Charles, Charlie or Chuck

Charles Simpson was a nice guy. He was the kind of guy you wouldn't mind being stuck in an elevator with because he wouldn't make that awkward small talk. He would just ask you which floor you were going to, press the button, and smile. He was the kind of guy who didn't mind if you called him Charles, Charlie, or Chuck. The kind of guy that took life's hills and valleys in stride, and didn't seem to mind that by his 30th year of existence, he was still a single man. If you'd have asked him how he felt about that, he would have given you the perfect answer: whatever life has in store for him, he's ready for it.

Now, not everyone liked Charles Simpson, but that isn't the point of the story. There are those among us who believe that excessive agreeability or kindness are signs of insanity and that it is only the cynical, perverse, or even demented who are truly meant for this world. Let's forget about those people, and think about Charlie. Charlie worked for a marketing company called (Out)perform. He was a middle-level manager, which meant that he managed a number of accounts and the employees that were responsible for those accounts. For the men and women who worked for Charlie, it was only a matter of time before he got a shot at the big leagues: the executive. Lo and behold, one of the more senior partners of the firm decided to retire suddenly -it was quite a kerfuffle involving a younger woman, divorce, and alimony that would make a normal man file for bankruptcy thrice over. The job posting was internal. There were only two candidates: Charlie and Will. Will was, in many ways, the complete opposite of Charlie. Whereas Charlie had a lush fringe of dirty blonde locks that sat under his ears and wore smart-casual to a T, Will's jet-black hair may as well have been etched in by a razor blade, and his tailor-fitted suits had names with at least four vowels in them.

The Sunday night before the interview, Charles lay in bed and went over his nightly gratitude ritual. He reminded himself how lucky he was to come from such amazing parents and to have such amazing opportunities in life. He told himself that it didn't matter if he got the exec position; it only mattered that he tried his hardest.

The next morning, after Will and Charlie had interviewed, something odd happened: they were both called back into the same room. Charlie mused that something like Spartacus was going to happen and they would need to fight to the death like Roman Gladiators- did I mention that Charles liked old movies? Anyways, there wasn't any bloodshed. But there was the unveiling of new technology. Aaron Fletcher, the CEO of (Out)perform, stood in front of them looking thoroughly dapper, pleated, and injected with enough botox to drown a horse and introduced the Mood Manager.

"Gentlemen, you've come a long way. I can remember both of your first days at this company, and well, I don't know if that just means I'm old, or that you've done something right. Either way, you're both in the running for this thing. So we thought," he said with a cursory glance at the nameless and faceless partners standing in a circle of gleaming yes-men and yes-women toothy smiles, "that you'd both be the best candidates to try out this new tech straight from our dev department. Gentlemen, meet the Mood Monitor."

In what was supposed to be a flourish of some theatrical proportion, a couple of balding men with hunched shoulders lurched out from their fluorescent holding cells and placed two boxes on the tables. Fletcher opened them both and took out two Smartwatches.

"These watches are on the cutting-edge: they do everything that the latest Apple Watch can do, and more. What is it that’s more? Well, let me tell you. The Mood Monitor is able to keep track of all of the existing signs of mood management, such as stress, adrenaline, dopamine, catecholamines that cause anger, hippocampus activity, amygdala activity, along with tracking your heart rate and kinetic energy. Long story short, boys, this thing can tell us how you're feeling."

Fletcher paused a moment, presumably for gasps of exhilaration that ended up being pauses of concern and confusion.

"Well. You two will be the first in the company to try them. If you want to be part of the face of this company moving forward, you need to earn it. And we only have space on this executive team for people who are positive and even-keeled. Don't worry, it's completely safe. They tested them on monkeys or something. Anyway, here you go, boys! Enjoy. We'll be watching."

Will and Charlie moved forward to get their watches. Somewhere, deep inside the corner of the eye or the bottom of the nostril, a kernel of doubt had latched on, and even Charlie Simpson couldn't deny a bit of anxiety at the approaching ordeal.

...

Charlie pulled his Prius into the parking spot in the garage of his apartment building and looked at his watch. Most of the finer data could be found on the app that one of the hunch-backed, bald-headed techies had installed for him, but the watch could still give some basic information. For starters, there was a large face that would appear if you slid your finger down that would change depending on the overall amalgamation of your mood. Charlie slid his finger and saw a yellow smiley face that looked tired. Fair enough, he thought. He'd just completed a long day at work that was preceded by a tough interview and a very random technological procurement, so he figured that being a little tired after work would be okay. He went inside and fixed himself a snack before going for his nightly jog on the treadmill. Afterward, he fixed himself a light chicken stir-fry and headed to his couch to check out Netflix. He even grabbed a Coors Light from the fridge, even though it was a workday, on account of how strenuous the day had been. After a few mouthfuls, Charlie lifted his wrist to check: the face had turned to a contented smile. Charlie finished watching a documentary on serial killers and went to bed, ready for his gratitude ritual and feeling especially lucky to be alive.

