looking up, Christian gazes at his wife, the stunning curly haired vixen he proposed to in the height of his youth, smiling at her with adoration; the kids both share her adorable perky cheekbones. And maybe their torrid romance sizzled after having children; perhaps he needs to choose intimacy instead of accessible pornography on his smart phone, even if it requires more effort; maybe he needs to better communicate with her, show vulnerability instead of hiding and turning inward. But he really does love her; he still just has so much work to do, he knows.

Hugging the belting kids, cradling them with his arms draped around their shoulders, they smile back at their father; and they’re not animals anymore, no, they’re human, and Christian can see so much of his parents in the children now, even more today than usual. Miley has her grandmother’s pug nose, Max with his grandfather’s wide smile, genetic influences serving as reminders of his parents’ impact. He squeezes Max a little tighter, reminiscing about his late friend who passed before the birth of their second child, the inspiration for his son’s name.

“Happy Birthday to youuuu!” they conclude as they clap.

“Make a wish,” Gabriella whispers, encouraging the kids from across the table, holding an outstretched phone with her paw to snap a picture.

“Yeah, Daddy, make a wish,” Miley chirps, turning back with a toothy smile, a cherub face, her wavy hair grazing her father’s cheek.

“Moo! Wish for a Tesla!” Max declares, chuckling with excitement; the only car brand he knows from seeing the commercials on television.

Christian thinks, fighting back formulating tears, his mouth ajar, a pensive pose, wondering what to wish for, what he could possibly want. Aware of his ambivalence, to have so much and yet so little, he decides the only thing he needs is presence, mindfulness for the current moment with his family, even in his furry state: to really live in it, enjoy the reality as it unfolds, knowing it will become a memory one day he’ll look back on and miss. It’s profound, really, how he’s feeling, recognizing that maybe it’s better to be a little more naive than skeptical; it’s the only way to prevent negativity from spreading like a virus, the only way innate hope can exist. And even if the lens he’s looking through is broken, distorted by damage and darkness, he knows he just needs to take a different vantage, shift the glass to reflect a brighter view, creating a kaleidoscope to look at his life and admire how vivid and vibrant the colors really are. Surrounded by loved ones, a lifeline for the future, the grateful goat man smiles. Blowing out the candles, extinguishing four rows of flames with a cathartic gust, he basks in the absurdity with an epiphany, a realization that this is the best birthday he’s ever had.

An English literature graduate of JMU, Chris's 2020 short story "Finn Almost Buys a Goldfish" won the 'Emerging Writer’s Award' at Spank the Carp Magazine, and his short story “The Swim” was recognized as the Best in Fiction for 2019 at Across the Margin. Chris's work has also been featured in Hash Journal Mag, Expat Press, Bookends Review, and elsewhere.

A MEMORANDUM ON MORTALITY

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