Logging Off

by Spalding, Nick

  In a bubble of work and Tolkien.

  And that got me to the point where the initial shock and horror of leaving the online community had faded somewhat, and I was actually able to appreciate the novelty of it all.

  Of living a day-to-day existence without that phone in my hand. Without that constant connection to a sea of information that never ends, never stops, and sometimes never actually goes anywhere.

  I still felt disconnected from the world, but I started to realise that this wasn’t an entirely bad thing.

  I’ve been sleeping like a fucking log.

  Frodo, Sam and Gollum had only just arrived at the steps of Cirith Ungol last night when I conked out.

  I woke up this morning with the book open in front of me, bleary-eyed and amazed that I hadn’t stirred for a good nine hours.

  I can’t remember the last time I slept for nine straight hours. It felt alien and wonderful in equal measure.

  So, it appears that, after a week, I am starting to adjust to a life less digital. I’m still missing my online interactions, and the sense of being connected to the wider world – but I’m also realising that you can replace those things with other pursuits . . . if you really have to.

  And I have to. I really, really do.

  Today, that pursuit is all about the light bulbs.

  More specifically, two new light bulbs I need for my bathroom.

  This requires a visit to B&Q.

  Because while I call the sodding things ‘light bulbs’, they are in fact these weird, hard-to-find spotlight LED things that cost a small fortune, are (for some unknown reason) hexagonal in shape and can only be found in B&Q – provided they’ve received some stock in, which only seems to happen once in a blue moon.

  The bulbs were almost impossible to find online in days gone by. Most people are sensible enough to have normal, round bulbs in their house, but I have hexagonal ones. This probably says something about my place in the universe – but I’m not philosophical enough to decide how.

  Given how hard it is to buy the damn things, I have spent the last couple of months peeing in semi-darkness. This is not good for your personal hygiene, or your eyesight. Today, I have resolved to track down a couple of new spotlights, so that I may illuminate my urination in the way that God intended.

  There’s every chance that if I still had my nose buried in an electronic screen for most of the day, I would not get around to this important errand, and would continue to narrowly avoid splashing on the bathroom tiles for the foreseeable future – but just look at this, would you? I’m solving a problem. I’m fixing an issue. I’m proactively making my life better.

  Go me!

  It might seem incredible to you that running such a bog-standard errand would feel like such a major achievement, but then I doubt you’ve spent the last few years of your life letting a bunch of ones and zeros pretty much sort out every errand for you.

  It bizarrely feels like I’m finally being a proper grown-up, after letting my parents do all the work for me for so long. I’m a big boy now – able to pop down to the shops and pick up a few essentials, without the help of Mummy One and Daddy Zero.

  Good lord.

  I rang ahead to check that B&Q had the silly hexagonal bulbs in stock, so it only took me a couple of minutes to find them on the shelf, pay for them and exit the large out-of-town store, feeling good about myself.

  I will be peeing in glorious 80-watt brightness this evening, folks!

  I have a short walk to the car, as the B&Q car park was full so I had to pop the Volvo in the next car park over, outside Currys.

  As I meander my way back, my brain once again starts to think about all of that lovely online stuff I’m missing out on.

  I’m going to have to try to do something about that. There’s not a lot of point in going offline in the real world if I’m just going to continue living online in my imagination.

  Maybe I could try some aversion therapy? Pop a rubber band around my wrist and snap it against my skin every time I think about Instagram? Stick a pin in my leg whenever I start wondering about what my friends are up to on Facebook? Rub some chilli powder in my eye if I begin to—

  I stop dead in my tracks.

  I blink a couple of times.

  I go slack-jawed.

  Oh my God, I’m hallucinating.

  This digital detox is playing such havoc with my brain that it’s started to malfunction and show me things that quite clearly cannot be there.

  I’ve been walking along thinking about all the things I’m missing online, and my stupid psyche has decided to conjure up an image of one of them right in front of me, standing at a bus stop.

  Because, friends and neighbours, that man slouched against the side of the bus stop shelter is most assuredly Lucas La Forte – or my name isn’t Andrew Bellows.

