Fiction | Short Story

The Joneses

They were lucky for the brilliant output of the world’s brilliant minds, for so many chances to consume it. Lucky to live in an age of plenty, of pleasure.

Bryan and Jana didn’t expect the window repairs—or was it upgrades?—to take so long.

“I thought he was finished,” said Jana, returning from work on Tuesday, her head echoing with the clanging theme song of Poppies, which she watched solo on her commute. She hadn’t wanted to get into it because drug wars weren’t really her thing, but her supervisor at Hungrr was always referencing plot points and she was sick of being the last to understand.

“I thought that’s what he said,” said Bryan, who commuted to music documentaries to keep up with the Reddit threads he considered important.

They looked a moment at the rope hanging in front of their second-floor window, which they’d never thought would need curtains. Piotr, the handyman, had the kind of accent they both felt they should be able to decipher but which neither of them actually could. Jana got the same vague uneasiness nodding along to his comments that she got accepting terms and conditions on a new app—probably she could figure out what she was agreeing to, but not without great effort.

“Anyway,” she said, and she ducked into the bedroom to peel off her work clothes (unlike on Monday, when she’d forgotten about Piotr and stripped in the living room, eyes on the end of Poppies as usual, only to emerge from her gauzy top to his head dipping below the sill).

For dinner, they put on the latest true-crime podcasts, which were perfect for prepping and consuming their masticant-friendly meal kit—foods engineered for a flavor explosion around bite twenty-two, so you’d be sure to do the full twenty-six—after which they scrubbed the dishes and checked the show’s Twitter commentary. No particularly hot takes, though sometimes those cropped up after Jana and Bryan had gone to bed, so that they woke completely behind again, even if they’d somehow managed to catch up—which was, of course, the danger of going to bed.

But when they emerged from the kitchen, they still heard tapping. They walked to the living room and saw Piotr’s compact torso stretched before the empty frame, felt the muggy air panting in. They retreated.

“How much longer you think he’s going to work?” said Bryan.

“No idea,” said Jana. She found she was anxious. It was past eight. Shouldn’t he have gone home by now? They had to watch Outside Chance and The Governors before Lester Mann at ten. These were shows designed for the 8K experience—if they couldn’t watch on a TV, they would doubtless miss the nuanced background action that inevitably ended up in memes, which meant they would not understand the memes, which meant they’d have nothing of value to add to the Slack threads at work.

Waiting until Piotr was finished, of course, was out of the question—last week, they’d missed just an hour of internet to a thunderstorm, and the next day had been mortifying, shameful. Like showing up to a potluck empty-handed.

Bryan’s eyes darted, a look of weighing options.

“We could watch in bed,” he said, finally.

She pursed her lips. Bad screen resolution, bad sleep hygiene. A chance they wouldn’t get their seven-point-five, which would leave them both dragging and unproductive. Still, she didn’t see an alternative. And anyway, it was too hot without the pane. So they brushed their teeth and settled with his laptop between them, blackout shades drawn. They relaxed into the episodes, into the relevant Twitter conversations, until they’d forgotten all about Piotr.

Except they couldn’t sleep. Even on their king-size memory gel with their bamboo sheets and white noise machine, even when they both swallowed a melatonin tablet, even though they’d committed to charging their phones in the kitchen so there was no stray light besides the Dawnzerly alarm clock that glowed them awake before sounding. Even though this apartment had air conditioning.

“Oh, god,” said Jana, when morning was undeniable. “I’m dead.”

Bryan grunted beside her, burrowed under his pillow.

She stood, yawned. She’d have to drink extra caffeine—a venti, which was over budget. She tugged the blackout shades and looked out to see Piotr approaching on his bicycle.

“Motherfucker,” she said.

This was the catch, apparently, of the deal they’d gotten on rent: free streaming included (all the streams—Prime and Go and Netflix and Hulu and Disney). A pilot program, their landlord had said. Their building would need some updates to make it work. Everything managed from the app. And of course he was getting paid by the streaming companies, but she and Bryan hadn’t thought that too sinister when they’d signed the lease—they could never have afforded a place like this otherwise, could barely afford anything anymore, it seemed. Every company was focused on market share these days, what with the lower birth rate. But maybe their landlord was just cheap—a deal wherever he could get it. Probably paid Piotr under the table.

