Channel Surfing

Fallton Havenstonne

Food’s getting cold, Bruce thought. Better eat it before it gets too cold.

There on the plate, the hot steaming spaghetti, which he had made just minutes ago, waited for him to dig in with the shiny fork. It rested on the wooden coffee table, waiting to be devoured. Only thing is, he’s leaning forward on the couch, surfing through channels.

Countless channels. How many are there? A thousand? He’s looking for something good to watch before he eats. A commercial here. An old movie there. An episode of a medical drama–halfway over–one he has no interest in seeing. Bruce never did like those shows.

Infomercial. 24-hour news. Crime mystery. Low-budget movie. Nothing holds his interest. He’s craving that movie theater experience. Something to watch and eat popcorn with. But with spaghetti. There’s nothing on though. Nothing at all.

Bruce blindingly flips through the channels at a rate of 30 a minute. His thumb does all the work. He could smell the spaghetti as it fills the room with an aroma of thyme, tomato, and mushrooms. But he’s so obsessed with finding the right show (or movie) that he’s no longer himself, just an automation, a reflex.

After 5 minutes, he thinks the TV has conspired against him. Food’s getting colder now. A lot colder. But he can’t stop channel surfing. Can’t peel his eyes away from the TV as it robs him of his food. Not just his food, but his time. Minutes he can no longer get back on Earth. Like he’s possessed by the TV spirit—it needing his attention, needing to be in control of his mind and body.

Maybe the TV has telepathy, Bruce thought. Maybe it’s controlling me, or getting revenge when I had that notion of replacing it with a newer TV. The one that you can just talk to and it goes to the channel—unlike this TV, which is 7 years old. No. it didn’t like that at all.

Bruce grinds his teeth. His right knee bounces up and down impatiently. He’s frustrated now. He wants to throw the remote at the TV–crack the screen and watch it go up in smoke.

But he can’t. He’s pressing the buttons on the remote to no end, watching meaningless images flash before his eyes—bombarding his ears with music, noise, and broken speech.

Bruce reads the titles at the bottom of the screen. He’s done with looking at the images. Nothing stands out though. Nothing worth watching with a homecooked plate of spaghetti.

He’s gone through all the main channels. He doubles back, starts all over. Shows and commercials and movies he’s either already seen or has no interest in seeing. It’s like they’re being recycled weekly—monthly. Shows and movies that have lost their novelty, that are just another item on the network catalogue.

Maybe he should just pop in a movie in the Blu-Ray player. Or browse something on—no. That’ll take too long. He’d be doing the same thing, only it’d be worse.

Two weeks ago, he was browsing shows and movies on Apple TV for an hour before he gave up on it. An hour of his time he’ll never get back. Everything he wanted to see he had seen already.

The pizza had gotten cold that day—the one he had ordered from the restaurant—the one he had left on the counter when decided to pop in a movie in the Blu-Ray player. He was bored 10 minutes in. He turned it off and ate in silence instead.

Why wasn’t Bruce eating in silence? Because he couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand being alone with his thoughts—reflecting on his finances, his dream of becoming a published author, things that happened at work (office politics and drama). He needed a distraction—didn’t want to admit that he needed to get his stuff in order. Or was he not in control? The thought of that horrified him. He didn’t want to believe his environment—the TV—dictated his every thought and action. Like he was just some cog in a machine . . .

There’s a saying that if you do the same thing over and over and expect a different result, that’s the definition of insanity. Maybe he was going insane. Maybe he couldn’t stop because his mental state was declining. He needed to see a therapist. Admit that he couldn’t eat his dinner because he couldn’t stop channel surfing.

But couldn’t Bruce stop if he wanted to? He dared himself to stop. Just for a second. Do it!

Bruce takes his eyes off the TV and glances down at the spaghetti. It’s lost its luster. The steam isn’t rising from it anymore. Beside it, the soda has become watery from the ice cubes that had melted inside it. He bit his lip, irritated that he had forgotten about it.

Grinding his teeth once more, Bruce turns off the TV, slamming the remote on the coffee table. The room goes quiet. Too quiet, for his comfort. He can hear the A/C humming through the vents—hissing like they’re right beside his ears. Technology is everywhere—in every nook and cranny of his 2-bedroom townhouse: the electrical sockets, the appliances, in his pocket (cellphone). Who is really in charge here? He, or the machines that he constantly uses and relies on?

He loosens his tie, unbuttons the collar of his navy-blue shirt. He’s sweaty, stressed from not finding something good to watch. He was thinking about food during the 45-minute drive home today, and now he has ignored it. How does that even make sense? And on top of that, he had been channel surfing for a half-hour. It felt like work. Maybe even worse than work.

Bruce picks up the plate of spaghetti and notices how cold the ceramic is. He holds his hand over it, and the food doesn’t even feel warm. He walks over to the microwave in the kitchen, opening the door in one quick swoop.

He puts the plate in the microwave and heats it up for 1 minute on low-power.

Sound comes blaring from the TV. He shudders, then walks back into the living room. The TV is on. How? The remote is on the coffee table—just where he had left it. How could the TV turn on by itself?

He examines the connections on the TV—the cables and plugs in the extension cord. Nothing’s out of the ordinary. He hears an explosions and sees a man running on the screen. An action movie. He sits back on the couch, which is ten feet away from the TV, and picks up the remote from the table. He turns up the volume, excited that something is on to watch. Something he could re-watch because of its campiness—fun-factor. Finally!

But it’s interrupted by a commercial. He shakes his head angrily, screaming in his head why?

Bruce starts flips through the movie channels. He can’t bear the thought of another commercial, another interruption. He didn’t pay premium for his cable bill to watch people dancing in advertisements. He wasn’t going to give those basic channels a chance again.

Bruce hears a ding coming from the microwave. His spaghetti is ready now—as hot as it was before. He ignores it though, keeps pressing the “up” button on the remote. He drinks his lukewarm watered-down soda, hating the bland taste, but too lazy to get up and make another cup.

He catches a Sci-Fi movie on a movie channel, one with aliens and flying saucers, and he leans back and watches it.

Share this: