Donovan's Demon

Living in today’s world necessitates a certain degree of survival. Primarily, it requires navigating a veritable social media maelstrom. One wrong move- a poorly-timed rant or public meltdown of your offspring- and you’re an instant internet sensation or hecatomb on the altar of mass scrutiny. We’ve all seen the drive-thru jerks, the dolts berating a barista or the checkout line clods who undeniably deserve chastising, then there are the thieving pillocks who steal gas station victuals, porch packages, and even family pets. These callous subhumans deserve much worse than simply societal rebuke. But there exists another caste amongst these, an unwitting subgroup, viral victims. It includes the unlucky marks recorded in a post-anesthesia stupor, both parties in botched marriage proposals, the ‘Charlie bit my finger’s and others; I am one of its ranks. Hi, my name is Donovan Jacobs and I’m a casualty of the internet. The worst part is my humiliation wasn’t even my own doing; not entirely. No, it was courtesy of a dissatisfied mother trying to live out her unrequited dreams via her unsuspecting offspring. The skeleton in my closet, the scourge that haunts and plagues me is that of being a child TV actor. I’m not of the caliber of your Maureen McCormicks, Jeff Cohens, Dove Camerons, or even the Sprouse brothers. Still, the internet is forever which means any and everything is available for viewing at the tap of an icon; including third-rate, artless kids shows. Most people in my immediate circle of friends already know thanks to a fateful game of ‘never have I ever’ and an excess of Johnnie Walker but they’ve since let the information slip to the back of their memories, more important concerns like child-rearing, home security, and career trajectory crowding into the forefront. As for my coworkers and the rest of society, well, it’s really none of their business.

I took Sean up on his offer for lunch primarily because he was coming to a sandwich place I love, the fact that his personality is genial only validates my concession.

When we open the doors the smell of fresh-baked bread causes a jounce in my stomach. We step into line behind half a dozen other people, I scan the menu and daily specials board.

The entry bell chimes again and a young woman queues up behind me.

“Is the app really worth it?” she asks and I realize she’s addressing me.

“Oh, yes I think so. You accumulate points toward your future purchases and they occasionally offer freebies like cookies or drinks,”

“Cool. Thanks.” she smiles pleasantly and pulls out her own phone.

Sean lifts his eyebrows suggestively and I humph.

“Can I help you?” the kid behind the counter nods.

“Yes, can I get a number six? In a combo and add jalapenos, please.”

“Sure thing,” he grabs a loaf of herbed bread from the warming box behind him.

“Do I know you?” the girl asks.

I stare for a moment. “No,”

“You sure? You look familiar,” her gaze is contemplative.

I scoff. “Yes, I’m sure I don’t know you.”

Sean watches the exchange with amusement.

“Maybe from the gym?” she persists.

I sigh. “No, I don’t go to any gyms.”

“Hmm,” she shrugs. “What’s your name?”

I’m not sure I should tell her. “Donovan,”

“Here you go,” the employee hands my sandwich over the glass divider. “Have a super day,” he says far too enthusiastically.

I snicker. “Alrighty. Oh, can I get some salt and pepper packets please?”

The woman gasps. “That’s it! Righty-o Captain Steve,” she laughs.

I freeze. Not again.

“That’s- it’s you, isn’t it?” she whips out her phone and I bite back a groan.

“Please don’t,” I mumble, cursing my word choice.

Seconds later the convivial, corsair melody of the title sequence blares through her phone’s speakers; in my mind’s eye, it sounds eerie and macabre, the death of an otherwise pleasant day.

‘Ahoy there lads and lasses,’ ‘Ahoy Captain Steve!’ the dialogue makes my stomach roil. ‘All hand hoy and bring up the gangplank,’ ‘Aye aye, Captain!’

She skips ahead a few seconds. “Here!” she turns the phone to show me the screen as if I have any desire to see. She presses play again.

‘Buccaneer Donny, ready for duty Captain!’ I’ve grown to loathe the sound of my own voice thanks to experiences like these.

“This is you, right?” she’s thrilled. This girl has no idea she’s causing a scene much less ruining my day; several other patrons are non discreetly observing.

Sean steps around me and stares at the screen; he sniggers. “Is that why you don’t like people calling you Donny?” he smiles wide and slides next to her as she hits fast forward again.

I curse the internet, again, for the interminability of its repository. It’s made my humiliation an enduring, perpetual occurrence.

“Right there,” he points when, undoubtedly, my face appears again.

She presses play and I drag a hand down my face.

‘Hey, there buccaneer Donny no need to hang the jib. What be the trouble? One of your mates run a rig?’ his amateur pirate voice grates on my ears; and my nerves. ‘No, Sir. Buccaneer Jack called me a scurvy dog, just because I reminded him that it’s his turn to swab the poop deck and not Christy’s,’ my pre-adolescent self hangs his head, portraying dejection.

“Aww,” Sean’s mock sympathy is irritating enough to signal this as the end of our ephemeral friendship.

The other patrons all chuckle or smile and a couple pull out their own cell phones.

“Please,” my tone is the antithesis of politeness. “Turn it off.”

At a gastropod’s pace, she comprehends the undercurrent of the situation. “Oh,” she presses the side button and lowers her hand. “Sorry. I used to love that show. I didn’t mean to-”

I hold up a palm.

“Miss? Your sandwich?” the same employee’s expression mirrors my own frustration.

She takes it and moves to the soda fountain; away from us.

I stride to the exit and narrowly avoid hitting the exterior trashcan with the door; I don’t even care that I’ve forgotten my own drink.

We slip into the leather seats of Sean’s car in silence.

“I, I think it’s pretty cool, for the record,” he glances at me sidelong then quickly changes the station on the satellite radio.

I stay quiet.

“Do, do you get anything out of it? Like royalties?”

I take a deep breath. “Residuals, and not anymore,” I adjust the air conditioning vent. What I did receive, years ago, I let my mother keep regardless. The gesture secured me her unending regard as ‘the best son in the world’ and truthfully the money always felt tainted.

“Oh,” he remains silent for the rest of the drive.

When we reach our office’s parking garage level I speak again, quietly. “Sean, if you wouldn’t mind, could you not?-”

“I won’t say anything,” he speaks over the roof. “Well, can I tell my wife? She’ll think it’s so cool. She can keep a secret and she loves this kind of thing. Please?” his hopeful smile withers my resolve.

I exhale through my nose and grin my relenting. “Sure,”

“Thanks!” he closes the door, the horn honking as he locks the vehicle.

I fall into stride beside him.

“You’re the best, me hearty,” his pirate voice is terrible. He elbows me then throws his hands up in surrender. “Sorry,” he feigns fear. “Don’t make me walk the plank.” his smile is genuine comradery. “Or cleave me to the brisket,”

I chuckle and shake my head.

“Or send me to Davy Jones’ locker.”

I guffaw and smack his shoulder.

“Alright alright, I’m done.” he smiles wide and swipes his badge.

His reaction is the first of its kind, and surprisingly gratifying.

As we ride the elevator up one floor to our work stations the closing lyrics of the show crop up in my mind: ‘We’re all buccaneers, true mates to the end, the greatest treasure in all the world is to have and be a friend.’