Seriously?—Elaine Bonow

“Seriously? I can’t believe no one, not a single person has commented on my last post.” Boyce mumbled to his cat, Victor, as he sat in front of his iMac looking at his facebook page. He scrolled down his regular newsfeed and then down the annoying side ticker. “Damn. I posted so many fantastic videos of me this morning, maybe I shouldn’t have put up so many at once.”

He clicked on his status update box hesitated a second before starting to type a new update. He stopped and scrolled down the barrage of posts on the ticker and hovered his icon over a photo of a cute puppy surrounded by cute puppy cupcakes that had gone viral which in just a few hours already had 47 comments like “Cute pupcakes“ and “These are too cute to eat.”

He paused mid keystroke and complained aloud to his sleeping cat. “I can’t believe how stupid someone must be to post up such insipid crap.” He had only typed in one word so far but the posts kept streaming, political commentaries from the other 98%, photos of cartoons with pithy sayings cobbled from web sites like “ Runi’s Quotes’” where “Every sentence is a gem and very beautiful,” and “No sound of clapping comes from only one hand,” had 90 shares. The stream gathered speed with far out news reports from Pan –African News and YouTube shares of cats just doing cat things with some one adding a bow or a heart or tears from blue eyed Siamese.

Bryce McLeod was a player in this town. He had been a rock and roll icon back in the 60’s. He thought back to his successes, “I was the person who created the Seattle Sound. There wouldn’t even be grunge without my first hit. I was doing this before The Wailers did “Louie Louie,” for god’s sake. I mean Hendrix copied my moves before he went to New York.” Boyce stared at the screen lost in the memories of his fabulous past.

The memories, which were partially true, had over the years taken on a fableistic hue. He had been a local celeb when he was a teenager and in his early 30’s played guitar in a number of local bands. He had numerous affairs that lasted for short spans, changing groupies as his music changed and then deadlocked.

Boyce had never worked in an office. He had never even applied for any day jobs. The life of the ordinary man was not for him. His luck had been favorable and with his talent and background he felt special. His last band “Easy Lies,” had major gigs in Europe a few years back and they had cut an album that brought in decent royalties each year.

Bryce sat in front of the screen lost in happy thoughts of his own fabulousness. Silhouetted on the sleeping screen his hair still had a punk rock flavor. He had his grey locks silvered at the same hair salon he had been going to for the past forty years. The Prada blue sunglasses gave him a retro cool look. He thought he looked like a better-looking Johnny Halliday, the French Rock Star from the 60’s, only handsomer and without a pock marked face.

He had looked the part of a rock star for decades. He was very skinny and could still wear his old mod style striped flares that he had bought on his first trip to London, where he had also acquired a slight British accent that you could still find traces of especially when he had a bit to much Glen Fiddich.

He was going to continue typing that status update but he hit the Home button instead. His page was awash in photos with dozens of comments and likes on every one else’s updates but there were still no comments on his last post.

He clicked back to his timeline to see his last post.  He was looking great in his profile photo. The photos of him were in the thousands and so was his friends’ list. He had spent hours friending on facebook scouring his friends list of friends and sending them friends requests. He had no trouble in this regard because people were so impressed by his list of friends, his fantastic photos of himself and the bands he knew that people flocked to friend him.

He looked at his post from Saturday @ 1:52 am. There were no likes, comments or shares for the updates he had posted. He moaned aloud to Victor, “What am I chopped liver? What’s wrong with all these people? Are they that dull? Are they that lame? They should be following my every move. I am a total stud. Just look at that photo of me. If I had an ass I could be a white boy Bootylicious. I look awesome for my age. The chicks love me.” But he felt sick, lonely and utterly devastated.

Boyce clicked the home button. A new red square with the number 1 over the little world symbol stared at him. He scrolled over and clicked the notification screen dropped down. I minute ago Summer Holden commented on Bryce McLeod’s last post. Her photo in the corner was blurred. “Is that really you Boyce? You look great. I haven’t seen you since 1969. Oh wow! I can’t believe that you are on facebook. I can’t believe you look so good. I’m going to friend you so maybe we can get together for a drink.”

Boyce clicked on her photo, went to her profile and clicked on her photos. She had only posted up pictures of her with her dogs. He hated dogs and really detested people who loved dogs. But he clicked on +1add friend, anyway satisfied that at least someone had read his last post.

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About bbcstudiowrites

This blog is me archiving the BBC Studio Writers Workshop.

Posted on January 31, 2012, in Fiction. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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