Logging Off

by Spalding, Nick

  Ding dong.

  I look up at the clock on my kitchen wall.

  Odd time for someone to be calling. The postie never comes before 1 p.m. these days, and I have a very clear and very concise ‘No Cold Callers’ sticker that prevents unwanted guests at the door.

  With a faint feeling of curiosity (and, let’s face it, a degree of trepidation; I am British, and am therefore automatically uncomfortable at the prospect of having to speak to strangers on my doorstep), I rise from the breakfast bar and walk over to the door.

  When I open it, I am relieved to see it is not a Jehovah’s Witness or someone trying to sell me mops.

  No.

  It’s Grace.

  From the coffee shop.

  Colour me amazed.

  She’s now dressed in jeans and a cream shirt instead of her work clothes, but it’s definitely her.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, in a very surprised tone.

  ‘Hello,’ she replies, offering an awkward smile.

  ‘It’s Grace, isn’t it?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. That’s me. Grace.’ She shuffles a bit. ‘And you’re Andy.’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  You’d think we’d met a year ago and not yesterday from the way this conversation is going.

  ‘What can I do for you, Grace?’

  A sudden sinking feeling strikes me.

  She wants to sue me.

  Yes. That must be it.

  Grace wants to sue me for the broken toilet window.

  She could sue Henrietta, but she seemed more than a little off-balance. It’d be far easier to squeeze cash out of the seemingly normal sap responsible for arranging the date in the first place. One that led to a large and possibly structurally unsound hole in her back wall.

  ‘I just . . . I just . . .’ she begins, but can’t seem to get the words out.

  I just want to wring you dry of all the money you have, you bloody idiot.

  That’s what she’s about to say, but she’s obviously so angry at me that it’s taking her a moment to compose herself.

  ‘I just wanted to ask you about your detox,’ Grace eventually blurts out, all in a rush.

  ‘My detox?’ I reply, amazed. Maybe I’m not about to be taken to the cleaners.

  ‘Yes. I just wanted to know . . . to know . . .’

  There are tears in her eyes. That strange anguished look I saw on her face before Henrietta came in to the coffee shop.

  ‘. . . to know . . . is it working? Is it helping? Do you feel better?’

  Oh God. She’s crying now. Standing on my doorstep and crying.

  What the hell do I do?

  I’ve never had a crying woman on my doorstep before. It’s new territory for me.

  ‘Would you . . . like to come in?’ I venture.

  Grace looks down at the floor for a second, before looking back up at me and nodding. ‘Yes please.’

  I step back and let her into the flat – and instantly regret it. The place is a pigsty.

  Of course it’s a pigsty. I am a single man in his thirties. There’d be something wrong with the universe if it wasn’t a pigsty, to be quite frank.

  Still, at least the kitchen area isn’t too bad – other than the dirty dishes in the sink, soaking in a load of freezing cold, scummy water.

  I’ll just escort her over to the breakfast bar, thus avoiding the sink area, and clear away my bowl of muesli as swiftly as possible.

  ‘Sit down here, Grace,’ I say, in as soothing a voice as I can manage. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  She nods again, producing a tissue from her pocket and wiping her nose. ‘Yes please. I really am sorry about this.’

  ‘No. No. That’s fine. I can’t promise the tea will be anything like you’d make in your lovely coffee shop, but it might make you feel a bit better.’

  I threw the compliment in there just in case there are any lingering notions about suing me. A bit of light flattery can never hurt in these situations.

  ‘I’m sure it will.’

  Another thought occurs while I’m popping teabags into two of my cleaner mugs. ‘How did you find me?’ I ask Grace.

  She looks a bit sheepish. ‘I looked your address up on your website. It’s in your contacts section.’ Her eyes go wide. ‘I’m not trying to stalk you or anything!’

  ‘No! I’m sure you’re not!’

  ‘I read your article in the paper,’ Grace continues, ‘and really wanted to speak to you. I knew your address, so I thought I’d pop by. I thought you might be able to . . . able to help me.’

