The Burrow
Life is no business, life is a play, wrote one of Steve’s countless Facebook contacts. The question of whether his life had meaning was bugging Steve for weeks. No children, no relationship, cold, even straightforward hostile relatives, and his constant struggle for money. He was unable to find decent sources of happiness or joy, life in England was going from bad to worse, but his brainstorms led to no escape route. In his sixties, he felt too old to start somewhere else from a scratch. And in his sixties, he was feeling that he barely achieved something worth remembering.
The money was tight. After the bills, he had like fifty pounds a week to survive on. Tough. Many people did not even have that, so to hell with it. He had his friends at least. Sure, he was not seeing them often face to face, but they never ignored his countless opinions, shares and posts on Facebook. Steve was an active member of society, and nobody could shut him up. In the physical world, he was marginalised, but on Facebook, he was a leader.
He unloaded the old laptop on one free table in the corner of the bar. The Burrow had just started to fill with thirst for booze and company customers, but he managed to find a quiet place where he could browse his social network unobstructed.
“Steve, Steve, how are you? Long time, no see.”
Oh, no. One of his chance acquaintances. The girl was smart and no doubt beautiful, however, she was sinking in a spiral of debt, as far as he was informed, so he felt the urge to get rid of her politely. She was a nice girl, however, waitressing was just not paying the bills in Sowerby Bridge these days and he was quite sure she was about to ask him for a loan. And there was another thing. It was ridiculous for a grey hair man like him to accept the attention of such a doll, he felt old, wrinkled and inadequate, even though he probably knew a little more about the world than she did. He was not ageing like a Hollywood star, he was ageing like a homeless man and lately avoided staring at his face in the mirror.
They did not even have waitresses at The Burrow. The pub offered drinks and food, everything paid for at the bar. And the internet. The free Wi-Fi was the reason he was coming every afternoon, taking a position, and opening his laptop, doing his thing. With no job and on benefits, he could at least focus on things that truly mattered.
Today he was focusing on the Israeli killings at the Gaza strip. A paramedic was shot. He shared the article and waited for opinions and emoticons.
He was doing that same thing for a year now. He could not afford the Internet at home, so he was coming to the bar, where the food was cheap and the net was for free, to read the news. Never interesting in the surroundings, like drunk fellows or huge women with bulimia, but he always commented on distant matters, unsolvable within five minutes of attention on the net. However, the futility of his activity rarely bothered him. He kept flooding the news feed.
The lather wainscoting of the walls was making him feel in more luxurious surroundings, the pub had no windows, and coarse brick walls, however nice touches like the antique lamps and the wainscoting along with the solid wood tables, created a somehow attractive hideaway. Everything was bathing in warm shades of yellow and red. And it was cheap.
“What unnecessary cruelty. These soldiers should burn in hell! An honourable, knowledgeable, brave and merciful girl lost! Shame, shame, shame!” he read under his last post. One of his friends from Halifax.
Steve’s analytical brain offered many useful remarks to add to the conversation that was seemingly going to be a huge discussion. About a significant matter, not a small talk, there were no words how much he disliked small talks.
“Targeting medics is a war crime under the Geneva Conventions. Yet the U.S Government unconditionally supports this bacchanalia? Within their “special relationship,” American support for Israel reaches $118 billion in aid over the years. Half of all American UN Security Council vetoes are linked to resolutions crucial to Israel. Strategic interests of the United States, support for the most appalling violation of international law and human rights by its allies and block the United Nations is what we silently witness. Where are the American public’s humanitarian principles and ethics?” Steve wrote under his post.
“In return for giving Israel $3.8 billion a year … the U.S. is expected to consent to anything and everything Israel wants.” Commented another friend. “And under Trump, they won it all.”
“I am quite curious about his “Deal of the Century, curious and pessimistic.” Wrote Steve.
“Yes, coming from pro-Israel, pro-racism, and pro-Islamophobia president, I am pessimistic too.”
“He already recognised Jerusalem as the capital of Israel, recognized Israel’s sovereignty over the Syrian Golan Heights and seeks to terminate the refugees’ right to return. I am sure he holds the worst for last.” Steve imagined this Iranian friend fuming in front of her computer.
“I quote “Israel Defence Forces constantly works to draw operational lessons and reduce the number of casualties in the area of the Gaza Strip security fence”. So it is Hamas terror organization fault that these brutes shoot civilians! Outrageous!” one of his friends from London.
