Influencer. In. Flu. En. Cer. He turned the word over in his head, occasionally saying it aloud. It sounded like influenza to his ears and made him want to spit out the tiny tobacco crumbs in his mouth. The word that sounded like an illness made more sense to him and so it became his preferred descriptor. It wasn’t enough that the Influenza felt compelled to put the mundane trappings of her life in a showcase for the world to see—but this activity (if that’s what you might call it) had an appalling title.
“I have a stalker,” she chirped in one of her Instagram stories. She was so impressed with herself that some idiot with even more sheep-followers than she, had commented on her posts. “Yes, you do...” he exhaled his cigar smoke with a small growl and cleaned the binocular lens with a microfiber cloth. Jeff settled into the tall reeds that surrounded the path that @CircaChelsea would soon come trotting down. She would prance predictably in her loden-green leggings (with a super-handy side pocket for your phone!), her hair in a high, well-formed ponytail (messy buns are so 2015!) Jeff would feel a bolus of revulsion rise in his throat watching her ponytail bounce from side to side like a perverse metronome. “Ponytails are for horses and children,” he nearly wrote as a comment but controlled his impulse. Certainly, the most offensive accessory she owned was her designer dog—a hunting variety who simply didn’t belong in an urban setting. But Chelsea had to have him. She made a big show of the training school he went to so that she could confidently walk him without a leash (I’ve always thought that was so cool!) Nevermind that it upset the other residents and was in fact, against the law. The dog’s under-used designer leash remained loosely curled into her hand, while the other kept a tighter grip on her always-present phone.
It occurred to Jeff that Chelsea had bartered training sessions in exchange for posting about the “doggie sleep-away camp, ohmigosh SO cute!” Yet another reason why he wanted her deleted. “I have all the time in the world,” he said, settling into his covert ambush position. It was the Time of Cholera, as he liked to say to himself in reference to the pandemic. All he had now was time. Every week, a fat government check was deposited straight into his account for much more money than he made as a security guard—and this suited him very well. Jeff had time to thoughtfully choose his Instagram name which he knew was too clever for any Influenza to figure out. He made a parallel from The Myrmidons to the meaning of “ant” in Greek, myrmex, knowing both could be construed as “mindless, insignificant ones who are influenced.” He was being sly and clever, knowing the sarcasm would be lost on @CircaChelsea. What did she know about the Trojan War? Nothing, that’s what. She would hear Trojan and think condoms in her amphibian pea-brain.
The days grew shorter as winter neared. Yet this didn’t stop Chelsea from walking in the park. The creeping dark worked in Jeff’s favor as fall brought with it daylight savings time. He could arrive in the late afternoon, park in the commuter lot which was largely empty these days, and settle into his spot. Chelsea posted nearly every day from this tucked-away green oasis at the edge of the urban sprawl; it wasn’t hard to locate. She managed to make her city-life look like she had the country in her backyard as well. Golden fall light, autumn leaves, her hunting dog’s brindled coat blending into the landscape like a painting by Utrecht, color-corrected afterward for the deepest saturation. They walked briskly together—sometimes the dog ahead by twenty feet or so (gotta keep active with my favorite gym closed! Shout-out to @Work-itGirl!) “You’re making it so easy, Chelsea,” he thought, scowling into the field-binoculars. “You’re carrying your own murder weapon, saving me the trouble.”
Later, Jeff lay in bed scrolling through older, predictably insipid @CircaChelsea posts. “Long nails are so 2019! Ring in the New Year with the EuroMani--short is the new long!” He imagined she didn’t understand that phrase “is the new _____” thinking it must have something to do with “Orange is the New Black” and that was its origin. “Short is the new long” made no sense, but that was to be expected. “Can’t wait to wear layers! I love the fall - check out my draper duster coat!” He felt nauseated and reminded himself not to scroll when he was trying to fall asleep. He dreamt that there were flyers everywhere, stapled to telephone poles and street signs, bearing @CircaChelsea’s face. He couldn’t read the print, so he wasn’t sure if she was missing or advertising something; but if you touched the paper a red heart appeared, counting your “like'' and displaying a number in the thousands. She grinned back at him, Invisaligned and veneered.
It was late November when Jeff noticed the train. From his reedy hide-out, he would occasionally hear the unbearable screech of metal upon metal. He pulled his Yukon timber hat (with real rabbit fur lining) over his ears. Every third evening an impossibly slow-moving freight train would grind its way over the trestle, cutting through the west end of the park. The noise was horrific to Jeff’s sensitive eardrums, but he noted the way it might muffle any sounds of struggle. “And I thought daylight savings time was working in my favor,” he nearly laughed aloud. “This Influenza needs to be prevented from infecting one more person’s psyche. The CDC wants her stopped.” “I know it’s so hard for many people during this difficult time! Who says you can’t be fashion-savvy in a pandemic!? Follow my reels for the greatest deals!” Jeff gagged and spit into the marshy grass. It was just a little bile, but the taste lingered in his cigar-tainted mouth.