Walking to the train after work Wednesday, Jana ran into an anti-streamer protest outside the new Comcast building. And of course dozens of people had their phones held out to stream it. She didn’t remove her headphones but recognized their chants anyway—“Screens off, jeans off” and “Look up, hook up”—the same hysteria people always had when something new threatened something old, as if there couldn’t be more than one way of living.

At home, she and Bryan determined they would watch Scrum in the living room—who cared what Piotr thought? Probably he wouldn’t even notice. But when they’d finished the dishes to the latest Notorious, he was again working on their windows and they couldn’t bring themselves to plunk on the sofa in front of him. Too unsettling, even when they knew he was staring at the windows’ edges and not through their panes. They decided to watch again in bed—they were so wiped from the night before, there was no way they wouldn’t conk out this time—and what choice did they have? The flow of content did not slow to suit their schedule.

Except, again, they couldn’t sleep.

“Screens off, jeans off” and “Look up, hook up”—the same hysteria people always had when something new threatened something old, as if there couldn’t be more than one way of living.

They flipped and pitched. They restacked pillows. Jana felt sure she could hear Piotr’s thumping, even above the noise machine and ceiling fan. Even though she knew he had left for the night. When the alarm sounded, she opened the shade, and there he was, climbing his ladder. He waved.

At work, she was ravenous and unraveled. She could barely follow the customer complaints she was supposed to be resolving—a burger had arrived with waxy fries. A vegan had been sent a keto box. So what, she wanted to shout at her screen. Can you use your living room? Can you sleep? A headache needled her eyes. She rubbed them. Cameron, who sat beside her, yapped his too-loud laugh—a chorus of laughter rose around the office.

“Oh, man,” he said, shaking his head.

“What?” she said.

“The ‘random’ channel?” he said. “Omar’s GIFs?”

Nausea, almost—she hadn’t checked Slack in close to an hour. She clicked over and scrolled through the many messages she’d missed, which all dealt with last night’s episodes and the subsequent online chatter. She could barely follow them, though, could barely think.

“Right?” said Cameron after a minute. And then, in a tone of barely glossed disgust, “Did you take another night off or something?” He himself didn’t go so far as the coffee maker without catching a few seconds of his current binge.

“Low blood sugar,” she said, shoving back her chair and stalking to the kitchen. She beelined for the donuts left over from the sales team’s morning meeting and shoveled down a honey glazed, barely chewing. Another peal of laughter shook the air and she felt like the sick antelope from that nature documentary, the one that couldn’t keep up with the herd and was left to be torn apart by lions.

But no. She wiped her fingers on a paper towel. She wouldn’t let that happen. They would just have to watch last night’s episodes again. And yes, that meant losing even more sleep, but there was no alternative—what started on Slack continued in meetings. Those who didn’t participate were considered lazy, undisciplined. Freeloaders. The type who didn’t appreciate the value of hard work, of working toward group goals. The type who’d rather slap together a sandwich than invest in cultivating a memorable dining experience via Hungrr. This type, of course, would not have empathy for Hungrr’s customers, which was a problem because empathy was one of Hungrr’s core value propositions, along with authenticity.

She returned to her desk with more coffee.

“Whew,” she said to Cameron. “Hanger averted.”

“Nice,” he said, and when he laughed again at the latest GIF, she forced herself to chime in, even though what she was thinking about was Piotr. Fucking Piotr. Out in the blazing sunshine, climbing up and down his ladder, hoisting things into place, keeping her and Bryan away from their gorgeous, still-not-paid-off TV. Of how well he must sleep at night.

And on her walk to the train, the city’s burgeoning homeless. And on the train, Poppies. And in her building’s lobby, the night’s dinner, packed in its single-use cooler. She streamed Unhinged and chopped until Bryan got home. She suggested they rewatch last night’s episodes, recounting her epic Slack failure.

“But we’re already behind,” he said. “Charlie basically promised Rivka a raise when she quoted some line from something—” He shook his head. “It sounded like Phone Files,” he said. “Not that I’d know.”

“You could watch it without me.” She was too creeped out, knowing one of the main characters was a computer rendering.

“When, though?” A note of desperation in his voice.

“The train? Couldn’t you swap it with your docs?”

“I already watch them at double speed.” He dished the stir-fry onto two plates, set them on their tiny kitchen table.

“I don’t get how people do it,” said Jana. “Do they not sleep?”

Bryan gave her a look. “Everyone has the same twenty-four hours,” he said. “We could invest in a shower screen. We could double-speed everything.”

She made a face.

“That is how people do it, though,” he said.

“Is that even enjoyable?”

