Chapter 3
THREE
The next thirty-six hours pass in a blur.
No; that’s a lie. Ben wishes they would pass in a blur, because he thinks that might be less nauseating.
The hours wash over him, somehow both agonizingly slow and much too fast, as though every second is one of those slow-motion explosions in an action film.
So much is happening that it’s hard to keep track of, but at the same time, those events are all taking place only on the small, glowing rectangle of his phone.
His physical body mostly paces around inside his apartment like a caged animal, eyes glued to the screen, occasionally shoving a handful of cheese crackers into his mouth.
Ben talks to a lot of people on Saturday night—good friends, old friends, bad friends who have chosen this moment to slither back out of the woodwork—and doesn’t sleep much, although he tries to.
Mostly, he stares at the ceiling and thinks, What have I done?
And What’s going to happen? And What’s Rick going to say? And What am I supposed to do now?
The ceiling does not offer him any advice, but at some point he must doze off a little, because when he blinks awake it’s morning and he’s got emails and messages from people who say they’re with news channels and media companies, and can he confirm that he is the Ben Blumenthal from the viral Gastronome video, and would he care to comment on the video’s success?
Some of those messages are private, but a number of them are public, and on the social channels where they’re public, Ben’s follower count has…
climbed. Not exactly dramatically, but enough to be noticeable, especially for someone like him, whose typical follower count anywhere tends to hover around twenty-five.
Even as he reads them, new messages are still coming in.
Ben, having begun, without noticing, the slow process of inching down off his pillow in anxious horror upon opening the first message, realizes abruptly that he is lying flat on his back, every part of his face below his eyes hidden under the covers, holding his phone in the air as far away as possible, as though hoping a bird will steal it.
Having now been made aware of this, he should really move, but he finds himself all but frozen.
For a single searing second, it’s as though Ben’s whole life has skipped its track, and he is poised, breathless, waiting to see where it will fall, and whether or not he’ll survive.
Then he notices he also has a message from an unfamiliar number; when he clicks into that one, he scrambles bolt upright in bed, the stomach-flipping sensation of hurtling through the air… well. Not leaving him, exactly. Just… altering, somewhat.
PETE:
hey, it’s pete.
PETE:
or should i say pat? lol.
PETE:
got your number from rick. sorry to message so early—don’t feel like you have to respond or anything. i just wanted to touch base. this is a little crazy, right?
PETE:
also if you are not ben and rick’s given me the wrong number again: i’m very sorry to whoever you are, my boss is unbelievably bad at using his phone. please tell me if you are anyone other than ben blumenthal and i’ll leave you to your morning. thanks.
Ben stares at his phone for a moment, his half-awake but already fully panicked brain not entirely sure what to do with this. His thumbs seem to move of their own accord.
BEN:
“A little crazy?” Are you kidding me? It’s completely insane! How did all these people find me?! Have you ever dealt with anything like this before? Because I have to tell you, my life is NOT usually this interesting.
BEN:
Also, yes, this is Ben.
BEN:
Also: What do you mean Rick sends out the wrong phone numbers? Do I need to start bracing for phone calls meant for… uh, whoever else Rick talks to?
Ben sits and stares at his phone after sending this for longer than is acceptable.
An amount of time that some might call foolish.
Ridiculous. Pathetic. When he catches himself at it, he scowls and puts the phone down; it’s not like he cares that Pete texted him, anyway.
It’s not like it matters if Pete replies.
He gets up, mostly out of spite, and tries to ignore the various frantic dings from his phone.
When that doesn’t work, he silences it, quickly feeds Roux before she can start yowling at him, and then makes himself some breakfast. What breakfast that is he couldn’t quite say—it seems, as he eats it, to be cereal with fruit, but he doesn’t exactly remember putting it together, as though it happened entirely on muscle memory.
Maybe he’s still asleep? And this is all a dream?
But Ben doesn’t think his dreams would have a message from a lady looking to hire him to revitalize her channel about cockatoo taxidermy; his subconscious is simply not that creative.
He can’t remember the last time he even thought about a cockatoo.
