Ping

by
Caucus de Bourbon

NOBODY'S PINGED ME. Nobody’s liked or shared my most recent Facebook post. No Twitter re-tweets. Zilch on Instagram Story. Pinterest, zero. Plus, no texts and no returned calls. (Well, not like I called anyone and left a message. I mean, you know, like looking to actually talk.)

I keep pedaling my bike, focused sharp on the narrow concrete path wending through bright sand.

Seriously, it’s my birthday. I only get one every four fucking years, thanks to being birthed on fucking leap-fucking-year day. It’s like, do I even exist any more?

What if I don’t? What if this isn’t a glitch? A snag in the cyber seams?

Tania first brought it up at some rich bro’s party when we were high.

“You ever noticed” she purred, bare legs draped off a deck jutting over tinderbox canyon in which transient encampments squatted under pleading sun. “The clouds get stuck sometimes. It’s a glitch. And if you watch them close enough, long enough, sometimes you see them jerk forward where they were supposed to be in real-time.”

I thought, you know, whatever.

But what if I am actually alone out here?

I brake under some clacking slack palm trees. Fuck. There’s barely any wind and the fronds are freaking out insane.

Fucking fronds. Fretful fucks chattering under crimson gloom, settling slow over Dog Beach.

Yeah, I’m a poet. You get that.

“Shut the fuck up!” I say to the fronds, feeling obviously social. My voice maybe a little too loud.

Nada, is what I get in return. Apparently, suddenly I really don’t exist. At all. I spy my phone. Nobody’s responding to me. That’s who.

That dude over there, sketchy, with dirty winter mitts draped over his neck, wearing too many layers of cargo shorts for San Diego in February. Homeless, no doubt. I weave my bike over. Damn near pleading.

“Hey, you see me, right? I’m here. I’m right here.”

Fucking dude scrabbles away, lookin’ at me like I’m the one who’s sketch. Fuck him, street-sleeping filthy fuck.

I thumb my phone to text.

T where you at?

Tania’s my best. No matter what, I know she’s there for me. That time at San Diego Rock, with the creep cosplay kid? Yeah, that. It won’t take long for her to reply. She could be in bed with some dude going down on her and would tromp him in an instant just to let me know she’s there and aware.

Okay. Breathe. Ready to pedal, I’m resuming my bike ride, appreciating the soft glow above the tide.

ZZZ-ZZZ

Finally, somebody acknowledges me. I withdraw my phone, swipe it alive and glance the screen, making sure I stay centered on the bike path.

T: Who is this?

M: Where r u?

T: Who is this?

M: It’s m

T: Who?

M: What?

T: Who r u?

Crash.

It’s that quick. One instant you’re pedaling giddily along—well, whatever “giddily” is--then next, you’re splayed across hot pavement with what feels like a broken elbow and the lyrics of a Talking Heads song whigging in one ear, while a mad seagull squawks in the other.

It only takes a moment or more to figure where you’re at. Then this happens: A dog walks through me like I'm not even here.

Is that even possible?

I swipe my phone open and pinch the screen to text. Hello, world?

Silence.

No service.

Fu...

FLASH FICTION

PING