by Megan Okonsky
“The Five Stages of Grieving My Attention Span” placed fifth in Southern New Hampshire University’s 2024 Fall Fiction Contest.
(Bloop.)
Denial
I blinked at the first bloop. Then I went back to my book. I scheduled one hour of peace at the coffee shop before going back to the office. One hour away from emails and texts, one hour focusing on a world-famous story printed with ink on physical pages. I could focus. I could
(Bloop.)
This was probably my fault. I chastised myself for forgetting to silence my cell phones before leaving work. Forty other things were on my mind on the two-block walk to The Big Bean, but that was no excuse.
No new messages. No new likes. Not phone #1.
Not phone #2.
Both silenced. I chastised myself for forgetting that I had silenced my cell phones.
I stared at the blank, smooth side of the booth across from me, breathing slowly to regain my focus. The Great Gatsby is one of the greatest novels ever written, and it demanded my attention. I reminded myself bloops happened everywhere: on the bus, on the sidewalk, in the Taco Bell. Bloops against the current, borne back ceaselessly –
(Bloop.)
The third bloop.
Not my bloop.
I closed my book and let out a loud sigh.
Anger
My brain has melted into mush, but it’s not my fault. Did I ask to be subjected to bloops and dings all day long? No. They did this. Bloops were built to release serotonin. Dings were built to be addictive. They know that. They want me distracted. They are ruining humankind. I hate them! I pictured myself scratching my arms in an empty room, pining for red notifications and the chime of a text. I pictured myself with sunken eyes and chattering teeth, fiending for an online purchase. I hated the digital world I was living (ding)…
The fourth (bloop) wasn’t a bloop. It was a ding. Then, quickly after: (shwing). Someone was playing a game on their phone, at full volume, in public. What an idiot! How could they do this in The Big Bean? How could they do this when people (bloop) were around?
Who was it?
I furiously scanned the room. Only one other person was waiting for their order: a gaunt man, hunched over his phone, playing a game of bright (bloop) blues and yellows. He was three (ding) booths in front of me, far enough away that I couldn’t identify his game. It was probably a stupid game. He was probably a stupid person. (Womp womp, shwing!) His head remained steady, his eyes focused in one place. Sucked into his game like a drooling animal.
Lucky little asshole. He still had enough focus to (bloop) match the candies, mow the (ding) crops, or win the coins. I couldn’t get through two sentences in The Great Gatsby without rubbing the scar on my ear or squeezing my shoulders down my back, but this man (bloop) stayed perfectly still, only moving his finger across his screen for some unknown purpose.
What a (beep beep, hehehe!) dick.
If he (ding) kept playing the game at full volume, I would burn The Big Bean to the ground.
Bargaining
I wanted to confront (bloop) him, but I delayed the conversation. Who am I to cause a scene in The Big Bean? Plus, I wasn’t entirely sure if he deserved my rage for playing a little (ding) game on his phone.
Maybe the man was Deaf. Austin, where I live, (ding) has a large Deaf population. If he was Deaf, he couldn’t hear how distracting his phone was to me.
Maybe the man had a different form of attention disorder, the one that prevents (bloob-bloob) people from hearing other people, the one that my neighbor Sherry has. Sherry talks over me to complain about her ex-husband leaving (womp, womp, ding!), as if I didn’t already know that his gambling problem became more important to him than their marriage. (Ding, ding. You’re a winner!)
Maybe the man wasn’t playing a game, but gambling. Maybe he was an addict. A misunderstood addict who needs grace in these trying times.
Maybe the man wasn’t raised right. I imagined a childish version of him with a younger face, neglected in his family home. All he ever had (beep) were video games. Video games raised him. They comforted him. They (bloop) gave him a source of happiness that his down-and-out mother and philandering father could never provide. The gaunt man was so skinny because he was always mal(beep)nourished. Oh, the humanity.
The man looked up at me and saw me staring at him. I looked away.
Depression
The man on his phone is just like me. Addicted to our phones. Our brains are melted. I had a perfectly functioning brain when I was a kid. Then I took a job managing 15 lawyers’ schedules. Four months in, I started feeling the warmth of my brain sliding around my head like cheese (bloop) gracing a side of nachos. I still showed up to work. I took the money. I didn’t meditate as often as I should. I was the (ding) problem, not him. I chose to melt my brain in exchange for $50,000 a year with laughable benefits. I’m stupid. Stupid (beep) and worthless.
Even if I were to quit, I would still be doomed. Aren’t we all? Dating apps, mobile games, and apps for buying groceries are designed (bloop) to squirt serotonin into our bloodstream to keep us coming back. Candy Crush. Snake. Pac-Man. Even before I took my job, I took a plane somewhere. In my bag was a Kindle with the greatest American novels ready for consumption, and throughout the (weeble-weeble) flight, I kept returning to a simple game called “Ball Defender” like an addict scampering around an alley of broken (ding) promises. Fitzgerald could satisfy the mind, but not as quickly as seeing those balls hit those blocks.
Would I ever regain the ability to consume art properly? Could I watch a sunset without scratching my arms to check (beep) Instagram?
I wondered if life was worth living.
Acceptance
“Vanilla latte for Katelyn!”
I took a deep breath, stood up, and grabbed the latte off the table. Next to the straws and lids was a box advertising donations to charity. I took (bloop) out my phone, scanned the QR code, then donated. (Ding.) Walking back to my seat, I allowed myself to check Instagram before I went back to my book.
Category: Competition, Featured, Short Story