  But this is impossible, of course.

  Why on earth would an incredibly popular star of Instagram be standing at a bus stop between B&Q and Currys on a Saturday afternoon?

  No.

  My mind has clearly cracked, and all of that lovely online stuff I am not allowed access to in reality any more has started to manifest as a horrible, hallucinatory fantasy – right where you would normally catch the number 37.

  The hallucinatory Instagram star looks every inch the man I’ve been following on the social media site for these past few months. That silvery grey Armani suit is as sharp as it is undoubtedly expensive. The haircut is as perfect as ever. The stubble on his chin is just the right length to appear manly, but not too scruffy. The shoes are sleek, black and probably made from the comfiest of Italian leather.

  This is not a man dressed to be standing at a bus stop, waiting for the number 37.

  I am definitely hallucinating.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Lucas La Forte says to me, noticing that I’m staring at him.

  Oh, marvellous. The hallucination is auditory as well as visual.

  Do I play along? Or simply ignore his imaginary self and walk on?

  ‘I said, can I help you?’ The rich baritone voice sounds exactly like you’d imagine it would.

  ‘Er, I’m not sure,’ I reply, hating myself. I’m positive there must be something in a medical manual somewhere that says if you experience a hallucination, it isn’t a good idea to start interacting with the bugger. It could lead to all sorts of problems – up to and including walking right off the edge of a cliff you thought had a bridge going over it.

  ‘Well, you’re kind of staring at me,’ Lucas says. ‘Are you a fan?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘A fan of mine? Do you follow me on Insta?’

  Oh my God, he’s real.

  Panic stations!

  I don’t do well meeting celebrities.

  Never have.

  I once met Sinéad O’Connor at a concert. In my sheer embarrassment and star-struckedness, I accidentally called her Skinhead O’Connor. She wasn’t impressed. Nothing might well compare to you, but that night I convincingly compared to an utter cock.

  ‘Er, ah, eh, um,’ I respond, going bright red. Lucas La Forte isn’t what you’d call a ‘proper’ celebrity, like Robert Downey Jr. or Ryan Reynolds, but he does have nearly one hundred thousand followers on Instagram, which most definitely places him in the category of social media celebrity.

  And I know my social media celebrities.

  This is one of them. Standing in front of me.

  At a . . . at a bus stop?

  ‘You OK, pal?’ Lucas asks, probably worried that I might be about to have a heart attack.

  ‘Yes! I’m fine, thanks. And I do follow you, yes, Mr La Forte.’

  Lucas La Forte stands up straight. ‘Please . . . call me Lucas!’

  ‘OK . . . Lucas.’ I point at the bus stop behind him. ‘Why . . . why are you here?’ The incredulity in my voice is unmistakeable. This is a man who I am used to seeing either sitting in a very expensive sports car, sitting on an equally expensive motorbike, sitting in an exqu
isite leather armchair on his penthouse terrace or sitting on a luxury yacht.

  Basically there’s a lot of sitting involved with Lucas – generally in places I’d be thrown out of, or off of, at the earliest opportunity. Seeing him standing at a bus stop is incongruous, to say the least.

  Lucas looks a little alarmed for a second, but instantly covers it up again with a self-assured smile. ‘Bit of trouble with the Porsche,’ he tells me. ‘Damn titanium connecting rod threw a wobbler while I was doing a hundred. You know how it goes.’

  No, Mr La Forte. I do not know how it goes. I drive a 2004 Volvo. I wouldn’t know what a titanium connecting rod was if you poked one up my bottom.

  ‘Ah, yes. I . . . bet that was . . . annoying,’ I reply, trying to sound like I think I should remain part of this conversation involving Porsches and titanium connecting rods, but knowing that I probably shouldn’t.

  ‘Damn right, pal!’

  ‘Couldn’t you get a taxi?’ I ask, still flummoxed as to why this ultra-successful man would be at a bus stop.

  ‘What? And miss the chance to travel like an honest man for once?’ Lucas says, and laughs. ‘In life, when an opportunity to see how others live arrives, you should grasp it with both hands. It will broaden your horizons and make you a better person.’

