Local Events
by Noll Griffin
Melanie fiddled with the ring on her finger, a single pearl prolapsing from a thick, silver band with tiny gems on either side like supportive molars for one monstrous tooth. Her dream ring was supposed to be simple, but her partner didn’t quite understand her style even though they’d been together for years. I personally hated the ring but it looked… Like something. It was special, less stale than usual under the same aluminum light fixtures every bar had on every street since a few years ago. I sat with my jumble of thoughts about people stripping pearls out of shells for later sale, soggy hours of cracking open animal cases with no mundane magic present until the product of a mollusk’s worst days ended up on Melanie’s finger shining as a symbol of love wherever she waved her hand.
“You two should get married too. Then he could stay here, right?”
“I’m not sure how that works if none of the countries involved recognize it legally.”
“Oh, right. I hate that so much, I’m so sorry. Well I’m sure this is temporary, he’ll figure out something. If it’s meant to be, things will work out. I just know it.”
“Do you really believe that?”
She thought we were having some sort of profound movie dialogue moment where her platitude did something other than offend me, I could see it in her soft eyes. “Of course, you just need to stay positive! I mean, look at Jamie and me, I never thought we’d be having this wedding in the end after all the drama and the cheating…” She took my hand off the table and placed her ornamented one atop it like she was an amateur faith healer. “You just have to keep trusting the universe.”
I had to go to work though.
My boss was waiting for me at the top of the fourth floor, leaning on a mop with towels folded over his arm. “I wonder what this guy wanted out of life. I always do.”
“I hope he wanted to leave a clean room behind.”
He snort-laughed at that. “You’re fucking cold, man. Get yourself ready.”
Henry R. in room 4.12 was as considerate as I hoped. Most of the damage left behind was the half-filled tub slowly giving up deep fractals of one last poorly manufactured glitter bath bomb down the drain.
I felt bad being happy to see a mess so average on the scale of how bad things could be instead of a marbled, mauve mass that used to be a thirty-year-old woman’s memories like last time. My boss saw new wave records in the front room and put a similar playlist on his portable speakers for the three of us working. He always said this was for honoring the person, playing something they might have liked if he could manage it, but whatever. I thought it was morbid. Still, it made the job go faster. We were getting way too many cases of people with music tastes barely a note away from mine that month, people my age too far down on the waiting list for mental healthcare.
After a couple of hours, there was nothing left to suggest that anything bad had happened there. The dried, brown smear on the wall where Henry had been banging his head above a dropped envelope from the tax office was just a vague halo of pink you wouldn’t find without specifically looking for it. It was good enough, like someone had pressed a cheek with a bit too much blush against that spot. It was a cherubic kiss of agony that could still go away. The foamy, white vomit with confetti streaks of various dissolved tablets was gone. I put the pills he dropped in front of the mirror back in their prescription bottles and took them downstairs, undoing what he did in his final agony, undoing everything back to a safe state of “Cozy apartment with high ceilings in central location! 1500 euros a month, utilities not included.”
Pretty soon people would be going up the same stairs as me to take their shot at renting it the second it was available, probably the upcoming weekend. They would wait for their turn to view the room and never worry about ghosts at that price. They wouldn’t even take their shoes off, pressing every last flake of dead skin or dirt between the scratched floorboards until his history was too small for even a new tenant’s bored dog to sniff out.
My boss offered to give me a ride home in the Lunaclean van and I appreciated it. The company name was chosen because we cleaned by night, when people wouldn’t be as liable to walk around the building gawking and trying to get nice rumors for their true crime podcasts. I hated trying to sleep right after cleaning. There was no sleep aid available over the counter that could erase the memories of skin slippage. That could help me forget the smell sticking in my sinuses. The same smell every time, with different notes added, but always riding atop the most repulsive mass of meaty, sweetened horror. You know you’re not supposed to be there in your deep caveman marrow but you need the money more than you need to feel okay and soon every surface will be blessed with sterilizing chemicals to push it out. Bleach for the floor, ketamine for the nose and mental trauma later.
My phone lit up the almost completely black space inside the van and buzzed obnoxiously. I looked down to see the Whimsync app notifying me of a new opportunity. I saw my boss glance at the screen as well, and he frowned. “At this hour? Who is it even for?”
“Drunk tourists, I guess.”