The comments went in the same manner for a while. After Israel, Steve covered some anti-fracking protests, the global environmental crisis and the fossil fuels lobby, the UK government austerity programme and by 9 o’clock he felt exhausted. And fulfilled. He had a nice steak and helped its way down his throat with a nice ale, without stopping to browse the news. BBC, The Guardian, The Telegraph, Google news, he got the world on a plate. He felt like a smart man, like an affluent man, like a calm, methodological, al-mighty influencer. It did not matter that it was a storm in a glass of water. His 1000+ friends hardly constituted a significant tribune. But they never failed to ensure him that they valued his intellect and the importance of his adamant, always rightful positions. His sedentary, unattached lifestyle did not seem miserable, the warm, cosy, rich interior of The Burrow chased away even the mere hint that he was living in poor, uninteresting, monotonous existence, waiting for the sunset of his time to unburden him.
The possibility that he might be mistaken about something rarely crossed his mind. After all, his friends were not stupid, if they kept engaging in discussions with him, they must have seen that he was right, from his point of view. He had no idea what was he looking for when browsing, and yet, there were always interesting events to analyse and share. Not like the damn Sowerby Bridge, where nothing ever happened. Oh, if he could only leave this small town and live somewhere else. But the benefits system was a heavy anchor. Nothing ever happened here.
The pub was now buzzing with loud, lively conversations, people were coming to relieve the tensions from their hard, stressful workday. British people were happier in the pub, according to his observations. He was not there to make friends, but many people were. Their watering hole was providing a sense of belonging or something, he could not explain it, but it was possible to sit here and see the whole town passing.
“Hi, Steve, how is it going?” greeted him his chatty neighbour, Lucy.
“Not so bad.”
“We’ve seen you here yesterday but you seemed busy, I did not want to disturb you.”
Oh, and he did not seem busy now? Off you go, you pest of a woman. He would rather be alone than in the company of superficial, loud people. But she kept going on and on. About her daughter's graduation, about the Tour de Yorkshire. He noticed her eyebrows, they moving up and down relentlessly, and along with the stretched smile, she suddenly gave him a sinister feeling. Finally, she left him alone.
A headline grabbed his attention. "Israel has invested enormous resources and has trained the manpower to specialize in cyber threats of all shapes and sizes. Even the police have employees who are among the best in the world as far as cybersecurity goes.” The article managed to snick into his newsfeed, well, good for them. Israeli buggers.
The head of that crow under the article appeared way more interesting. Why was his friend posting this weird picture? Actually few of his friends were posting some disturbing and inexplicable images, graves, funerals, ruins of churches. His newsfeed suddenly startled him. He saw his profile and his comment, under a post that he never commented.
The vulgarity of the comment that he supposedly made was even more stupefying. And the reactions of his friends petrified him. They were all arguing with him, under that post. He scrolled down. More comments under posts he did not recall commenting. Vulgar, and stupid comments. What was going on! Friends were turning their back on him, claiming that he had lost his mind!
His Facebook was hacked! Somebody was impersonating him. But it was not only this, it seemed like a deliberate, cruel attack, all the posts were grotty and gloomy, and he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his arm. He ignored it, and trembling, scrolled down. The picture of the member of the "Mara Salvatrucha" gang made his adrenaline go crazy. The status on his face, the violent look on it, somehow he was more here than Lucy by the next table. And that Russian spy whale, on another picture, staring straight at him, he suddenly got the feeling that he‘d been monitored. But why his Facebook? Did he cross a line that he shouldn’t? Was he too much of an influence? He believed in freedom of expression and that the authorities should respect his rights. But if you are realistic, authorities were selfish pricks usually. His shortness of breath was alarming, also that sudden light-headedness.
He tried to perform some damage control. He immediately posted that people should disregard all posts that are not his style since he had been hacked. He changed his password. The aching sensation in his chest was getting stronger. He contacted Facebook and told them about the problem. He had no idea how to scan his computer, maybe the thread was more serious than he imagined. Why his Facebook? The only place where he could feel valued, and interesting these recent years. He had always found it difficult to meet people and each and every Facebook contact he considered a big achievement and valued connection
Steve suddenly felt an urge to vomit. And then there was darkness.
The ambulance took ten minutes to arrive. They declared him dead at the scene. Considerate medics loaded the body and gently gathered his belongings.
“He was always on that computer.”
“Poor fellow.”
“Does anybody know his family?”
For twenty minutes, the dead Steve existed more vividly at the pub with his fellow citizens than when he was alive.