  ‘No problem at all,’ I tell her. She’s obviously quite upset about something, and I don’t want to make it worse by making her feel unwelcome.

  If today does end up with me having a knitting needle shoved into my privates by my new black-haired stalker, it won’t be because I was rude.

  ‘Yesterday was awful, wasn’t it?’ I say.

  ‘Yes. It certainly was.’

  ‘Is that why . . . why you’re here? Why you’re . . . um . . . upset?’

  Grace shakes her head. ‘No. It was all fine, really. I rang the insurers, and it looks like they will cover the cost of the window. And I don’t think having the police and fire brigade swarming around the place for so long will do any real damage to the shop’s reputation . . . at least I hope not.’ She wipes her nose with the tissue again.

  Eep.

  I know I actually have nothing to feel guilty about – Henrietta was the one who caused all of the trouble yesterday – but I feel it all the same. Character flaw.

  ‘Here you go,’ I say in what I assume is a comforting voice, as I place a cup of tea reverentially in front of her.

  We all know the power of a freshly brewed cup of tea. It should have her feeling as right as rain in no time.

  ‘Thank you,’ Grace replies, and takes a sip. ‘I’m here because I’ve been having a really bad time of it lately.’

  I lean against the breakfast bar and take a sip of my own tea.

  Mmmmm. Calming. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I tell her.

  ‘Thanks.’ Grace looks up for a second, obviously composing herself before carrying on. ‘When I read your article in the paper, it really struck a nerve . . . because I’m the same as you.’

  ‘What? How so?’

  ‘Addicted to the Internet.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. I spend way too much time on there. I know I do. I’ve lost my social life . . . a lot of my friends. I don’t go out.’ She looks pained for a moment. ‘Hell, even coming here today took just about all the nerve I had. My life consists of working at the coffee shop and sitting at home on my bloody computer.’

  I’m stunned.

  I am a thirty-six-year-old single man with a pigsty for a flat.

  I am also very much not an alpha male. I have watched every season of Star Trek: The Next Generation, can give you the complete history of Batman without breaking a sweat and have beaten Dark Souls on the PlayStation 4 six times.

  It makes sense for someone like me to have an addiction to the Internet.

  Grace, on the other hand, is quite clearly a beautiful raven-haired woman with her own extremely picturesque coffee house and a vibrant clientele. This is not the kind of person you’d expect would be chained to her PC.

  Now, I know this is grossly stereotypical of me. I apologise for that. But I’m just having a very hard time imagining that Grace is like me.

  Or like I was, anyway.

  Grace catches the expression on my face. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘Well, I, er, um,’ I splutter, not really knowing how to respond.

  ‘It is true, though. The first thing I do in the morning is look at Instagram. I follow more influencers than I care to mention.’ She grimaces. ‘OK, I’ll mention it. There’s over a hundred. A good two dozen of them are just baristas. There are more pictures of steam wands on my feed than is healthy for any one human being.’

  ‘Well, that’s not too bad,’ I try
to argue. ‘You do run a coffee shop.’

  ‘True, but they’re only a small handful of the dozens and dozens of people I’ve found myself obsessively following in the last three years.’

  ‘None of them are called Lucas La Forte, are they?’ I say with a wince.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Never mind. Not important. If it’s just Instagram you’re talking about, though, it can’t be all that bad?’

  For some reason, I am determined to prove that Grace does not have an issue with her Internet use like I have. I have no idea why I feel like this, but I do.

  ‘It’s not just Instagram, Andy,’ she tells me solemnly. ‘I’m on Facebook for hours and hours every day, watching videos and chatting in groups. Most of them seem to involve people either trying to sell me make-up or teaching me how to bake cakes. Then there’s Minecraft.’

  ‘You play Minecraft?’

  ‘There aren’t many hours in the day when I don’t play Minecraft.’

  ‘I’ve never played it myself. Is it any good?’

  ‘Yes, Andy. It’s like electronic crack.’

