Disconnect

by Liana Vasquez

Silence becomes the noise in this city of thousands. Heads down and earbuds in, the citizens never hear the echo of a footstep. They crisscross in dizzying lines, but not a syllable is spoken among them. The atmosphere is static; caught amongst the electronic tendrils of improvement. Buildings produce an uneven horizon as a bleached, cloudless sky rotates on repeat. And the ground beneath their feet and the air embracing their bodies does not vibrate with the heat of words, the whisper of music, or the crash of life. 

Citizens of future homes rise at the sound of electronic chirping and gradual simulated sunlight, since noisy birds had gladly ceased to exist centuries ago. The sun was deemed too strong and so the shades are always drawn, disconnecting them from a once blood-orange glow. Yet, the citizens rise out of their beds and immediately put their earbuds in. They wear them even in the shower, since all technology is now waterproof. These earbuds work as earplugs, shutting out unnecessary words to the point they are telepathic, telekinetic, telesthetic. They were designed to enhance efficiency in the workplace and they just so happen to have crossed over into home life, like post-it notes and personal computers.

Efficiency experts created sidewalks that hover, which keep citizens from crashing into other passersby as they stay tuned into their virtual reality sunglasses. Then real family units are hard to find. The hologram family unit is sold for $19.99. To earn this measly sum, they work 9 to 5, because that (sadly) did not change. They compute and calculate in isolated cubicles. 

But a vestige of the past remains; a piece from the era of noise. This living remnant is a man who originates from an island no captain had charted. The population count was so low, they thought there was no need. The idealistic verdant hills of tropical climates was his home. In isolation this man’s world never developed beyond 1994, so he relied on previous practices and oral traditions, such as speaking to make conversation and hiking a rugged trail instead of watching a virtual one. When the population was reduced to one, he found a way to the mainland where his ordinary island ways became an oddity for the cities dressed in blue-tinged likenesses. He honed this skill and made it into a trade, because he had nothing else to offer a land that had everything, within thirty minutes or less.

This man stands on a stage that he obtained proper licensing for and erected himself. He is the focus of empty seats; rows and rows of wooden teeth glisten as they encircle him. He spreads his arms wide, taking in the grandeur. The swarthy velvet curtains are thick and lush as they sway, like a cobra ready to embrace. The stage lights glow and a warm yellow melts onto the man’s skin. His smooth maroon suit cuts his lean figure into a beautiful shape to be admired by all. Yet the stage is so far from the ground, he can’t ever leave. It is so high that if he were to jump, he would die. Maybe he doesn’t want to leave, simply based on the smile he wears. Shoulders back, head high, now he waits for his cue. 

One passerby, the first, shuffles toward the entrance with her shoulders hunched in the usual posture. Slowly she meets the entryway to the open amphitheater. That is when he begins. Opening his mouth, a breath escapes. Then a chuckle beats against his chest. A ‘hello’ jumps out of his throat and into the still air. The vibration catches the passerby before the sound does. With wide eyes, she is stupefied by the display of spoken words and steps off the hover-walk. The artist bends forward and calls to her. The voice is as clear as the seas he hails from and pushes back any barrier the citizen may still employ. Words start to dribble from the artist’s mouth. Some are rapid fire and others come off the tongue in a slow roll of satisfaction. 

The passerby grips her devices in a nervous state of suspension. Another citizen stops like stone when he hears it; the magnificence. The artist is only saying words, there is no melody, but the sound itself grabs each citizens’ attention. They move as a herd, away from the hover-walks. His words, now full sentences, entangle them like vines in a forgotten rainforest. It means nothing, but it has become the most profound thing in the world. Anything the artist says is bought, bottled, and savored. He glides back and forth, stretching his limbs into space. His proud face will not hide the pleasure that lies beneath his skin.

Sentences become paragraphs, as hours become days. Show after show, more gather to hear what they never imagined was possible. When he wakes, he greets the citizens who sleep at the foot of the stage. Some have set up tents they found in maxed out landfills. They rise with his voice and lay lifeless when silence returns like the most loyal of pets. To keep his viewers interested, the artist invents new words, like sonoratador which could be a matador who fights sound. He even tells stories with plot twists of rapture and delight. His tricks draw the rest of the city into the large amphitheater. Every citizen sits quietly as they listen to the artist, with their earbuds tucked securely into their pockets. Once or twice, a brave soul tries to articulate a word or two. Nothing but wind bounces through their shriveled vocal cords. What a downside of evolution. Months pass and the artist has even moved onto reciting great literary works. 

Yet there is a world beyond their city. Similarly, they suffer from a lack of noise too, as if under the control of Harpocrates. But one day, a traveler finds his way into town and cautiously sticks his head into the theater’s entryway. The audience holds a collective (inaudible) gasp as the artist stops to question the man. The traveler, from the capital city, simply shows off the latest device. It is an item so sleek and miniscule that any idea of what it might actually do is unclear. But it’s new and screams efficiency! The artist makes a bitter joke that no one hears, because each and every ear is clogged with dusty earbuds. Absorbed in the splendor of technology they follow the shepherd. They leave as they came and the artist is alone. At first he sweetly calls to them, then he starts to yell. Finally, he screeches and stomps trying to get them to listen. They are so very tired of listening.  

Over the next few weeks the artist receives a few visitors. They watch with limited fascination, always one hand ready to insert an earbud. He would visit another city, but this is his last stop. And today was the day no one showed up. His articulate, persuasively flawless voice is nothing more than shreds of cotton that rests between his lips. He can only mumble. Sentences become syllables, and soon moans as he lies prostrate. One passerby sees the artist and stops. The two make eye contact, but the citizen is ushered away by the hover-walk. As if the technology beneath their feet has also become bored with the artist. The artist crawls to the edge of the stage and cries out, but to no avail. Dangling from the stage that he used to love, he finally descends into silence. Heads down and earbuds in, the city soon forgets the artist too.