Haze

Credits down. Lights up. I can’t believe... and The impact... and That cliffhanger! and How could they keep us in suspense and No, what that meant was.. and Masterpiece and Worst film of the year. Chatter, human static.

You stand up and stretch, feel for your phone and wallet to ensure everything’s right with the world. Shuffle out of the theatre, popcorn crunching underfoot, past overflowing waste bins, out of the groggy warmth of the theatre into the blinding lights of the foyer.

Ping. Heavy rain in 3 minutes, the text fades in from the top right of your peripheral vision. Good thing. Not like you could have guessed the weather from the 7th floor. You’d scarcely know the time if it, too, wasn’t a glance away. Might as well grab a bite to eat while waiting for the storm to dissipate.

You drift with the flow, down an escalator, around a corridor, towards the xiaolongbao shop on the 6th floor, or 5th—you can vaguely picture it, and your sense of indoors direction is good enough to locate it, surely.

Hey just checking in on the copy for Thursday’s launch, pings a chat notification. Got a few minutes to chat about it? Had some last-minute ideas to add.

Deep sigh. If only theatre mode could be kept on forever. That rare escape into another world, free of distract... Actually, I’ll just jump in and make the changes directly if that’s find with you. Damnit. This client will be the death of you.

And the vaguely spacelessness and timelessness of the mall aren’t helping. The corridors turn into other corridors, the branded restaurants blur one into another. Everything on offer, anything for sale. Choice itself becomes burdensome.

Hey Alfred, where is the xiaolongbao shop? I should have a photo of it, somewhere, from the last time I was here.

Found it, replies the gadget. It’s on the 4th floor. Head downstairs, it says, and you comply, mind disengaged to autopilot, feet falling one after another without a conscious thought.

Turn left, and you turn. Ok, on your right. You’ve arrived. Enjoy your meal—and hey, don’t forget there’s a 50% special on the char siu bao today.

What would you do without your gadget, you think. Can’t live without it, even if you can scarcely live with the notifications. The benefits still outweigh.

Except, wait. Weird. You’re in front of a restaurant, all right, even one that sells bao. But this isn’t the xiaolongbao shop. You’ve never seen the place before; it wasn’t in your memories. And there, for definitive proof, underneath the faux-neon signage, hangs Grand Opening. Bouquets surround the checkout counter. The proprietor looks around—and you know they’re the owner, with their business casual attire, slight smile while surveying the crowds, the Thank you and come again and So glad you stopped by and Don’t forget to like us on The Network foreclosing any doubt.

But hey. A new place could be fun. Who needs xiaolongbao; here’s to adventure!

Hi, how many people are in your party? Just one? Ok, right this way. Shuffle past the crowds to the solitary stool at the bar. Might as well try the char siu bao; it’s on sale, after all. And this, and that, and soon you’re sipping hot oolong tea. You would have loved the film, you nearly whisper to Alfred. Wish you could have made it! Then the bao arrive, the bok choy, the soup, and in the hazy warmth your mind drifts back to the film. How could they have lived in such a time? How could one sit idly by?

If only... Ok, I decided to cut the entire “Why we built this” section. Too much. We built it, no need to explain. Everyone’s going to love it anyhow. And the fog lifts. You’re back in the restaurant, your tea’s gone cold. Time restarts. Whatever, Mr. client. You couldn’t care less, you tell yourself, yet you do, and now there’s a bug in your mind you’ll have to squash. They’d said, just yesterday, that you needed to add that section. Said it was crucially important, enough for you to burn the midnight oil in pursuit of a more perfect launch document. That, that was why you treated yourself to this half-day-off anyhow. And now it’s just another bit of cut copy—cut copy they asked for. And you could, right here, right now, pull up the doc in your field of vision, check their edits and fight for that precious bit of script’s life. Your darling, mercilessly cut and left on the editing floor. Who does that?

But no. It’s your—wait, what day is it? Thursday. It’s your Thursday evening. You wouldn’t be working for yourself if you didn’t want the occasional movie-and-dinner on a normal afternoon. You stop yourself. Breath. Focus. A long glance around to ground you. Edits can wait for ... Out of the doc. Damnit. Ready for launch 🚀.

It’s almost enough to want to walk back in the theatre for another 3 hours of well-earned silent mode.

Sigh. At least the food was good. Finish off the tea. Bite of roasted pork, the piece you were saving for last. Never as good as it was when it was hot, fresh, never as good as that first explosion of flavor when you bite into something for the first time. A photograph, a memory for your tastebuds, a parting gift of sorts, unsatisfying yet gratifying all the same.

Walk towards the entrance, a bit more haltingly than when you came in. You’re sated, 28 minutes and a year older all at once, it seems. Proprietor’s tending the register. How was your meal? Here’s your check. Long-stare into the screen, double-blink. Payment approved fades in. You turn. Exit to the left.

Scratch. The bao were half-off, right? You step back in, ask for the receipt you’d just refused, and nope, everything’s full-priced. Wasn’t there a... you start, then stop. It’s a new shop, they’ve likely dealt with a dozen mistaken bills already today. Whatever. You’ll live. Never mind, thank you! Yes, you’d be glad to leave a review.

It’s just not your day. How’s the weather now, Alfred? Scattered showers. Of course. Just your luck.

Hey Alfred, call a ride home. Sure thing, checking availability. Ok. Found a black Model Nee three minutes away. Meet them at Exit 3 on the ground floor.

Down the escalators. Around and around. You had asked me to remind you that you needed to pick up socks the next time you were out shopping, pipes in Alfred. Not now, Alfred. Next time. Time to face the rain.

Head towards the exit, but no, that’s exit one. Your ride has arrived, says Alfred. There’s a 10% discount if you head to the information desk to validate your receipts. No time for that, Alfred. Where’s the right exit? you reply. Up, down, left, right, and finally a 3 appears over the doorway in the distance.

You step out into the sunlight. Huh, it’s not as late as you thought. You blink, readjust, pupils constricting to restrict photon access. What’s the car’s license plate number, Alfred? TU2156, it replies, and a faint license plate hangs in your peripheral vision. Off to the right, behind two yellow cabs, waits a grey car, plates TU2156. That’s the car. Could’ve sworn it was supposed to be black. Whatever. Close enough.

Climb in. Buckle clasped. Lean back. Leg involuntarily moving to the vaguely familiar beats. Look up at the azure expanse. No haze, for a change. A bird flies by, solitary. The vehicle accelerates away, finds its place in the traffic, navigates towards your destination on dry, dusty lanes.

Jumping out for the day, pings your chat. Dropped in a new intro. But you can’t even muster the energy to be annoyed. It’s too nice out to stew.

If you’d known it was this nice a day, you’d have walked, saved the fare, closed your movement goal, made the most of your evening off.

Wait.

Where was the rain?

a story, by Matthew Guay. Originally written April 28, 2024.

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