  ‘Isn’t it just building stuff?’

  ‘Yep. More or less. But you can build anything. You can create anything. And then share it with people like you . . . probably on Facebook and Instagram.’

  ‘Why?’ I blurt out.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why are you so addicted?’

  She narrows her eyes. ‘Why are you?’

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘I’m lazy,’ I tell her matter-of-factly. ‘I’m also not massively keen on having to communicate with people, if I’m honest. And I get bored easily. I need constant distraction.’

  Grace blinks a couple of times. ‘That’s all very self-aware of you.’

  ‘Yep. That’s me. As self-aware as a duck.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Never mind. It’s just my brain. It does things like that from time to time. Anyway, you never answered my question. Why do you think you spend so much time online?’

  This is actually a hideously personal thing to ask, but I’m almost feeling slightly annoyed that Grace has turned up at my door like this, needing to share her own problems. I have enough of my own to be dealing with.

  Also, I get very awkward when someone says they need my help. I’m not temperamentally prepared to help people. I’m the one who usually needs the assistance.

  For evidence of this, please think back upon strange women trapped in windows, and duck ponds.

  I’m not very good at being awkward around people I don’t know very well, and it tends to morph into frustration.

  Blimey, I am being very self-aware, aren’t I?

  Is this an offshoot of the detox I hadn’t thought about? Has my brain been so starved of stimuli that it’s begun to critically evaluate the meat sack it’s being carried around in?

  And is that a good thing or not?

  Grace is looking at me with an expression that could go one of two ways. Either she’s going to get understandably mad at the tone of voice I’m using, and get up to leave – or she’s going to let me get away with it (for now) and give me a response.

  When she goes for the latter option, I breathe a small sigh of surprised relief.

  ‘I wasn’t always like this,’ she tells me, picking at a chip in the handle of the mug in front of her. ‘Never used to use the Internet much at all.’

  ‘What changed?’

  That anguish is back once more, only this time Grace isn’t even trying to hide it. ‘My sister died,’ she says in a small voice.

  Oh, very well done, Bellows. Well done indeed, you complete buffoon.

  Any irritation or embarrassment I was feeling has been instantly extinguished. And rightly so.

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry, Grace,’ I say. ‘I should never have asked. I—’

  ‘No. It’s OK. It’s probably good for me to say it out loud to someone’ – she tries a smile – ‘instead of just writing about it on a bloody forum.’

  ‘Well, OK, but it’s really none of my business. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. You weren’t expecting a mad woman to turn up at your door this morning.’

  ‘You’re not mad. Clearly,’ I tell her.

  Grace smiles briefly, then takes a very deep breath before continuing. ‘When Megan died – that’s my sister’s name – I . . . went in on myself. Stopped going out. Stopped communicating with people. Her death hit me really hard.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘And that’s when I started to spend so much time on the web. It was . . . easier, you know? Megan left Heirloom Coffee to me, so I had to spend a lot of my time keeping it running, but whenever I wasn’t there, I was at home, on the Internet. Still am.’

  The haunted look in her eyes is truly awful.

  ‘And I’ve been miserable for a long time, because of it,’ she carries on. ‘Never felt so unhappy in my life. So alone. I feel like the world is passing me by.’ She looks squarely into my eyes. ‘And that’s when I read the article about you. About what you were doing. It sounded like such a good idea.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘Yes! Of course! I’ve been thinking about trying to cut down on my Internet usage for a while now, but just never had the guts to do it. It felt like giving up too much. Giving up the only thing I had. And I wanted to speak to you, because I just wanted to find out . . .’

  ‘Find what out?’

  She gives me a shy look. ‘Whether it’s working or not?’ She sits up. ‘Is it, Andy? Do you feel better? Has life got better since you gave it all up? Has it all been worth it?’ The tears are back in her eyes again. ‘Only, I feel so bad right now . . . and I need to know if there’s something I can do to make . . . make myself feel better. I need to know if doing a digital detox like you will be good for me.’

