“What trap?” Grant started swinging his legs and Marlene jumped back just in time not to get hit. She resettled on calmer turf under Patrick’s chair.
“You know. We’re hyper-connected, but at the same time desperately lonely. We’re overstimulated by bright lights in our face all the time and the promise of more and more content, more and more people to follow, but we’re also numb, scrolling and scrolling past images we don’t even take the time to recognize, or form a cognizant thought about what they’re saying. About us, the creator—not God, mind you—the content creator, about life.”
“But we’re not society. We’re just Maisie and Grant.” Maisie gave up on trying to butter her bread and dropped her knife with a clang. Patrick took the bread plate from her to help.
“Do you even care about the kids you watch?”
“They do toy reviewth!” Grant exclaimed.
Patrick plowed right over him. “Or do you just watch them because they’re there? Because one video rolls into the next in a never-ending parade of I don’t even know what. Bullshit, is what it is. It’s all bullshit. That’s why I used to pay someone else to do my sosh.”
“What’s sosh?” Maisie looked appalled.
“Sosh. Social media? You guys. Come on, now.”
“You’re on YouTube.”
“No I’m not, I’m at the dinner table with you.”
“No, you’re on YouTube. Mommy helped us do a thearch.” Grant twisted sideways, away from Patrick, before resting his head on the back of his chair.
“Oh, what. Clips from the show? That’s copyright infringement. That should be taken down.”
“No,” Maisie corrected. “A woman was asking you questions.”
“Like an interview? My god. Was it that one where I had quinoa in my teeth?” Patrick shuddered and Maisie laughed. It wasn’t really funny, though. Patrick still wanted that segment producer fired. That was the problem with the internet. It was the Wild West and nothing could ever be erased.
Grant spun back around to face his uncle. “You could put us on YouTube.”
“Yeah!” Maisie agreed. It was almost like the two had planned this and were making a rehearsed pitch. If that was the case, Patrick would advise them to work on their subtlety.
“I could order your lupper for you. Spaghetti with extra worms.”
“I don’t want worms! I want to be on YouTube!”
“No you don’t. It’s a cult. The cult of self-expression. Everyone wants to put everything out there and the truth is no one cares! No one cares. I’m sorry to say that to you in the face of what you’ve been through. But no one out there really gives a shit. You know who does care? I do. GUP. So decide what you want to eat, let’s order it, and then we can sit here and you can tell me whatever it is you want to tell the masses. And I won’t have to go on my phone to see it because I’m sitting right here.”
“I don’t want to tell you!” Grant made two little fists that were ready to strike and yet also adorable.
“Sit still and look who you’re talking to. I’m an actor, okay? I understand the need to perform, I really do. But now everybody is performing. That’s what vlogging is. Performance. Everyone is performing everything all the time for everyone and there’s no reason for it. I was at least acting out a story. I went to school to learn how to act, and writers went to school to learn how to write, and directors, even the TV ones, spent years honing their craft, and producers—well, no one really knows what they do, but they seem to work very hard at it. Okay? It has purpose. It has value. People used to want to escape from their lives at the end of the day. Now they want to lie back in bed and watch themselves over and over again and count their likes and comments and shares and followers. Don’t you see? They’re performer and audience. It’s just one big masturbatory waste of time!” Patrick pushed a menu in Grant’s direction and caught the eye of an older woman eavesdropping. Patrick gave her the thumb’s-up; he’s got this. “Now, what do you want to eat?”
“No one knowth what you’re talking about.”
“Let it marinate while you decide on lupper.”
“I don’t want lupper!” Grant shoved his menu back at Patrick, nearly knocking over a water glass.
Patrick sighed. He’d seen these families at restaurants before, children misbehaving, acting out. Parents ignoring them, looking exhausted, clutching their silverware like pitchforks and tossing back cheap chardonnay like it was the only thing preventing them from stabbing their spawn. He’d judged them then, sometimes harshly. He wanted to do better now.