The Four of Us Are Dying

It was another Friday and the four of us hopped on GTA at 4. Always 4. Had to get situated by 4:20 and smoke together in one of our respective penthouses. Been that way since college.

It’s our tradition: A bottle of cheap vodka and a chaser next to a fluffy bowl of ganja packed in our respective bongs while we virtually clinked glasses and drank them in reality.

We got on the party chat at exactly 4pm and Gloria was the first to break the silence.

“You guys I can’t even.”

“You always say that.” I said.

“Yea but doesn’t change the fact the life’s a bitch…” She worked at a particularly popular conglomerate as a delivery driver. Fair enough, people calling you up telling you you're under quota and monitoring your bathroom breaks, I really couldn’t either.

“And then you die…” Maria chimed in.

“So fuck the world…” Cammie grabbed her virtual bong.

“And go get high!’” We said in unison as we took turns with the virtual bong in Gloria’s penthouse and burned in real life.

“But yea can’t stay on long, shift manager switched me back on and I’m doing another 6 to 6.”

“For real?” I asked.

“Yea didn’t that shit just happen last week too?” Maria's avatar poured a round of shots on Gloria's kitchen bar island.

“Yaa…”

We took the virtual round followed by a real swig of vodka.

“Well, here’s more good news; I got a demotion at my job today.” Maria announced subtly, her avatar pouring another round of virtual vodka.

“What?!” We gasped.

“Yea, they replaced me with another decorator who had more seniority. No notice, miscommunication error actually, but they didn’t wanna fix the mistake, fess up they messed up so who’s problem is it? Oh right, mine.”

We took the second round that I followed this time with a vodka on the rocks. Maria worked at another uber conglomerate chain in the bakery, at least she got to flex her skills but not get paid enough for it, let alone pay off those culinary school loans.

“Well, if it helps, I had 15 rooms, only did 10, 2 with excrement covered everything’s and still get bitched out for not hitting my quota.”

Another shot for Cammie.

“Didn’t they say they were gonna fire you a while back?” Maria asked.

“Pfft yea like 2 months back.” Another down the hatch. My screen started getting blurry.

“You going in tomorrow?” I asked.

“Nah…” She laughed. I didn’t know if she was serious, but I heard an empty glass clink echo lightly from her mic.

“And how’re you gonna get through mañana sleepyhead? You know you have to get up at 5:30 to beat the traffic.” Cammie asked me.

“Right? Meh.” I tried not to think about it, another night I’d get by on 3 hours of sleep driving through a sea of maniacs in 45 mins of traffic for a 10 mile commute to a dead eyed office of speechless zombies in cramped cubicles, making copies on copies while I felt like my vision was glitching out, seeing flashes of my own Tyler Durden in my side view. “I get by…”

“So do I.” Maria said. Insomnia, we agreed. Another shot. Our avatars wobbled around as our brains swam while we sat on our beds.

“I’m dying!” Gloria's avatar hit her head on the edge of her island while died of virtual alcohol poisoning. We kept up with another round poured by Cammie before her avatar collapsed. And then Maria before me. We laughed.

“Were all dying.” Maria said. We laughed as we found ourselves respawned in various places scattered throughout the penthouse.

“For real though, look at us. Gloria’s knees are shot, Cammie’s back looks like a question mark…”

“Hey!”

“I don’t sleep, and you—” her avatar seemingly glanced my way, “you’ve got those anxiety palpitations or whatever.”

I told her it was just caffeine; the amped up energy drinks I’ve been consuming to keep my eyes open for a straight 8 at my cubicle. But later that night, lying in bed, I noticed my chest thumping unevenly again. Mehhh.

I thought about the concept of death, it was funny, I caught myself in a laugh. I’d made a crack about it earlier, how we’ve been “dying” since adolescence, raise in an age of rage and recession, and everyone laughed. Or maybe nobody did. I can’t remember if we laughed or if it just felt like we should.

***

Next Friday came, but Gloria didn’t log on this time. She texted saying she picked up another extra shift, but then someone at the warehouse said she fainted in the stockroom. A “spell.” Nobody says seizure if they can avoid it—too expensive.

Maria said, “She’ll be fine. She just needs to rest for a minute.”

The rest of us took another virtual shot in Cammie’s penthouse this time, following suit with our ‘IRL’ shot.

“Guys are we ever actually gonna do a mission?” She asked. We laughed.

“Well, Glorias not here.” Cammie gave us the convenient excuse we needed.

“Like we ever will anyway.” I said and we laughed, smoked and washed it all down again.

***

The week after that, Cammie didn’t show.

“She’s dead, hotel was at capacity for some conventions in town, pulled 2 days overtime.” Maria said in an oddly wavery voice. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe I just assumed, because Cammie was notorious for subtle excuses. Our avatars took another virtual shot of vodka, followed by our accompanying drinks on our nightstands.

So it was just me and Maria in her penthouse chatting on about the doomscrolls of life, heatwaves, floods, fires, wannabe dictators, always some disaster.

“Feels like the country’s dying sometimes huh?” Maria said solemnly.

Or maybe I said that. I don’t know, sometimes I lose track.

***

It’s just me this Friday, drinking alone in my neon pink hued penthouse, staring at my kitschy modern art, avatar swaying, drinking at my bar island in my oversized kitchen.

I hear the ads on my TV in the background in my room, political blasts and beer commercials, it’s all a ploy to get us to buy more cheap, crappy beer, or so it feels like sometimes.

I swear I heard Cammie’s cackle at a stupid meme Gloria posted on the group chat. I looked down at my blank phone, back up at the screen, the smoky haze from my cannagar hanging in the room.

I remind myself they’re all busy, but the truth is, I don’t know where they are. Nobody seems to ever give me a straight answer. I called Gloria once, but the line just rang and rang. Or maybe I didn’t call her. Maybe I only thought about it, let my finger linger over the ‘send’ button, I do that sometimes.

We’re dying, like Maria said. Or maybe I said it, I don’t remember. I don’t remember much these days. Just the 4 of us, at 4, every Friday, or no?

Maybe there never were 4 of us.

Nah—that’s wrong. There were. There are.

I was idling again; it gave me a warning even though I was on a private server get active or get kicked in 13 mins.

I took another shot, another drag.

I looked back at the screen, the four of us gathered round the bar island of my penthouse. We raised our glasses, clinking them together in a toast to nothing in particular.