Monday was overcast. The sky felt low—almost oppressive. The light fell quickly and by 4:45 it was dark as midnight. The freight train’s grinding metal wheels shrieked in the near-distance, making Jeff wince with discomfort. His heart quickened inside his Cabela’s (10% off with code!) hunting parka from his spot in the brittle reeds, as he watched the brindled dog precede Chelsea around the bend. She followed, as usual, with the leash in hand, ponytail swinging, pink camouflage rain jacket over her designer leggings. Miraculously, the phone was not in her hand (The lighting stinks at this time of day, LOL!) Her dog had picked up the scent of something off near the shrubby bushes and remained fixated on tracking the creature. Jeff slipped out of the reeds, the train screeching a horrific soundtrack, and moved silently behind Chelsea. His movements were speedy and concise, as though rehearsed for years. In one swift movement, the leash was in his hands and around her neck. She had no time to even turn around—just a quick intake of breath, diminished by her mask and she was immediately silenced. Euromani, he thought. Those useless manicured nails couldn’t protect her. Her pathetic pedigree dog was busy taking a dump in the wet grass—oblivious to what just transpired. Dragging her into the reeds seemed like an afterthought, but he felt he should, just as her fancy dog might have done with an extinguished squirrel. “I did it. I've deleted her,” Jeff contorted his face into what might be considered a smile.
TUESDAY
It was raining. Jeff lounged in bed for most of the day, playing video games, watching cable TV (which he now could afford), and ordering-in pizza (which he felt he deserved.) He deliberately avoided checking @CircaChelsea as a sort of will-power withholding—as you might for a slice of pie you were saving for later. Late in the day, he checked her account—heart pounding—and saw her most recent post: 10:26 am. It was a photo in her immaculately decorated apartment. “Things are a little crazy right now, but I’m relieving stress by cleaning!” and then a plug for some all-natural cleaning product company that sponsored her vapid posts. Jeff sat in his bed, surrounded by potato chip crumbs and leftover Entenmann’s cake. He huffed out a sour exhale. “Huh. I guess she does that thing where you schedule posts ahead of time,” he thought. “Only the most self-absorbed cretins plan a day in advance what they want to say tomorrow on social media.” He rolled over, unaware of the debris grinding into his sheets from the weight of his body and fell into a snore-filled slumber.
Jeff woke with a start at 9 pm, unaccustomed to not visiting the park and his comfortable “hidey-hole” as he had begun to call it. He blinked his eyes into focus and stared at his phone. He had left the app open to her account and suddenly it had 2 new photos since this morning’s enthusiastic clean-up post. Around noon Chelsea posted what seemed to be a summer image of her in a flowery sundress with a wistful hashtag #missingthewarmth. But the following post made Jeff sit up sharply in bed causing the pizza boxes to slide this way and that. It was Chelsea sitting at the window with some kind of peach-colored smoothie in her hand. “Rainy days make me feel SO depleted! But this uber-healthy @BumbleJuice mix does the trix!” “I get it!” he said aloud, surprising himself. “She has someone posting for her—that little minx. Probably some equally moronic assistant who either can’t find her or doesn’t want her public to know yet, lest they lose all that sponsorship money.” The assistant used old photos to make it seem like Chelsea had posted today, Jeff reasoned. How convenient.
He sat back and laughed at the grandiosity of the Influenza. “Of course...what an idiot I am,” he chided himself—but not too harshly. It suddenly occurred to Jeff to check the local news. His city didn’t have a proper newspaper, so he turned to NJ.COM to search. Pausing over the search field he chose his words carefully....missing, influencer, local, CircaChelsea. Nothing came up except for links to her and other similarly misguided social media accounts. “Guess I did a good job hiding the corpse exquisitely,” he complimented himself, referencing his favorite-named surrealism parlor game. He shoved some of yesterday’s garlic knots into his mouth and stared at the ceiling, chewing noisily.
WEDNESDAY
A curious sensation crept over Jeff, like a nagging dread. He tried to pinpoint the feeling but it kept eluding him, like the gold coins on FrenzyAttack. “I’m not worried about getting caught,” he mused to himself. “It’s something else...” Climbing out of his filth-strewn bed, oblivious to the greasy smear from yesterday’s pizza, he lumbered over to his urine-stained toilet, phone in hand. Instagram loading, reminding him that it was owned by the equally idiotic Facebook....@CircaChelsea...loading, loading...and then...Jeff felt his eyes widen, taking in the image completely. There was Chelsea...in the empty field where he had choked the life-force out of her, arm extended, smiling into her phone with her mask below her chin. In the background he could see her trendy hunting dog, then the reeds and his special hidey-hole. He peered more deeply into the straw-colored stalks, using his stumpy fingers to pry the photo larger. There was no mistaking; there was his foolish Yukon timber hat--beneath that his grim and bloated face.
