Logging Off

by Spalding, Nick

  Then I concentrate for a moment on the feel of Grace’s hand on my arm, and I know what I should say.

  ‘I’m happier,’ I tell the woman, heavy accent on the last syllable.

  She nods, and then looks at me intently – clearly expecting more.

  I stare back at her for a second, understanding that I’m not going to get away without going into further detail.

  But I don’t want to tell her more, damn it!

  This is my life we’re talking about, and I don’t really want to let a bunch of complete strangers in on my every thought and emotion about the last two months.

  But looking around the room, I have no doubt that I’m not going to be allowed to just give one- or two-word answers. More is expected from me.

  Sigh.

  Just lie. Tell her – and the rest – what they want to hear, and maybe we can get this done with a minimum of fuss.

  I don’t want to lie.

  Oh? Does the idea of laying yourself bare sound like more fun to you?

  No.

  Well, there you have it then. Tell them all that the detox is wonderful, and then get out of here. There’s every chance our bowels are going to want to have words again before this evening is over, so the faster we can get this ridiculous Q & A session over with, the better.

  You make a good point, brain. Let’s do this.

  ‘I’m very happy!’ I tell Josephine, plastering on a fake grin for all I’m worth.

  Her face lights up when I say this, and I know that I have done the right thing.

  Even though I also absolutely know that I have done the wrong thing.

  ‘Yes. It’s been a wonderful couple of months, and I feel like life is so much better for me now!’ I add, and am delighted to see that the entire café is smiling along with me as I say it.

  This isn’t so bad.

  It turns out public speaking is quite good fun – as long as you’re saying things that people want to hear.

  And saying things that people want to hear is precisely what I do over the next hour or so. And for every answer I give, the mood and general atmosphere of the café lifts.

  When I’m asked whether I miss being online or not, I say that I don’t miss it all that much – and that makes them happy.

  When I’m asked whether I feel healthier or not, I say that I most certainly am in every sense of the word – and that makes them happy.

  When I’m asked about how I fill my days without technology, I say that I easily find things to do – and that makes them happy.

  And what makes them happy, makes me happy.

  It really is quite a marvellous feeling.

  I’ve entered into some kind of reciprocating loop, where the more lies I tell, the more they smile, which means I smile more, and therefore tell more lies.

  And I’m not completely lying, after all. The detox has done me a huge amount of good. I do feel healthier, and I have found lots of things to keep me occupied without being online. The day out in Bath was a great deal of fun – as are all the walks in the country.

  So what if I’m not also talking about the bad aspects? These fine people don’t need to know that I still crave my social media every single day, or that I find a great deal of my life to be dreadfully inconvenient without technology.

  And they definitely don’t need to know that the only reason I agreed to speak to them in the first place was because I’ve developed feelings for someone who may – or may not – feel the same about me.

  And there’s no way in hell I’m telling them that I have every intention of going back online first thing tomorrow morning.

  Those smiles would probably drop off their faces at the speed of light if they knew just how much I still want to be online. That for all the good the detox has done me, it’s also left me out in the wilderness.

  These people clearly want – and even need – to go down the same path that I have taken. And they want to hear that the path is an easy one to traverse once you’re on it.

  From what I can gather from this evening’s conversation, they all suffer greatly in one way or another from too much time spent online – whether it be Internet shopping, or on social media, or playing online video games, or falling down the YouTube rabbit hole.

  All of them have rather gaunt looks on their faces that only lift when I tell them my next white lie about how wonderful my life is, now I’m free of the shackles of the Internet.

  And who am I to tell them the path is hard? That it comes with a lot of pitfalls?

  I’m self-aware (duck) enough to know that I’m the kind of person who naturally gravitates towards pitfalls at every available opportunity. Perhaps for these fine folks things will be easier. I certainly don’t want to put them off, just because I’m an accident-prone wally. I very much doubt they’d encounter the same duck-pond- and toilet-window-related disasters I did!

  This is exactly the same mentality I had when I first talked to Grace about the detox – and that seemed to work out well for both me and her, so it stands to reason it’s the right way of handling things now as well.

  So, tonight I am Mr Positive, and my audience clearly loves me for it.

  From the back of the room, I spy a hand go up, and my heart sinks. I have been avoiding looking at the owner of that hand all night. I have done this because the owner of the hand has trouble written all over him. He is a young man of a slight build and a rather pinched expression.

  I am going to describe what this young man is dressed in, and I’m interested in what your reaction will be. I know we’re not supposed to judge people by the way they dress themselves in this enlightened day and age, but in this case, I hope you’ll agree it’s impossible not to.

  The young man wears a bobble hat upon his head. The bobble hat has the Star Trek logo on it. Underneath the hat I see curly brown, and rather unkempt, hair. The young man wears glasses. Thick-rimmed and round, they create a magnification effect on his eyes that is visible even from across the café. The eyes themselves are permanently fixed in narrow slits of suspicion. The poor chap has a problem with acne that a month spent in a bath of heavy-duty spot cream probably couldn’t solve.

