Pat was fingering his iPhone as he walked back to work from lunch, involved in a Twitter feud about the films of Wes Anderson. His face was squinted into a fuming pinch. He didn’t notice Charlie on the way in through the glass roundabout. Pat impatiently bumped against the glass, trying to hurry through.
“Hey man, are you okay?” Charlie asked.
“Just trying to explain the facts to this idiot. He’s not aware that the music in Rushmore, Wes Anderson’s first widely seen film, was done by Mark Mothersbaugh, formerly of Devo. Which, of course, everyone knows.”
“You seem upset,” Charlie observed.
“It’s just—people shouldn’t spout off about things they know nothing about. Idiots!”
“So you’re a fan,” Charlie said.
“I enjoy his movies, and I think they’re really creative but I’m not a member of his fan club. I mean, The Fantastic Mr. Fox and The Darjeeling Limited just didn’t come together like his other work. The set design is always amazing, and he’s really grown as a director since his first movie, Bottle Rocket, which nobody saw. So yes, I like his work, but I don’t think of myself as a fan. I just like good movies,” Pat replied.
“Wow, you know a lot about them. Do they relax you?” Charlie said as they stepped into the elevator.
“I don’t relax exactly, because to appreciate the art you have to pay attention. I mean, what camera work did they use? How did the lighting affect the scene? What is the director showing us, and what is he not showing us? And does he have a reason or was it just sloppy work to get to the next act. So, I can’t relax exactly, but I do enjoy them,” Pat said.
“What do you do to relax?” Charlie asked.
Pat thought for a moment, checked his phone, checked his Instagram and Twitter feeds, “I don’t know really. Sometimes my girlfriend and I go out for drinks, which starts out as sort of relaxing but usually ends up in an argument. I guess sleeping is when I relax. Why?”
The two stepped out of the elevator and into the offices of Secure Home, a growing internet company that offered live security monitoring of homes and businesses. Video feeds from web cams all over the world filtered in, were processed through algorithms that showed any movement or changes in the environment which the security technicians (aka safety drones) would review for any possible danger. Ninety-nine percent of the time it was a raccoon or a bird, or a spider crawling over the camera, which were deemed “yellow alerts.” These were sent to clients with a screen shot to prove that Secure Home would see even the smallest of intruders. It was all done in real time, with the alerted video sent to a safety drone’s computer for review. They’d get sixty seconds between videos, which used to be fifteen seconds but accuracy dropped way off if they didn’t get a full minute to reset their gaze. You could earn a bonus by taking less than a minute between reviews, with all the seconds being converted into dollars at the end of your shift.
Pat’s constant need to check his feeds worked against him as he used the minute to send a quick text or check the status of a Facebook post. He ping-ponged all day, never resting his eyes or brain and not earning any extra money.
Charlie could go for hours without stopping, churning out review after review without a break. Occasionally he’d stop, close his eyes and cup his hands like he was holding an invisible ball. Then he’d be good to go for several more hours.
Neither Pat nor Charlie knew how the other could do it. As they shut down their computers at the end of the day, Charlie asked Pat a question.
“How do go all day with no break? You’ve got something streaming at you constantly, bouncing from your phone to the security reviews and back—don’t you get scrambled by the end of the day?” Charlie asked.
“It takes me awhile to settle down once I get home. Actually, I’m usually online until I fall asleep, usually in my clothes with my phone in my hand,” Pat said.
“That can’t be good for you. Your brain’s gotta rest sometime,” Charlie said.
“Like I said, I relax when I sleep,” Pat reminded him. “What’s up with holding the invisible ball?”
“It’s a sphere. I’m visualizing it to center my mind. I have the actual thing at home, but I can refocus by doing a quick meditation during the day. Then I’m good to go until I get home. I spend about an hour with the sphere every night and it totally rejuvenates me. I’ve been doing it for over a year and I’ve never felt better. I’ve lost weight, I sleep better, I’m happier—it’s awesome.”
“Where did you get it?”
“A friend of mine brought it back from a trip to Japan. Supposedly a monk developed it as a way for novices to access the meditative state of a master. It used to take people twenty or thirty years to get to this level, but now you just hold the Relaxation Sphere and you’re there. Nirvana,” Charlie said.
“How much was it?” Pat asked.
“It was free. You can’t buy them. They can only be given as gifts,” Charlie said.
“Then where do they come from?” Pat asked.
“The monk, I guess. I never really thought about it,” Charlie replied.