Towards the end of the cereal, his control breaks, and he looks at his phone again. He flips past notifications as quickly as he can, trying not to read them, until he sees:
PETE:
probably no need to worry about rick; half the time i think he does it just to screw with me.
but maybe look up any number he gives you before dialing, lol.
one time i called what i thought was a source at betty crocker and instead was the state game and wildlife commissioner?
asked her about cake mix, it didn’t go great
PETE:
and yeah, i’ve dealt with something like this before. or sorta like it, anyway. plus, i’ve talked to rick, which i bet you haven’t, because he’s on a fishing trip this weekend and he’s seriously peeved that he has to think about anything but walleye.
PETE:
here are the three rules of going viral: don’t talk to anyone you don’t know, don’t post anything publicly, and don’t look at your phone unless you absolutely have to, until we’ve had a chance to circle up with rick.
turn it off, ideally, and def turn off all your notifications.
nothing good comes of a panicked reply while something’s still popping off.
gotta get our ducks in a row before we shoot them.
PETE:
that’s what rick said before he hung up on me, anyway. always possible he meant literally, though, since i’m only eighty percent sure it’s a fishing trip.
PETE:
maybe he just really hates mallards
Ben laughs, a little surprised by being entertained enough to do so, at this last. Then he fiddles with his spoon for a minute, rattling it back and forth against the side of the cereal dish, thinking.
Unfortunately, in his haze of bewilderment, he neglected to make himself any coffee, so the results of that thinking are… a mixed bag.
BEN:
That seems like solid advice; thanks.
BEN:
But what happens if the walleye decide to seek revenge on Rick? Drag him to the depths for his crimes against fishkind? I’ve got the impression it’s maybe a lot of crimes. Am I supposed to live as a digital hermit forevermore, in that event?
Ben cringes the minute he sends the message, horror offering the clarity that coffee might have provided if only he’d been wise enough to make some.
What a perfectly deranged thing for him to say to this virtual stranger—Rick’s crimes against fishkind?
A digital hermit forevermore? What was Ben thinking?
He wishes fervently that he could unsend it, but as he’s trying to figure out if that’s possible, a reply pops up from Pete.
And somehow, upon reading it, Ben finds himself helplessly drawn into an absurd conversation, not entirely sure how it’s happening even as he’s typing his replies.
PETE:
LOLLLLLLLLL
PETE:
he IS lake placid’s most wanted
PETE:
but the fish can’t draw a very good likeness, so we might be safe here. they’ll never ID him from the poster
BEN:
You’re very quick to assume you know what the world looks like to a fish.
BEN:
Maybe the posters are capturing the fish-eye view. There’s a lens named after them and everything, you know. The artwork could be incredibly representational, to a fish.
PETE:
how are you suggesting they capture him? capsize the boat? rain of walleye?
BEN:
Maybe they could enlist the help of the other local fishes. Surely they all must bear some sort of grudge by now. I don’t know the man that well, but he’s still managed to tell me countless stories of fish murder. They probably all want a piece.
PETE:
LOL. this has escalated rapidly to all-out fish war
BEN:
I mean, he does by all accounts seem to be a fish war criminal.
PETE:
am i a fish war criminal? for cooking so many of them?
BEN:
If you are, then I am, too. Maybe we all have something to fear from aquatic wildlife
PETE:
probably best to avoid the sea entirely, just to be safe
BEN:
Lake Placid is famously a lake.
PETE:
LOL. so true
PETE:
okay i gotta go. seriously tho: turn off your phone, go do something in real life. it’ll help. you going to be at this rick meeting tomorrow AM?
BEN:
Assuming my actual bosses let me off the hook, then yeah, I’m planning on it.
PETE:
cool. see you there
Ben types, See you! and deletes it, and then Looking forward!
and then deletes it, and then, feeling disgusted with himself, slaps a thumbs-up emoji on the message before taking Pete’s advice and turning his whole phone off.
If it’s mostly in horror at his own sudden and inexplicable inability to behave like a normal human being, then nobody but Ben needs to know about it.