  Upon his person he wears a cagoule. The top half is bright blue, the bottom half is bright red.

  Yes. Those are brown corduroy trousers.

  No, I don’t know why a fully grown man in 2019 would be wearing green Crocs and yellow socks either.

  Now . . . what do you reckon?

  Am I being entirely unfair in not wanting to draw this young man’s attention all night? Or do you think that I might have a point?

  We’re about to find out, as he’s the only one with his hand up now. Everyone else appears to be satisfied and happy with what I’ve had to say tonight, but this cagoule-wearing chap has more he wants to know and there’s not a damn thing I can do to get away from whatever questions he may have.

  You’ve probably worked with a variation of this kind of fellow before. You know . . . he’s the one who, after a three-hour meeting, will always have more questions to ask. No matter that it’s now 5.47 p.m. on a Friday afternoon. No matter that the topic has been covered in great detail from every conceivable angle.

  No, this chap will have more questions to ask, and will continue asking them until someone senior enough in the meeting has the fortitude and guts to shut him up, so everyone can go home. And God help you if there’s no one senior enough in the room to do this, as it means you’re going to be there until at least 6.41 p.m.

  On a Friday evening.

  You might as well have Chinese torturers come in and start whacking bamboo splinters up your fingernails at that point.

  I point a reluctant finger at my cagoule-wearing friend. As I do so, in my peripheral vision I see several other members of the audience suppress groans.

  Yes. They’ve all been in that meeting, haven’t they? They’ve all known what it’s like to get home at 7.52 p.m. on a Friday.

  ‘Yes?’ I ask him in a tremulous voic
e.

  The young man pushes his glasses up on his nose and fixes me with a stare.

  ‘Are you going to continue with your detoxification, Mr Bellows?’ His voice is reedy and clipped. It couldn’t really be anything else.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your detoxification? I note from both the articles written by Mr Brailsworth, that the period of time that you have elected to be on the detoxification will officially come to an end tomorrow.’

  I groan inwardly. I was hoping no one would ask this. I was hoping that everyone would just enjoy hearing me being incredibly positive about how great the detox has been – while tacitly understanding that I am coming to the end of it.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ I tell Mr Cagoule in a gritty tone of voice.

  ‘Well, it’s very apparent from what you have said tonight that the detoxification has been extremely positive, and with no downsides, so I have to assume that you will be carrying on with it indefinitely?’ He pushes the glasses up again. ‘There doesn’t appear to be any reason for you not to, does there?’

  Yep.

  I should never have let him bloody speak.

  ‘Well, I . . . er . . . I . . .’ What the hell do I say? ‘Er . . . what’s your name?’

  ‘Colin.’

  Of course his name is fucking Colin. What the hell else would it be?

  ‘Well, Colin, the detox has been as wonderful as I’ve described to you all here tonight, extremely accurately. But . . .’

  But what, Bellows?

  What is this but that you’re about to drop on the sea of happy faces you’ve created here this evening?

  What but could you possibly be about to come out with that will satisfy young Colin and his cagoule?

  Because if you’re about to say that you’re going to stop with the detox tomorrow, you’d better be prepared for a lot of buts coming your way instead.

  But you said it’s great . . .

  But you said it’s made you feel so much better . . .

  But you said your life is a lot more fun . . .

  But you said you feel more relaxed and happy . . .

  There will be more buts than a farm full of incandescently angry goats . . .

  . . . probably angry at the fact I’ve missed one ‘t’ off the word ‘but’.

  I’ve gone and painted myself into the legendary corner, haven’t I?

  There’s simply no way I can tell these people I’m quitting the detox tomorrow without disappointing all of them. And probably making them angry.

  I wouldn’t want to make them angry . . . especially not Colin, who looks like the type of man who would have many sharp pencils secreted about his person.

  I once heard the legend of a chap who killed three men with a pencil. Who’s to say he wasn’t wearing a bobble hat and a cagoule, eh?

  ‘But . . . it should be coming to an end tomorrow, as you say, Colin,’ I say to my potentially pencil-wielding friend, ‘but . . . but I could hardly stop it now, could I?’

  No! No! Don’t say these things!

  ‘No . . . I will of course be carrying on with the detox, for as long as possible.’

  Every word drops out of my mouth like a hardened turd.

  Hardened turds that seem to please the small crowd in front of me no end. Even Colin – pinched of face and suspicious of glance – smiles and sits back in his seat, no doubt satisfied that he got the answer he was looking for.

  I look around to see that Grace is also smiling broadly.

  Oh, for the love of God!

  I just want to play Candy Crush! I just want to download some pornography! I just want to spend two hours arguing with a complete stranger about how bad the last season of Game of Thrones was!

  But now I can do none of those things, because I have promised this room of complete strangers – and the woman I have stupidly fallen in love with – that I will remain on my bloody detox for the foreseeable future.

  Aaaarrggh!

  I spot Fergus out of the corner of my eye. He’s trying very hard not to look triumphant, but he’s not doing a very good job of it. More Andy Bellows on a detox means more opportunities for stories for his bloody paper, and he knows it.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bellows!’ Colin the Cagoule says – and then does something that actually, physically, makes my skin crawl.

