Glitch

“You’re being murdered on my screen right now.” 

Albert said this with the same tone reserved for pleasantries that ordinary neighbors would exchange just as I slid the screen door shut. He was seated in a rocking chair on the balcony across from my own, his hands hovering over the keyboard of his laptop. 

I wasn’t in the mood for socializing with this egghead. A killer headache kept me in bed until 11, and my morning shower failed to serve as a panacea. Thinking I would feel better if I ate lunch in the sun was a mistake. “What the hell? How? I’m right here.” I sat down and stabbed a fork into my salad. The Romaine was wilted. The free lunches provided by the start-up that Albert and I both worked at, an oasis for a few dozen freshly graduated, former computer science majors either too dumb or too smart to be claimed by a big-name tech company, often featured crispy kale masterpieces doused in tropical vinaigrettes. Foolish of me to attempt to replicate such art, I suppose. "You playing a video game or something?” 

He glances at me briefly so that I catch the full judgment of a raised eyebrow before his attention is drawn towards the screen again. Being both neighbors and co-workers with Albert means I see him enough to know that he sticks a pen in his mouth when he’s bored and wakes up at 6 AM even on Saturdays—he often forgets to close his blinds, and our apartment units are close enough that the lights from his room don’t have to pierce the darkness very far in other to wake me up. “It’s still the workday, Alice. Now isn’t the time for games.” Something he sees triggers a wince. “Damn. Everyone on this call is bugging out because of you.” 

This reminds me that I was supposed to join the same video conference call that Albert was clearly paying so much attention to. I pull out my phone and conclude that I’m approximately twenty minutes late. Shit. Carla was just on my ass last week about my video conferencing etiquette. Something about how setting my interactive background to an endless loop of various mammals giving birth did not see the company’s standard of “professionalism.” Obviously it was unintentional - I had forgotten to change it to something more work-appropriate after video calling some high school friends (they thought it was hilarious, of course) - but my boss couldn’t care less. Normally, I’d freak out for weeks, but we’ve all been working from home for so long now that our expectations for ourselves have all been somewhat rewired. 

I pull out my phone and quickly scroll through my emails to find the call link. A window pops open, flickers, and then my phone dies. Shit. “I forgot about the conference call. You mind telling them I’ll be there in a few? Just need to grab my laptop.” A rare situation in which having a neighbor as a co-worker comes in handy. 

“I told you, you’re already on the call, Alice. It’d probably be overkill to appear twice, especially with the commotion you’re causing right now.” 

He’s being an ass, or I’m just grumpier than usual. I go back into my apartment to retrieve my laptop. When I return to the balcony, he’s peering at his screen through his fingers. “God, really don’t think it was the best move to fend off a gunman with a salad fork.” My stomach rumbles, reminding me I still haven’t eaten, but glancing down at the table, I realize my lunch is without a utensil. He suddenly hunches over to peer more closely at his screen. “Hope that necklace wasn’t too valuable.”

My hands fly towards the thin gold chain my neck, but there’s nothing there. Weird. I definitely had it on an hour ago; I remember it getting caught on my hair in the shower. I’m impressed that Albert can see that it’s missing all the way from where he is—our balconies must be separated by a few meters, at least. Amazing how limitless our human capabilities become when it comes to practical jokes. I open my laptop and navigate to the call link again. Déjà vu - a window opens, flickers like a star, then the entire screen turns black. “Hey, stop kidding around. Did you have any trouble with the call link?” I ask. “Hey!”

He continues to ignore me. “Geez. Geez! There’s blood everywhere. The salad fork made it worse. Carla’s calling your mother now…she still in Jersey? Thought the 973-area code sounded familiar.” 

This man ought to be an actor, and a private investigator, for the lengths he’ll go to gather the detail needed to build his sick jokes into temporarily believable realities. I ought to just cross the street and join the call from his laptop, but I was feeling under the weather a few days ago. Probably shouldn’t risk it, for his sake. Whatever. I restart my laptop—a quick apology message to Carla and request for meeting notes should be fine. A chat notification pops up—from Carla, coincidentally, but it was sent half an hour ago. How’d I miss it? Hey, why’d you go into the office today? it reads. 

I frown as I try to make sense of what could’ve possibly triggered this misunderstanding. Pretty sure I was still showering half an hour ago, no way I was mentally anywhere near the office, let alone physically. An email notification pops up - from campus security, an alert regarding CODE SILVER. Now this is actually concerning; from my scant recollection of the mandatory training I went through when I was newly hired, SILVER stood for active shooter on office premises. But why would a shooter show up to an empty office? The email says that the shooter entered Terasaki Offices at approximately 11:09 AM and that further updates would be forthcoming. Chilling—that’s where my cubicle is located, on the ninth floor. 

I go back to the chat with Carla, type - Hey, don’t worry. Not in the office, thank God - did you see the campus security email? Press enter. I’m really sorry about missing the call - having issues with the call link. Do you mind sending me your meeting notes?

Before I press enter, I hear a digital screaming. Carla’s. Coming from my Albert's laptop. Didn’t realize the audio on Macs could go so high. The high-pitch yelps crescendo into wailing. “What the hell is going on?” I shout. 

He frowns. “You’re…I think you’re dead.” The wailing continues. I’m starting to get more disturbed than irritated by Albert’s twisted joke. I go back to send the second message to Carla, but then I realize my phone is vibrating—it’s my mother. I pick up, but too late, it’s dead. Apparently, I am too. I look up at Albert again—he’s closed his laptop now, and is staring off to the side, at something I can’t see. My annoyance returns.

“How are you so calm then, if you just witnessed me being murdered?” I shout. He looks back at me. I can see his irises for some reason; weird, my eyesight has gotten increasingly worse in the past year. I usually can’t even read the menu at coffee shops anymore, let alone black dots in my neighbor’s eyes from meters away.

“I’m actually quite freaked out,” he says.

“What do you suggest I do now then? If I’m both dead and alive.”

“That’s precisely the problem.” He then stands up, abruptly. “Actually, forget it. Never mind. Just a joke.” Next thing I know, he’s gone back inside.

Screw it. Forget work. Forget my Romaine. At this point, I decide that I deserve a chocolate cake rather than salad. I go back inside, toss my laptop and phone onto my bed, and walk to the kitchen. I bought a chocolate mousse with raspberry jam delight at Ralphs earlier this week, a decision that was somewhat the product of panicking over when the next time I’d be able to enter a grocery store might be.

I fight the urge to take a fistful of cake and look for a fork. None in the dish rack, none in the dish washer. None in the utensil drawer. Didn’t I do the dishes just last night?

I peer into the nearly empty sink. The only item in there is salad fork, shiny with what looks like red raspberry filling.

I nearly drop the cake tray. “Albert? ALBERT? What the hell did you do?” The ring of sirens fill the air, and a metallic salty taste fills my mouth as I rush back to the balcony.