I checked the details. Scheduled flash mob in forty minutes, not too far from my place. An easy few euros for ten minutes of work, maybe. No costume requirement, just singing one of those upbeat 60s songs everyone likes to sing along to and dancing in unison with whoever else showed up. Things like this often happened in clusters so if I grabbed this one, I would probably find something else to get paid for within fifteen minutes, like assisting an “impromptu” magic show, and besides I could use the opportunity to grab a drink and walk home after it was done to try and clear my head.
“How do they know you actually did whatever you’re asking them to?”
“I guess the investors don’t care too much. If I’m at the right place at the right time with GPS on and the phone is moving around, they just figure I did it. But I heard people get banned if there’s never a single event involving them showing up on social media or anything.”
“So they’re actively crawling for mentions, I imagine.”
“Not specifically. It’s not like you advertise that you’re working for them, so I don’t think people would know to tag them. Most random people have no idea it even exists. They think this stuff is all organic.”
“We banned random buskers maybe five years ago and now they’re back, just… scheduled by apps like this. Who even asked for this?”
I shook my head. “Most of the jobs are downtown. Maybe it helps business if the place looks alive and… Quirky. Like it used to. Except this time no one’s even got a hat out for change, so no one feels awkward walking by. Here, you can drop me off at this corner.”
He slowed the van to a stop and looked at me with concern as I took off the seat belt. “Did you ever hear about the dead internet theory? That everything online is mostly just bots talking to bots now? That’s what this reminds me of.”
“Maybe it’ll spark organic stuff happening again. People might get brave seeing other people being, I don’t know, random and creative. Even if it’s fake.”
“It gives me the creeps.” He stared towards the road. “Don’t let me stop you though. Break a leg.”
As soon as he left, I walked towards the general area where the flash mob was supposed to happen, quickly accepting the job on screen with my thumb before it could disappear. I wasn’t sure how many people I was competing with at that hour, but for such an easy task I didn’t want to take any chances.
It turned out I didn’t need to worry. I sat outside a convenience store for a while, beer in hand, watching the app display a bright “Whoops! Event rescheduled for lack of love” message that meant not enough people had signed up to bother paying me for my time. I sighed and scrolled through the other task apps I had installed, most of them fairly deserted once funding for ads ran dry. One hadn’t had any offers show up in a week, though their scattered warehouses where you would get packages to deliver were still open somehow. One was across the parking lot, a bay of interior light quietly standing between the office buildings already closed for the night.
Conveniently, an offer actually popped up. Maybe proximity to this warehouse controlled visible availability. I opened it and skimmed the description. Someone a twenty minute walk away needed “home supplies” as quickly as possible, offering a substantial tip for the trouble. I immediately rummaged around in my jacket for my wallet to see if I still had one of the warehouse access tokens they mail you when you sign up. Fortunately it was tucked behind a few sandwich shop stamp cards, a bit greasy, but surely still working. A physical item like this felt more professional than just something built into the app, but there wasn’t anything professional left about this one, slowly dying between all the similar companies popping up.
The warehouse had an almost shocked look in its window-eyed shadow as I approached it, key token in hand. The door jingled as I got it open and one startled employee looked up at me from a desk at the end of the large room. The employee swiftly nodded in the direction of the one paper-wrapped package sitting closest to the door without a word. I didn’t bother to ask what was in it or anything, just grabbed it and headed back out. I wondered how long this warehouse would still be here, how many last startup funding gasps it would take before it was gone.
The package fit perfectly under my arm and I started the short enough trek towards the customers’ building. It rustled and clanked a little with each step. Probably repair supplies of some sort. That was the only thing this particular delivery app really had to stand out from the rest. Obscure screws and small pipes could be right at your door with only a few hours of waiting.
The actual name of “Customer” was revealed once I got closer to the front door, or at least, the name on the credit card that paid for this order. Gene Mueller apparently lived on the fourth floor of the oblong, concrete building in front of me. A few pressed buttons later, a crackly buzz heralded the door slowly sliding open.
The stairs smelled well-cleaned. I knew perfectly what that smelled like. My sinuses ached a little on each deep breath and skipped step. I just wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible, hopefully with a huge tax-free tip in my pocket. The chemical stench was so potentI felt a bit weak powering through the sterile haze.
I was at the entrance for the correct hall when the package slipped out from under my sweaty arm. I cursed a little under my breath at how loud the sound was, not wanting the customer to look out and see this order being tumbled around. I stooped over immediately to get it back before anyone could notice. That’s when I noticed how weakly the paper had been taped over the box. Not that I blamed the warehouse worker for giving it so little effort.