“Sounds like some kind of a scam. It probably taps into your WiFi and steals all your passwords,” Pat warned.
“If you tried it, you’d understand,” Charlie said.
Pat thumbed a final retort in his Twitter war. “Asshole!” He sighed, and was suddenly aware of how tense he felt. “Okay, I’ll try the ball.”
“Sphere,” Charlie corrected.
“Yeah. Whatever,” Pat said, annoyed.
“Why don’t you come over tonight? Eight o’clock?” Charlie asked.
“Yeah. That should give me enough time to eat and argue with my girlfriend. Text me your address,” Pat said, as he headed for the elevator.
Charlie’s apartment was cool white from ceiling to floor. The furniture, wall art, the carpet—everything was eggshell or ivory or corn silk. “Wow, cool place. Very, uh, unblack,” Pat said, not sure how Charlie would react if he called his apartment the whitest place he’d ever been.
“It’s calming. If you squint, it like being in a snowstorm. No features stand out, so you can just lose yourself,” Charlie offered.
“Okay. So, where’s the sphere?” Pat asked.
“Do you want anything? Water? Beer?” Charlie asked.
“I’ll take a beer with my sphere,” Pat said, amused at his own joke.
“Be right back,” Charlie said. He went to the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge and took a box down from the cupboard. The box was blood red and so shiny it looked wet.
“Wow. It really makes an impact. What do I do?” Pat asked.
“Just take it out of the box, hold it in your lap and close your eyes. It’s really easy,” Charlie said.
“I turned off my phone before I came up, so it couldn’t tap into my network,” Pat said as he opened the box. The inside was lined with fabric and the sphere itself was the size of a grapefruit, but milky-colored. It was cool and a bit squishy, like it was made of foam or silicone. Pat tossed it from hand to hand, and it glowed a little bit.
“Cool. It’s like one of those bouncy balls that light up,” Pat said.
“Give it a try. I think you’ll be surprised,” Charlie said. Pat held the ball in his lap and closed his eyes.
“No peeking,” Charlie warned.
“Yeah, yeah,” Pat said. The sphere started to vibrate, and Pat wondered if it was some kind of dildo but decided not to say it out loud. Then the surface became softer, almost like water and it felt like Pat’s hands were being covered by the sphere. Then he noticed that he couldn’t feel it at all anymore, as if his hands were empty. He felt some light tickling along his forearms and when he looked down saw that the sphere had grown, enveloping him from his knees to his elbows.
“What the hell is this?” Pat demanded.
“You shouldn’t have looked. Now it’s going to hurt,” Charlie said.
A stinging current shot through Pat’s body as he tried to free himself, but the sphere held on tightly to his hands and knees. Pat managed to throw himself to the floor and started to yell for help as the sphere continued to grow. As it did, it’s color began to flash and flutter like the skin of an excited octopus. Pat tried to wriggle free, stretching his neck as his final cry for help was cut off by the sphere consuming him. From inside the milky membrane he could see Charlie smiling peacefully as he drank the beer. The sphere then contracted, pulling Pat’s feet up and his head down until he was in the fetal position. Then, as it formed a hard shell around him, Pat’s mind cleared. All the jabber in his brain fell quiet and he could only hear his own heartbeat. He felt like he was floating on a warm cloud, not worried about his job or his girlfriend or that idiot on Twitter. Then he started to slip away, Charlie tapped on the shell and said, “What did I tell you? Relaxing, isn’t it?”
In the morning, the sphere had regained its shape but was the size of a basketball. Charlie had been sitting up with it all night, as he did most nights. Taking it to the kitchen, he held it over a large bowl, wrung it out like a wet towel, collecting its buttery nectar. He poured the liquid into a thermos. The sphere was back to its usual size and Charlie returned it to the box. He then unspooled his moth-like tongue and took a sip from the thermos, which would sustain him for another month.
“Welcome to Nirvana, asshole,” he said, as he screwed on the lid.
***
A couple weeks later, Charlie found a new co-worker in Pat’s cubicle. Charlie did his usual cupped hands maneuver to recharge himself between security reviews.
“Why are you holding an invisible ball?” the new worker asked.
“It’s a sphere. I’m visualizing it to center my mind. I have the actual thing at home, but I can refocus by doing a quick meditation during the day. Then I’m good to go until I get home. I spend about an hour with the sphere every night and it totally rejuvenates me. I’ve been doing it for over a year and I’ve never felt better. I’ve lost weight, I sleep better, I’m happier—it’s awesome.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was a gift. Would you like to try it?”