...

Charlie awoke in the middle of the night to an intense vibrating from his wrist. He opened his bleary eyes and saw slid his finger down, revealing a red and angry emoji face. Charlie tried his best to push through the fog of sleep to comprehend what was happening. Maybe I was sleeping? Was it just a dream? Whatever it was, it was only 3:00 AM, and the train of thought didn't last much longer before the land of nod beckoned once again.

…

After breakfast, the watch's emoji face was more neutral: it was the one with the straight line for a mouth. Charles still felt a tight knot in his stomach as he drove to work. He couldn't figure out why the watch was saying he was so anxious. He didn't feel anxious; he felt great! As he pulled into his parking spot at work, he took a few deep breaths and hoped for the best.

An e-mail was waiting for him as soon as he opened up his browser. It was from someone named Shirley Louac. It said- and I'm paraphrasing here- that the system had indicated he'd had a rough night’s sleep and had woken up feeling agitated and violent. She'd love to have a chat with him if possible, say around 8:30?

Charles looked at his watch (7:45) and swiped his finger. The same straight-mouthed face. He just couldn't understand it. He really and truly felt happy, so what the hell was the watch reading? Another buzz, and again, that red and angry face. He took some more deep breaths.

…

Shirley Louac's office smelled like lavender and had abstract art on the wall. Shirley was somewhere in her middle-age and had dark, brown hair with wisps of grey making themselves known in her roots.

"How are you feeling today, Charles?" she asked.

"I'm fine, Shirley. Honestly. Had a good night's sleep, except for that weird dream," he said. Immediately, he gulped. Never tell them about your dreams. Shrinks eat that shit up like candy.

"A dream? What was it about?"

"To be honest, I don't really remember. All I can remember is that when I woke up, this guy was all mad at me. I'm not too sure about this thing, you know. Might want to get it checked out by I.T," he said.

Shirley scribbled a few notes on her pad which made Charlie feel a surge of anger go flowing through his veins. His wrist vibrated again. Shirley scribbled more notes. That was how their meeting went, for the most part, until it was time for Charlie to go and pay a visit to the I.T. department.

...

He was going to see Isaac and that was all he knew. As he arrived, he recognized Isaac from the theatrical unveiling of the watches the day before. This time, Isaac was in his element, in front of three different monitors and clicking and typing at a speed that shouldn't be humanly possible.

"Can I help you?" he said without looking up.

"Uh, yea," Charlie said. "I'm Charles? Charles Simpson? The guy who got the watch yesterday."

This elicited a brief glance from Isaac, which must have meant continue in Geek-ese.

"Well, the watch... or the moods it's been saying I've been having? They've been pretty erratic. I felt great last night, you know. But then it woke me up in the middle of the night saying I was angry. I figured that might have been a bad dream... But this morning? I'm a morning person, you know. Usually have a glass of orange juice and watch the morning news. Well, it's been doing this straight-faced thing. And I just don't feel straight-faced!"

Isaac offered no response as his fingers continued typing, his bagged eyes looking through thick lenses at the massive amount of screen in front of him.

"I just worry about the job, you know? If it isn't fair. I know this tech is new and I wouldn't want to mislead Mr. Fletcher."

As if he was a dog of Pavlov, Isaac turned to Charlie and looked at him. That was all it took; fickle as they come, our Isaac. He took Charlie's watch and ran every diagnostic test there was on it. He would know, he told Charlie, if there was anything wrong with the thing. It was his prototype after all. After nearly an hour of frantic typing and dandruff-producing head-scratching, Isaac found nothing.

"So, can I get a new one? I mean, surely there is something wrong with this one that just can't be picked up by the computers," said Charlie.

Isaac looked at him like he had just murdered one of his kin.

"There is nothing wrong with the tech. Believe me. Have you talked to Shirley upstairs yet?"

...

Charlie pulled his Prius into his parking spot again, but this time, he didn't bother to check the watch. Over his lunch break, he'd driven out to Starbucks and picked up coffees for his entire team, including Isaac, and managed to eat his own sandwich with one hand on his way back to the office. They had finally signed a deal with Mukatash, which was the hottest restaurant around Toronto looking to expand to other cities. There was no way the face could be anything but happy. In the elevator, he capitulated to the need to check. This time, it was a crying face.