  He rises to his feet and starts to clap.

  For an excruciating moment, he stands there alone, clapping away to himself. But then the others all start to get to their feet as well, and they start to applaud too.

  It’s like someone is throwing darts at my head.

  Fergus then starts to clap too . . . far, far too enthusiastically for my liking.

  I look at Grace.

  She does not clap.

  Instead, she gives me a half-amused, half-worried smile and gives my arm another gentle squeeze.

  For once, though, her touch doesn’t really help.

  How can it? I’m standing in front of a bunch of people I’ve just spent the last hour lying to about my life, and now they are applauding me for it.

  It’s excruciating.

  It’s unbelievable.

  It’s . . . probably everything I deserve.

  I have made my analogue bed, and now I really am going to have to lie in it.

  Chapter Ten

  FROM TECH-HEAD TO FIGUREHEAD

  Loggers Off.

  That’s what Fergus called them.

  The people who came to see me that night.

  The Loggers Off.

  Awful, isn’t it?

  And I’m not just talking about the potentially incorrect grammar . . .

  By giving the group a name – a collective way to describe them – Fergus has made them a thing. An entity. A creature of many terrible facets – all of them pointed directly at me.

  Fergus’s second follow-up story went in the paper the day after I consigned myself to a life of seemingly never-ending digital exclusion. He got an exhaustive interview with Colin the Cagoule, who went into great detail about how much he admired my stance on a tech-free life, and how he was definitely going to follow my example. It appears that Colin lost his job thanks to his own online obsession. There’s only so many times you can fall asleep at your desk because you’ve been up until the wee small hours discussing how great a Starfleet captain Sisko was, before somebody pulls the plug.

  I’m sure Colin’s ex-colleagues were delighted that he got the sack, because it meant they could go home at 4.30 p.m. on a Friday afternoon. But for him, it was an understandable disaster. He had so many more questions to ask, you see. So many more Friday evenings to inadvertently ruin.

  And people who read Fergus’s article loved Colin, of course. Which in turn just made them love me more, by association. Why couldn’t Fergus have made Colin out to be a less sympathetic character?

  The Loggers Off began to grow in number. Hideously quickly.

  In the fortnight that has passed since that meeting in Heirloom, Fergus has informed me that well over two hundred people have contacted him about wanting to become part of the ‘movement’.

  It’s a bloody good job I can’t access social media, because if I could, I think I might have a heart attack – given what my best friend is telling me. He created a Twitter account called @LoggersOff – which has apparently gained four hundred followers already. It took me about three years to get to four hundred followers. I’m insanely jealous. Apparently of myself.

  The Facebook page has been equally as popular. If I ever do go back online again, it’s always going to come packaged with a fair amount of low-level embarrassment, knowing that such things exist . . . technically in my name.

  Some of them have just joined to hear more about what a digital detox is, but some of them have apparently already declared they are starting their own version of one.

  There’s a hashtag. #LoggingOffWithAndy.

  It seems strange to go on social media just to declare you’re leaving social media – but of course nothi
ng happens these days unless you have mentioned it on social media. It’s a rather strange Catch-22-like state of affairs.

  I wonder how they’re going to feel once they can’t do that any more? Just pop on Facebook and tell everyone what they’re up to?

  I wonder how many of them are going to last the full sixty days? How many will crash and burn quickly? And how many may make it a permanent thing? I have no idea.

  The local TV news has picked up on my story too.

  I did a short interview to camera two days ago with a pretty young woman called Christie, who confided in me when we’d finished that she thought she spent far too much time on the Internet and might join the Loggers Off herself.

  Fergus has contacted a printing company to see if he can get some T-shirts made. He’s asked me to design the logo for it.

  I’ve agreed to this, because he promised that the paper would pay me quite handsomely for it.

  I am my own worst enemy.

  There’s been an air of inevitability about this recent chain of events that makes my teeth itch. There are clearly a great many people out there who are struggling to live in the digital age. Men and women suffering with a variety of mental and physical health problems, all stemming from too many hours spent looking at a screen. And in me they have apparently found – oh, good God in heaven – a figurehead. Someone whose example they can follow.

  This, I hasten to add, is not because I am worthy of such followship.

  It’s because I am unlucky enough to have a best friend who is a journalist and is unnaturally good at his job.

  Even I read the stories he’s written about me and think I sound like a pretty good chap who’s probably worth listening to.

  The utter bastard.

  There’s another meeting scheduled in a few days at Heirloom (as advertised both online for the folks who haven’t started their own detox yet, and in the paper for those that have), and Grace is getting a bit stressed about it, because she doesn’t think she’s going to have enough chairs for everyone to sit on. She’s also increased her coffee bean order from the wholesaler’s by 25 per cent to cover the amount of people she thinks will turn up.

  Along with the T-shirts, Fergus has also asked the printing company to make a ‘Loggers Off’ sign that Grace can hang in the shop.