“Was not getting the Slack jokes enjoyable?”

“Charlie basically promised Rivka a raise when she quoted some line from something—” He shook his head. “It sounded like Phone Files,” he said. “Not that I’d know.”

She was about to protest when he held up a hand.

“Listen,” he said. “This is pointless. The longer we talk, the further behind we get.”

She looked toward the living room—like the home of a friend who’d died. Why couldn’t Piotr just work normal hours?

Bryan queued up their comedy digest podcast, which they were normally halfway through by now. He sped it up to one-point-five. She sighed and tried to focus.

Friday, it rained.

“Hallelujah,” said Jana, when she heard the start of the onslaught in the wee hours.

“Just in time,” said Bryan, half asleep.

Rain pummeled the city all day, and at night they sat on the sofa and watched Curmudgeon and Narnia Revisited and Alabaster and Jude. They watched much longer than usual—a postfamine feast—until the rain relented and the sky lightened.

“One more episode and we’re caught up,” said Bryan.

“Let’s do it,” said Jana, and they met each other’s eyes, giddy, and clasped hands on their glorious couch.

Half an hour later, they settled into bed behind their blackout shade, both nearly comatose, but victorious. Caught up. Jana passed out immediately.

She woke to a thunk, followed by creaking, which she realized was Piotr climbing the ladder he’d just slanted against their building.

“No,” she whispered. “Please, no.”

And when, a few hours later, she gave up trying to sleep through his tapping, her phone was lit up with alerts that Jude had released a new stealth season at six a.m. Seven full episodes—she and Bryan were behind again.

Her brain ached for caffeine. In the living room, Piotr’s feet peeked at the top of the window—on to the third floor. Theirs was finished. She had to admit, begrudgingly, that the windows did look nicer—sleeker. The frames had been replaced entirely, so that they looked more like the frame of her laptop screen than the frame of a window—actually, almost exactly like the frame of a laptop.

She slumped onto the sofa.

A phone alert: “Need caffeine?” with a coupon code for cold brew. Thank god. She ordered two of the largest size available, grateful for her Hungrr discount. Her screen popped with suggestions—more than usual, it seemed, for morning stretch routines and low-calorie breakfast recipes and eye-bag coverage tutorials—but she didn’t have the energy to click any, to watch anything—she couldn’t bear the thought of it.

But then she caught herself. Bryan was right: There was no point complaining. People no smarter than they were had figured things out—Cameron, for example, who was always accidentally deleting customer conversations.

She squared her shoulders and unlocked her phone, held up her palm to block the glaring poststorm sunlight. An ad popped: blackout curtains. She looked up—wait. How did they . . . ? A ripple of uneasiness in her gut. She stood, took a step toward the windows. Was that—

Her phone buzzed. A coupon for the curtains. Too good an offer to pass up—and they did need some in here. Really, she should have thought of it sooner. She clicked in and added three sets to her basket—enough for the living room. Tapped over to their bank account to make sure they’d been paid. Went back and requested same-day shipping.

Her door buzzed. She accepted the coffee, which was so cold it hurt her teeth. She grimaced. An ad for sensitive toothpaste. An ad for a dentist. An algorithm update, maybe. That’s what it had to be. She glanced again at the windows, then carried the drinks to the bedroom and prodded Bryan awake.

He groaned.

“Come on,” she said. She told him about Jude.

He sat up, blinking. He accepted the coffee.

“I ordered curtains,” she said. “For the living room.”

He smiled. They locked eyes—a rush of something Jana recognized but couldn’t quite place.

Her phone buzzed, but she didn’t check it.

“Come here,” he said, softer, patting the bed beside him.

She climbed in, snuggled against him. He tucked her hair behind her ear, touched his forehead to hers. Reached to her nightstand and grabbed her laptop, unfolded it between them. She took a long pull from her cold brew, reminding herself how lucky they were.

Abundance was what this was called. She spent so much energy feeling overwhelmed, but really they were lucky to be alive at such a time, lucky to be part of such a strong, growing economy. It boomed and boomed, even amid declining births and increasing deaths. They were lucky that they worked indoors, after all, that food was so readily available and customizable to their tastes. Lucky for the brilliant output of the world’s brilliant minds, that they had so many, many, many chances to consume it. Lucky to live in an age of plenty, of pleasure.

Lucky that Piotr had finally finished their windows, that they could return to their living room and relax, phones chirping helpfully beside them—watching over them, Jana realized, is how it felt. Ensuring they would never know want or boredom.