The phone slipped from his fingers onto the discolored bathroom tiles. Protected by its hard-rubber case it bounced neatly upside down, as though it too wanted to bury the image from memory. How did this happen? Jeff’s mind spiraled into possible ways this photo could have materialized. He had never seen Chelsea take a photo from that angle - he would have remembered. He was also so careful to be deep enough into the stalks that he was completely hidden. It was impossible to tell how long ago the image was taken, but there was a distinct lack of greenery, indicating it was recent. He picked the phone up and peered more deeply into the blurry image of himself camouflaged, yet certainly present, in the photo. It was like finding a photo on Google maps and seeing yourself in the background. You might feel captured—like a momentary invasion of privacy. Jeff felt exposed and that feeling was peppered with terror and rage. He closed the app and ordered food, determined to stay off of his phone for the rest of the day. He guzzled orange soda, devoured more pizza and Chinese food, played FrenzyAttack and took his mind off those luminous square images of Chelsea’s toothy smile.
Darkness crept in so early now. Jeff’s stomach lurched from nerves and fat-laden food. He swept more debris off of his soiled covers and opened up the app again. That nagging sensation rose from his bowels as Chelsea’s page came into view. The photo had been deleted. That was unusual for her, but it gave Jeff a temporary wave of relief. Had he imagined it? Nothing was making sense anymore. He fought the urge to venture out to the park and visit the scene of—"Nah," he said to himself. “I’m not doing that.” Besides, it was dark and starting to drizzle, making Jeff want to dig down into his bed. His unemployment check direct-deposited on Wednesdays giving him the ability to order more indulgent food. And that’s all Jeff really wanted to think about - if you considered gorging a form of thinking.
THURSDAY
The sun came shining in the window, momentarily bringing a bleak form of cheer to Jeff’s otherwise dark mood. He remained motionless in bed, glaring at his phone as though it were taunting him. The floor around him seemed to be soaking up some unsavory moisture and emitted a smell like the piss of drunks. There was a layer of grime that had dusted the room, or was it just that Jeff noticed it in the bright sunshine. Hoisting his body over the bed’s edge he felt heavier today for some reason. Chelsea had seeped into his brain like a lingering hangover. He wanted to vomit her away like one might clear the guts of sour vodka and old bourbon. Making his way back to the bed, he stubbed his toe on a chair leg, as though he had lost touch with the contours of his body. He stared at the injured toe, displeased with its aesthetic—like a piece of corn pressed into a marshmallow of flesh. The phone called silently to him like the Influenza siren, beckoning, despite his resistance. “Okay,” he thought, grimacing slightly. “Let’s see if today is the day your little assistant announces your demise.” Touch screen, scroll, @CircaChelsea—there you are. Jeff cocked his head in confusion. “Is this the same post as yesterday?” he wondered aloud. Smiling up at him from her little illuminated square was Chelsea, in the same photo from the day before, but this time she appeared to be closer to the swatch of long weeds flanking the grassy field. Jeff could plainly see his own face. He appeared ugly and somewhat prehistoric-looking, grimacing and red. He felt his body burn with rage and embarrassment. Chelsea’s comment read: “Looks like I have a disgusting stalker! Isn’t he pathetic, folks? I can SMELL him from here and it’s not pretty #decomposingmeat”
Jeff threw the phone into the corner of his room and stumbled into the bathroom where he couldn’t decide which end to purge first. For a minute he considered fleeing the stale odorous confines of his home, but he felt too sick to be far from a toilet. He collapsed back into his bed falling into a thrashing slumber. Hours went by and Jeff awoke famished and sweaty. He heated up yesterday’s pizza and peered out the grimy window. The pull to check his phone overtook his nausea and he found himself opening the app once more. There she was, toothy and maskless, in a different outfit from the previous post—and there Jeff was, plainly seen through the reeds. The comment read: “Friends, I need your help to snuff out this level-5 CLINGON”
ONE WEEK LATER
Jeff’s downstairs neighbor managed to convince the building’s Super to investigate the mysterious acrid leakage that was seeping through his ceiling. “Listen, maybe the guy just left the bathtub running,” he offered as a hopeful suggestion. The Super, looking bored as he jiggled the door open, tried to tune out the downstairs tenant; he didn’t really care for all these New Yorker transplants and their busy-body behavior. However, the smell that hit them at that moment killed those thoughts instantly. Wordlessly, they walked together, hands over their already masked faces toward the open doorway. What they saw in the bedroom didn’t register at first as whatever it was. A somewhat human form was suggested by the puddle of blackish fluid; it appeared as though a person had melted into a soggy, pizza-strewn mattress. The Super tried to open a nearby window but it was stuck shut with soot and moist grime. The neighbor gaped beneath his mask, hand over mouth which was screwed into an unseen expression. The stench was overwhelming, like a raw chicken left in a summer’s garbage can while the family went on vacation. The room was filled with what could perhaps be described as a dreadful, burned-bone odor. At that moment, the neighbor, exceeding his “good deed” status that he had already posted about in advance, took a photo of the liquified mess in front of him and hashtagged it #decomposingmeat.