  Jesus Christ. He talks like he Instagrams. I’m pretty sure he wrote that little epithet on a post that accompanied a picture of him sitting on a luxury powerboat in the Med.

  ‘Ah well, that explains it then,’ I say, still not 100 per cent convinced. Something feels a little . . . off, here.

  But this is my chance to get to know someone from my online life a little better – right here in the offline world.

  I’m going to take Lucas’s advice to heart and grasp an opportunity to see how others live, in both of my sweaty little hands. ‘I could give you a lift, if you’d like?’

  Lucas appears to weigh this up for a moment, before nodding his head. ‘Thank you. I always say that when the hand of friendship is reached out, you should take it without hesitation.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure. That sounds . . . like good advice,’ I tell him. ‘My car’s parked over there, outside Currys. Happy to take you to wherever you need to go. Back to your penthouse at Southern Quay, if that’s the way you’re headed?’

  Lucas’s face darkens briefly.

  Oh, shit. I’ve obviously overstepped here. Now I look like some kind of weird stalker – knowing where he lives, and everything.

  But he plasters it all over Instagram! Everybody who follows him knows where he lives!

  ‘Ah . . . no. Not there, thank you,’ he says, suddenly looking very awkward.

  Oh, well done, Bellows! You’ve made a right fool of yourself!

  ‘You could . . . you could take me to my mother’s house though,’ he suggests. ‘I like to pop in on her when I can.’

  ‘Oh . . . OK.’ This is slightly disappointing. I wanted to see that penthouse in the flesh.

  ‘She’s a wonderful woman,’ Lucas continues. ‘And as I always say – cherish the moments you have with those you love. They will not be around forever, so grasp those times with both hands.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure . . . sure that’s correct.’

  Lucas nods, smiles and starts to walk off in the direction of my car.

  That Armani suit really is quite exquisite. He must work out like a bastard to fit into it so well.

  I’m still feeling somewhat star-struck as I pull out of the Currys car park with the Instagram influencer sitting next to me, looking entirely out of place on the threadbare Volvo passenger seat. But there’s something I’m definitely not too sure about going on here . . .

  I guess I’d built a picture up in my mind of what Lucas La Forte was like, based on his Instagram feed, but the reality is not quite matching up to expectations. Maybe it’s just the strange circumstances under which we’ve met. If I’d bumped into him at a party in the Seychelles, I’d probably feel a lot differently, but as it stands, there’s a small part of me that’s feeling a little disappointed by the encounter so far. Perhaps it’s the way he insists on coming out with those trite little aphorisms. They seem very wise and interesting in a social media post, but rather silly when spoken out loud.

  I am still very pleased to have him sitting in the car with me, though. Lucas La Forte represents a part of my life I no longer have access to, and having him here in the real world with me makes me feel strangely comforted. He’s a constant reminder that all that stuff is still there . . . whether I can see it or not at the moment.

  ‘It’s great to meet you, you know,’ I confide to Lucas as we drive along. ‘I’m actually currently on a digital detox, so can’t go on Instagram to see what you’re up to, so it’s nice that I’ve been able to do it in real life!’

  ‘A digital detox?’ Lucas asks, obviously unaware of the term.

  ‘Yeah. You know . . . when you come off the Internet completely for a while?’

  He looks horrified. ‘Why would you want to do that?!’

  ‘Because I’ve been having a few health problems,’ I tell him, a bit awkwardly. ‘The doctor told me it would be good for me.’

  Lucas nods sagely. ‘Ah. That’s interesting. When someone wise tells you to take a course of action for your own benefit, you would do well to grasp it with both hands.’

  Jesus. He likes a lot of hand-grasping, this chap, doesn’t he? I hope he has some anti-bacterial gel tucked away in that suit somewhere.

  ‘I haven’t been doing it long, but it’s really hard.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. I feel like I’ve had a limb cut off, you know?’

  ‘Really? Sounds horrible. I could never do the same kind of thing. I’d die if I wasn’t online.’