The package was full of batteries, at least five packs, and bags of fresh gauze. I tried to turn the paper over on itself to hide the gaping hole and make it look like it came that way on purpose.
I had almost successfully poked the flaps into themselves when a squeaking door in the hall ahead caught my attention instead. I lifted my head and saw an open doorway leaking blue light, reflecting in the large window next to it. A large screen’s static in the room behind it softened the images of the silhouette hunching against the frame.
The squeak happened again, making me realize it wasn’t the door opening that I heard. It was a balloon, emerging as a ghostly sac cuddled between the room occupant’s hands. He was slowly dragging one finger down its surface, wiggling the puckered end with a sudden burst of motion then sliding it back.
“Hello? Gene Mueller?” I held up the package and pointed to it, nodding, in case he didn’t understand.
There was no response, just another drawn-out whine from the petted balloon. Another sliver of light shuffled from the bottom crack of some other door, briefly glancing one of the man’s eyes like a coin shining in a puddle.
“Hi, Gene? Mr. Mueller? Hey, you, did you order something?”
At once he ducked back through the door, leaving it open and empty. I assumed by then that he wasn’t the customer, just a curious neighbor.
Before I could ring a single doorbell in the same hall, the man bolted out again, this time with the balloon replaced by what looked like an oversize knitting needle in a visual shock of glinting metal. He whacked it against the wall on his way towards me and my mind threw open a courage-splitting album of images depicting every possible way this stiletto could pierce my body.
I bolted for the stairwell in a crashing mess, neoprene jacket wings tangling around my pumping elbows. Quick stomps echoed behind each of my own, not seeming to tire in the slightest even as I struggled to breathe by the time I got to the bottom.
Every frantic step cut a strip of burning pain in my side but I somehow managed to fling the exit door open and propel myself into the night air like a wounded housefly escaping a swatter. Whipping my head around, I saw the man barrel out just as quickly as I had.
“No! I have pepper spray!” A woman flew between me and my pursuer out of the unkempt blobs of formerly ornamental bushes lining the parking lot. He retreated immediately, slipping the metal object down the waistband of his slacks as he nodded. His face was completely neutral by then, even bored, as if this had happened a million times before as he turned around and went back into the building.
“We can cross this one off now,” she said to her companion, swiping at her phone with a giddy grin. “Balloon guy, let’s see… Right here, yes! You want to try the skate park incident next?”
“Hey! Wait, what is that? What app is that?” I pleaded, trying to follow as they walked away chatting excitedly, but I was too exhausted to do more than stumble awkwardly with my hands on my thighs to hold myself upright.
“Damn, the acting is so much better than I expected,” one half of the couple tittered as their shadows melted away with distance.
I scrolled through the endless options for answers on my own phone while trudging home. It was a sea of copycat concepts, bright logos with just the right amount of detail and roundness to look friendly flying by until they became nothing but a blur of trendy color palettes.
Everything else around me was just as blurred. I saw a man sobbing his eyes out on a bus station bench and I wanted to hear someone’s real problems. As soon as I got close, he waved his hand and pointed to his phone. “I saw you looking but don’t worry about me. You know the drill,” he said as if this explained anything before bolting, tears suddenly drying, to the bus stuffed with tourists halting in front of us. A dog walker with three poodles dyed with neon cheetah spots looped by three times while I sat and watched every encounter unfold the same way each time, with the same whistle register squeals and “I love this city so much, where else can you see stuff like this?” before heroically grabbing the collar of the orange one whose leash kept starting to slip and be caught before it entered the busy road.
A Whimsync offer popped up on my screen again, this time with these instructions: “Make up and sing a song about the end of the world on the platform in front of the fountain. The more dramatic, the better! Someone else will come along and convince you that the world rocks, and you will do an uplifting improv duet together.”
Sweaty and numb, I stepped up to the challenge but my throat was too dry to let out more than a few hoarse words falling off an attempted melody. “The sky is falling…”
I trailed off and watched everyone around the square taking their places just as I had. Unknown places, places I assumed existed but had no proof of, for unknown events. I wondered which ones Henry R. had taken, if he had at all. No one came to continue my song.
Noll Griffin is a visual artist, writer, and musician based in Berlin, Germany. His writing has appeared in The Woolf, Suburban Witchcraft, The Periwinkle Pelican among others. You can find him on Instagram at @nollprints or on Tumblr/Twitter/Bluesky under @nollthere.
COLD SIGNAL 