  Oh boy.

  Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.

  What the hell do I say to that?

  How on earth can I tell Grace that I’m giving up? That it’s been one disaster after another? That I don’t care what health improvements I’ve had – it’s still too much to deal with, and I want it to end?

  I thought I had problems with my online addiction, but a bad neck and an attack of the shits is nothing compared to the grief of losing someone you love!

  So, what the hell am I supposed to say?

  How do I burst her bubble? How do I tell her that it hasn’t worked for me?

  ‘Yes, it’s working,’ I reply, in a bland voice.

  What?

  What?!

  What are you doing?

  ‘I feel much better than I did,’ I continue – scarcely believing the words that are coming out of my mouth.

  Grace is obviously someone in need of help. She needs to hear that quitting her online addiction will make her feel better about herself – and who am I to tell her it won’t?

  She’s not me. Her situation could be completely different to mine. Just because I’ve had problems, it doesn’t mean she will. She doesn’t look like the kind of person who would be dumb enough to drive into a duck pond or go on a date with a conspiracy nut. The detox could be the best thing for her.

  She’s clearly very unhappy living online. It’s having a horrible effect on her. I bet the detox would help her out immeasurably.

  You could say the same thing about yourself, Bellows – so why are you quitting?

  That’s different.

  Is it? Because she’s clearly in as much emotional pain as you were physical. If you think the detox would be good for her, why isn’t it still good for you?

  ‘Oh, that’s so good to hear, Andy!’ Grace exclaims, bringing me sharply back to the real world, outside my own stupid head. ‘My brain is always buzzing, you know?’ she says. ‘Fizzing. I never seem to relax. Can’t sleep most nights. Does that go away?’

  ‘Yeah. It does.’

  And that’s the truth. I do sleep better. My brain does feel calmer.

  ‘Do you feel healt
hier as well? The story said you were suffering with muscle pains and stuff like that.’ Grace puts one hand on the back of her neck. ‘I get terrible shooting pains in my neck and back.’

  ‘Yeah, they’re better too.’

  And that’s also the truth.

  Blimey, saying it all out loud really does hammer home just how much of an effect the detox has had on me.

  ‘Great!’ Grace says, now extremely animated.

  Oh Christ, I’ve given her hope. What an awful mistake to make.

  ‘And do you miss it all?’

  ‘Miss what?’

  ‘Being online? Social media, games, the Internet?’

  I nod my head. ‘Yes. I do. A lot.’

  And this is the biggest truth of all, of course. I do miss it all. Hugely.

  Although, if I’m being brutally honest, I didn’t think about going on Twitter once this morning when I got up. Or Facebook, for that matter.

  Nor have I for days, if I really think about it.

  Blimey (again).

  Grace is now standing up, leaning across the breakfast bar. ‘But it’s worth it? Worth missing out on all that stuff? Because you feel better? You feel happier?’

  ‘Yes,’ I repeat – and now I have no idea whether I’m lying to her or telling the truth. This is all dreadfully confusing.

  ‘So, should I join you then?’

  ‘Join me? ’

  ‘Yes! On the detox? Can I join you doing it?’

  ‘You want to do it with me?’

  ‘Yes! If you don’t mind? I’ll probably need a bit of help with it – but I can lend you some moral support as well.’

  Say no, Bellows!

  We don’t want to do the detox any more, remember?

  We want to go back online again!

  We want to play Call of Duty again!

  We want to swipe right on Tinder, get directions on Google Maps and order Mexican on Uber Eats again!

  ‘Yes. OK, Grace. That would be lovely,’ I hear myself say.

  . . . Because, what’s going here? When you get right down to it?

  I have a rather beautiful woman in my kitchen, who I clearly have a lot in common with, asking me to help her detox from an unhealthy online lifestyle. This will probably mean spending a fair bit of time with her – with that smile, that gorgeous black hair, and the skills required to make a decent flat white in a country largely bereft of them.