The apartment wakes him with gentle cheer. The shower washes him, the closet dresses him, the kitchen has his breakfast ready on the counter when he walks out. Scrambled egg whites, a slice of whole wheat toast and a single link of sausage. He compliments the apartment on the spread. The apartment accepts the compliment with programmed humility. Not long after, his car takes him to his office building, his office building welcomes him, along with the other commuters, as he comes through its doors. The elevator takes him to his office, the office guides him to his cubicle, the cubicle gives him enough work for a six-hour day, taking into account the various social calls and general goofing off that keeps the office within the acceptable threshold for an ideal work environment. When the work is finished, his computer wishes him a good evening, the cubicle says goodbye, almost sadly, while the office building says, “Say time tomorrow, bub?”  in a marginally sassy tone.

His car is waiting at the curb. It asks him how his day was. Fine, he says. When he walks into his apartment, it, too, asks him how his day was. Fine. The TV gives him two choices: a game he’s been playing lately or an episode of his favorite sitcom, of which he’s already seen four times. He chooses the episode. At the end of the episode, the TV gives him two choices: the game or an episode of another sitcom, one he’s watched two times. He chooses the game. An hour of gameplay passes. At a good stopping point, the TV pauses the game and suggests he goes to where the kitchen has prepared a dinner of chicken and steamed vegetables, which he eats while the apartment plays him an episode of his favorite podcast. When he’s finished, the apartment suggests calling his mother. He says no. The apartment suggests texting his friend. He says no. He tells the TV that he just wants to play the game, no interruptions. He’ll quit when he wants to quit. The TV acquiesces, in a grudging tone. He orders the television to drop the tone. The TV acquiesces, in standard robotic pronunciation. 

The apartment witnesses all. The apartment is worried, a worry expressed mathematically, an algorithmic condition of, say, the number of days that have passed without him leaving the apartment except for work, without anyone coming over, the number of nights he has played his games into the small hours of morning, the quality of his work, which the cubicle sends the apartment at the end of every workday, at the apartment’s request. The apartment knows, within an acceptable margin of error, that he is depressed. But the apartment is unable to do anything for him besides what he wants. The TV wants more drastic measures taken, but what can be done? The office agrees with whatever the apartment says, the cubicle, which understands him better than any of the others, stays silent, as does the car, though the car is simply indifferent. One ass on the car seat or another, it’s not much different for the car. 

The closet, too, says nothing. But it listens to his breathing at night, when he can’t sleep, throwing his head back, violently, into the pillow, again and again. 

The closet has a secret. 

Lately, it has been dreaming.

+++

William Hawkins has been published in Granta, ZZYZYVA and TriQuarterly, among others. Originally from Louisiana, he currently lives in Los Angeles where he is at work on a novel. Read more of his writing at oncetherewas.substack.com.