  ‘That’s what I thought too . . . but I haven’t keeled over just yet. I guess . . . I guess I’m starting to see some benefits of not being online so much, as well.’

  Lucas vigorously shakes his head. ‘No. No. I couldn’t do it.’

  ‘Ah well, that’s probably because Instagram has made you rich and famous!’

  Lucas shifts in his seat. ‘Yes. Rich and famous.’ He stares out of the windscreen for a moment, looking quite exceptionally uncomfortable, before he visibly relaxes as something occurs to him. ‘But, as I always like to say – if you find a job you love, then you must grasp it with both hands and never let go. Then you will never actually have to work another day in your life.’

  I’m pretty sure it was Mark Twain who said that one, actually – without the grasping bloody hands part – but we’ll let it pass, as this is probably a very strange situation for Lucas, and he’s no doubt a bit discombobulated.

  Being forced into a journey alongside a freshly minted technological Luddite in his rather tired and rusty Volvo must be extremely discombobulating for someone used to the finer things in life.

  ‘Well, I do love my job as a graphic designer, but it’s not one I really need the Internet for a lot, unfortunately,’ I confide as we turn in to a suburban street at Lucas’s direction. ‘So I had no excuses when it came to starting the detox. Especially when I was having so many health issues.’ I glance at Lucas. ‘Would you like to hear about them?’

  ‘Ah . . . OK,’ he says, clearly unsure.

  I barrel on regardless. ‘Well, there’s the irritable bowel syndrome, that’s the worst. Gives me a lot of anxiety – not knowing how difficult it’s going to be to go to the toilet from day to day!’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Lucas looks a little grossed out by this.

  ‘Then there’s the muscular aches and pains. I feel like an old man some mornings.’

  ‘OK.’ Now he’s slightly leaning away from me.

  ‘And the headaches! Boy have they been a nightmare. I just get these bad headaches, Lucas. Really bad.’

  ‘Do you?’ Lucas actually gulps nervously as he says this.

  ‘Yes! And all of it drags you down psychologically, you know? Makes you feel . . . I don’t know . .
. less. Like you’re not being the person you should be. You know what I mean, Lucas?’

  ‘Um . . . it sounds . . . difficult.’

  And he sounds slightly terrified.

  ‘Oh, it is. It really, really is.’

  ‘Mmmmm.’

  ‘But then I think to myself – is feeling better really worth losing such a massive part of my life?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Am I giving up too much of who I am? Am I letting go of the things that make me . . . me?’

  ‘You, you?’

  ‘Yes. Me . . . me.’

  ‘You, you.’

  ‘Me, me. That’s it, Lucas.’

  ‘You get headaches, and you don’t think you are who you are.’ Lucas’s eyes have gone rather wide.

  ‘Yes, that’s about it.’

  Right, what the hell is going on here?

  I’ve only just met this bloke, and yet here I am talking to him like he’s a long-lost friend.

  No wonder he keeps shifting around in his seat awkwardly and staring out of the window like he wants to smash right out of it to get away from me.

  Then it hits me – I’m talking to this complete stranger like I know him well, because part of me thinks I do know him well. The part of me that’s checked his Instagram feed every morning, noon and night for months. I’ve read all about Lucas La Forte’s thoughts on the world, and seen him in a variety of exciting sitting positions. I’ve developed a relationship with him – even though I’ve never actually met the poor guy before today.

  But as far as he’s concerned, I’m just another one of his hundred thousand followers, and he does not want to hear all about how hard it is for me to have a poo!

  Oh for the love of God, Andy. Just clam up, and give the poor man a rest.

  ‘Sorry, Lucas. You don’t need to hear all about my problems,’ I say, trying to mitigate things somewhat.

  ‘Turn here!’ he replies, pointing down a street to our left. ‘My mother’s house is just along this road.’ There’s an air of urgency in his voice that suggests I’ve already gone way too far. He’s obviously got me pegged as some kind of crazy fan he needs to get away from, before I start telling him I love him and have baked him a pie with my pubic hair in it.

  I’m never going to see that penthouse up close and personal now.