Charles almost laughed as he made his way into his apartment. Sad? Him? The idea was insane. Sure, he'd been sad before in his life. But he was past that. He flopped on his couch and took a few deep breaths. Whatever was going on, he was running out of options. He thought about emailing Will but decided against it. It would be weird. Instead, he got changed and went for a jog on the treadmill. He pushed himself extra hard as he was hoping the dopamine rush of a good work-out would occur like it usually did. When he got off the machine, he felt a vibration on his wrist and smiled. He looked, swiped, and saw another angry red face. His smile disappeared.

After he had finished his salmon and sweet potatoes, he felt the 8th vibration in 45 minutes. This one was a straight-faced emoji. He checked the app on his phone and realized that it was the same as the watch with a few more complex metrics. He was pretty sure that the raw data got assimilated into an overall score, like an average or something.

But- A voice inside of him somewhere whispered. Most people are happy at least some of the time. What's going to happen to you when they realize this thing is accurate? That it's all a lie? That you're a big head-case?

Charlie ignored the voice. He knew how to, after all these years. It wasn't new for him. This time, the vibrations before bed were the problem. They wouldn't stop. After a couple of hours of vibrations occurring nearly every 4 minutes, he'd had enough. He stood up, wrapped the duvet around him, and walked down the hall of his apartment to the living room. Charlie's balcony wasn't much to write home about, but it did the trick on a summer's day. There was a potted plan out there that, in the winter months, ended up getting pretty neglected. He buried the watch under a few inches of dirt and went back to his bed.

...

As much as he didn't want to believe it... as much as he knew it couldn't happen... the first time he felt the vibration on his wrist with the watch outside Charlie Simpson shuddered. He felt something deep inside of him that had laid dormant for a long time. For kids, it is this part of us that squirms when we think of the boogeyman at night, the reaching hand from the underside of our bed to gently caress our hair; not to hurt us, only to let us know that he's there. As adults, or, God-forbid, younger-than-adults, it is this part of us that comes face-to-face with the truly horrifying tragedy of human existence. Charlie had long forgotten that part of himself. But that didn't matter. He felt it all the same. And it didn't matter how many times he told himself that it was just him playing tricks on him. That it was just his nerves about the new job or having too much coffee at lunch. None of that mattered. The buzzing kept on going.

...

Charlie still felt a bit of hope as he was walking into work the next morning. Sure, he looked like shit, but for a guy who hadn't taken a sick day in six years... shit, for a guy who had covered for people who he knew weren't sick? He knew he had an out. Something to explain the erratic activity of this damn watch. Buy him another day. Because the dawning realization was not lost on him: after they saw his data, they might not keep him on. Period. So a well-timed sickness seemed to be the right play. Charlie closed the door to his Prius, grabbed his briefcase, sniffled, and walked to the office. He spotted Will from across the lot. They made eye contact and smiled at each other.

"Gosh," Will said. "What a life-saver this thing is, eh? Really tells you when it's time to put things into perspective and be grateful." As Will spoke, he turned his wrist to Charlie and swiped his finger. Charlie saw, as clear as the day is long, a face with the extreme "U" smile. Will looked at him imploringly for a return, a friendly competitor in the war for the exec.

"Will, I'm so sorry. I've had this stomach bug all night. Can you tell Aaron I'll be right up?" said Charlie.

Will looked at him like he was a toddler who had asked if he was tying his shoes correctly.

"Of course, Charlie. Anything for you."

And with that, Will made his way into the building, with a clear pep in his step. Charlie resented him for said pep for a moment before he continued walking. (Out)perform was along the waterfront, in a gigantic business condo that housed many businesses of the same ilk. One of the conditional benefits of the job was the view, so Charlie took a moment to enjoy it. The air was cold and stung his eyes, cold needles on warm skin. He felt a vibration from his wrist and checked it instinctively. The yellow face looked at him, except this time, there was no line to denote the lower-half of the face. Suddenly, a smile appeared and the left eye closed and shut.

A wink? thought Charlie. What the hell? The smile blossomed and the face winked again as if to say: I Win. Charlie felt angry in a way that he hadn't felt in a long time. The flames ignited in his guts and everything else followed. He threw the watch in the harbour. He took a look backward at the place that he'd worked at for the last 6 years and felt... okay. Something about what had just happened was just okay. With an eye on the horizon, Charles Simpson walked. For the first time in a long time, he felt seriously worried about the future, but he knew, somehow, that it would be okay. Somehow, it would all be okay.