Blue Light

By Margaret Sattler

The bedroom was dim. Hazy light filtered through a crack in the plastic blinds, forming a line on his face. What time is it?  His ears were ringing. Groggily, he felt for his phone on the bedside table—a strange weight on his chest. The phone wasn’t there. That woke him. He looked down. The weight was his phone. Must have fallen asleep holding it. Its harsh glow illuminated his unshaven face. Welp, two hours—could be worse. His thoughts drifted. He hated that thing, yet here he was again. The screen went dark. His pale eyes stared back at him. They blinked. He didn’t. His blood ran cold.

Something to eat?” A voice came from somewhere, sing-song-y. “Fruit or Nuts? Something to eat?” The face wasn’t him. Its mouth moved this time, “Something to drink? Something to eat?” 

What kind of mocking, esoteric-?

“Something to drink? Something to eat?” It was a woman’s voice–distant. 

The dull ringing grew loud in his ears—a sharp whine. Is that- a plane engine? 

Peter woke up.

 “Something to eat or drink?” The flight attendant was eight rows in front of him. 

“Diet Coke.”
“Dr. Pepper.”

“Mr. Pibb, alright?”

Of course it isn’t. 

In front of him, every screen was lit up playing something or other. 18D looked like she’d dozed off in the middle of Gladiator. Sadie used to fall asleep to true crime. Guess it’s not that different. 

Peter was seated in the front row of the non-screen section, 20C. It was part of the new initiative. Something to do with “accessibility and health.” Just last year some doctors finally decided “this much screen time wasn’t good for the population” and congress actually picked it up, forming half a dozen committees. So last month, the airlines started making separate rows and everything, to prevent “second-hand exposure.” Whatever that meant. Fat lot of good putting it in the front. 

Some kid started kicking his seat. At least we never had one of those, He thought.

“Oliver! Look at me.” The mom hissed. 

Oliver stopped kicking. Oliver started kicking. 

Why doesn’t she just-  Oh right. No screens.

He pulled the book he had brought with him out of his backpack and opened the grimy tray-table. Getting Over a Breakup: 75 Easy Steps by Kate Anderson. For some reason, that was the book his elderly co-worker Barbra thought was appropriate to give your desk neighbor as a “Happy Firing” gift. She didn’t know he was actually going through one with Sadie. It was just one of her sarcastic jabs. She probably thought it was funny. 

He’d kept it because maybe it might have something helpful in it. After four years of dating, he and Sadie had finally broken up. The reason: He couldn’t pay his half of the rent. Why he’d stayed with Sadie was beyond him now. She was always there with a list of things he’d done wrong the second he walked in the door.  

When they first met, Sadie was stunning. Her carefree laugh cut through the monotony of homework and senior seminar. Fraternity life was fine and all, but they were all business or finance like him, except for Will who didn’t seem to have a care in the world…or a grip on reality. Except when it came to soda, apparently. Peter wasn’t suited for business but that was the degree his parents would pay for, so there he was in Texas, waiting for the lights to change. Or however that lyric went. Will was always tossing in country lyrics. Sadie for some reason always kept a stash of Coke drinks in her apartment and Will couldn’t stand that she never had Dr. Pepper. 

“Who even drinks Mr. Pibb? That’s psychopath behavior, man. I’m telling you, she’s not what you think.”

But Will was wrong. Sadie made him feel alive again. They’d go out dancing and sit in his car till the sun came up. They went a long distance for a while when she moved back to New York. It was like a dream. But that changed when they moved in together four years later. 

“What happened in here!” Peter saw boxes full of his stuff and papers from his desk strewn across the floor. He’d just finished organizing everything that morning. Finally. It was pristine when he’d left for work.

“Just thought the apartment needed cleaning up a bit.”  She had a trash can next to her already full of his belongings.

“But that’s my stuff!” 

“It’s not like you use any of these things.” 

Just because she was correct didn’t make it right. He’d been gone since early and out late most of the week, there was a big project at the office. 

“Sadie.” He had said in a low tone. “Don’t touch my things like that again.” 

She’d compiled and it seemed like it was just a misunderstanding. 

But a few months later another incident happened. Then another. And another. Sadie always made it about her. How he wasn’t supporting her. How she’d gone through so much and no one seemed to care about her. He’d give the smallest hint of conflict and she’d blow it out of proportion. And there was definitely no way they were going to get their security deposit back. 

For a while he just worked early and stayed late—but eventually he had to go home. When he got home, he’d scroll, she’d scroll, and they wouldn’t talk. Eventually, work became monotonous.

Sitting in his swivel chair in front of the monitor, Peter clacked away on spreadsheets. What was that video he’d just seen on break? Some guy talking about the families that ran the Roman Republic, but... His attention pulled to his phone. I have got to send this to Barb.

This was the first of many times, but it wasn’t uncommon. His coworkers would share videos with him too. Eventually he just kept a tab open and scrolled on his computer—listening while he worked. Barbra was always watching him from the desk behind her. Sure, he had a screen, but that woman never had her eyes on her work. But then the policy changed. 

Some coalition…ad-hoc…pro-tempore…tech-jargon-sounding congressional committee had got a bee in their bonnet about recreational screen usage and worker health. They tasked OSHA with dealing with the problem, so now the office had designated breaks: fifteen minutes once per five hours. 

“Peter. Peter!” His boss’s jaw was set.

“Yes?” he said, lifting one side of his headphones. 

“I see you have a non-OSHA approved tab open.”

Peter started–coming out of his autopilot. Out of habit, he’d opened the tab which defaults to auto-play. 

“Sorry Jim, old habit.” He closed out the tab. 

“Okay, but don’t let it happen again.” 

“You got it.” Peter put on some music. 

Peter, however, didn’t. He tried, even taking his phone on bathroom breaks, but autopilot would take over, the tab would come up, or he’d lose track of time on breaks––a lot of time. Jim came back a few weeks later, and let him go. 

“You what!” His girlfriend said. “You couldn’t handle being off your phone for one measly little hour? How could you do this to us? How are you going to pay rent?” She continued berating him. 

He just stood there. 

She finally stopped. 

He spoke. “Look, I’m hunting for jobs right now—I applied to three on the subway here.” He took a deep breath, “I have enough in savings to cover two months’ rent. That should be enough-”

“Stop. We are done. I want you gone by the end of the week.”

And that was that, four years down the drain. He tried to argue, but the lease was hers and there wasn’t anything he could do. The next morning, he didn’t have work anymore, so he scrolled. A notification dot popped into view. 

“Hey man, it’s Will from Sigma Nu. I’m putting together a startup and I need a business guy. Just saw your LinkedIn update, would you be down?”

Peter let out a breath. Will was a doofus, but this is the break he needed. He responded back. “Hey Will, Good to hear from you. I’m interested—Send me the details and I’ll let you know.”

“Something to eat? Something to drink?” The flight attendant’s voice shocked him out of his thoughts. 

He blinked and shook his head. “Sorry, could you say that again?”

“Something to eat or drink?”

“Yeah, I’ll have a diet coke.”

“We’re out, can I get you something else?”

“Uh sure,” He thought back to earlier. “I’ll just do Mr. Pibb.” Will never hears about this, He thought.

The flight attendant handed him his drink and he thanked her. Remembering the book, he flipped it open. 

Chapter 1: Manage your activity on social media. 

Screw you, Barb.

Margaret Sattler is a writer based in the Pacific Northwest. She enjoys exploring issues and perspectives that fly under the radar. This is her debut in short story writing.