Analog & Digital
Featuring stories by Laryssa Wirstiuk, Joseph Brodsky, Sarah Evans, Benjamin Schachtman, and Paul Robinson; performed by Ryan Ervin, Everett Goldner, Jonathan Harford, Tiffany May McRae, and Annabel Capper. Hosted by Andrew Lloyd-Jones at KGB Bar on 6th August 2014.
She swirls her drink and says something like, ‘I’m so glad vinyl’s coming back now, I just can’t stand to listen to music on m-p-3.’ Her version of the initials are drawn out, over-enunciated, the way certain people say ‘N-Y-P-D’ or ‘F-D-L-S’ with knowing, fear-mongering intent; she means the music on my little pod is not only sonic diarrhea but also deeply corrosive to the fabric of modern society. So, fuck.
Misha is laid out on the back seat and she whimpers as the car bounces over the speed-bumps. Back home, Jamie’s coat is hung up in the hallway. ‘I’m back,’ I shout, the words echoing up the stairway of our maisonette, but not triggering a response. I find him in the spare bedroom, headphones on, immersed in his virtual world.
There’s this girl who works a few shifts a week with me here. Generally, she likes taking the middle of the assembly line- you don’t have to talk to people as much. After a while, you can even start to guess what type of salsa each customer is going to go for. Upscale woman slumming it for a quick lunch? Medium and mild combo. Malnourished looking white dude? Hot, and extra if possible. Any male over 50? Mild, and they’ll look upset about it.
That's what it says on the display of my watch. Well, y'know, specifically it reads eight-zero-zero-eight, but it'd take a man far more mature than I am to read that as anything other than “BOOB”. The colon that usually blinks away between the middle two digits is nowhere to be seen, so if it doesn't say “BOOB” it says eight thousand and eight, and since eight thousand and eight isn't even a time, I may as well read it as “BOOB”, because I'm late for work again and the levity is welcome. I arrive at the platform just as the dust from my departed train settles. My watch beeps, for no reason whatsoever.
Not even Google Maps could navigate me to the address listed on the customer service page of the company’s website. I ended up first at a nail salon, next at an optometrist’s practice, and finally at a non-descript facade with the correct number, no thanks to digital navigation software.