The Public Humiliation of Brian

A science fiction/cyberpunk short story

Telephone had become telepathy. Brian had been leaking thoughts; unintentionally bad ones, horny ones, intentionally bad ones— it was starting to affect business. The problem wasn't simply that his leaking was incessant, his thoughts were also louder in his peers’ minds than their own. Everyone around him was as much of a prisoner of his mind as he was.

Leaking was not exactly common but it was also not totally unheard of. In most cases, a wetware update or an upgrade to a newer broadcast chip would fix it. Brian had updated. Brian absolutely could not afford a new broadcast chip. Everyone around him was aware of this, of course, as it was constantly on his mind. This knowledge eased his peers' frustration none at all.

The price of a new broadcast chip was tied not only to the cost of the chip itself but to brain surgery and possibly even a new service provider’s subscription fee. These things were luxuries that a simple line cook could not buy. So he didn't.

I wonder how many squirrels live in that tree? he thought on his walk to work, the sentiment blaring like a broken speaker to everyone around him. It was not a thought he could control; it was just a musing that happened as he eyed the tree ahead of him. The young woman walking opposite of him looked perturbed by the sudden broadcast. Usually, a receiver of thoughts would consent to a broadcast, much like answering a phone call. Brian's malfunction, however, meant that everyone within a thirty-foot radius heard the leaked thoughts whether they wanted to or not. Thank god she just heard a stupid thought and not something terrible, Brian leaked, she's pretty and— damn look at those legs! Brian watched as the woman immediately jaywalked away from him. “No! Dammit, I'm sorry,” he said out loud to her. She quickened her pace as he felt his face redden. Don't look behind you and stare at her ass, three other pedestrians heard before Brian's own pace quickened. He decided that he would jog to work that day.

When your thoughts become everyone else's a few things happen. First, being self-conscious is a constant hell, and second, you find yourself in the best physical shape of your life as you are constantly running to-and-fro to limit the first.

Brian could not afford a new chip, sure, but he had invested in good running shoes.

I wanked this morning precisely so I would be less horny to prevent this very thing, a parked cab driver suddenly heard as Brian jogged by. Maybe I should wank again?

"Fuck you, Brian!" Someone yelled from their apartment window, "Stop masturbating all of the goddamn time!"

"I'm sorry!" Brian yelled back. He said this often.

"And get a new chip!" the person yelled.

"I'm working on it!" Brian said. No I'm not, he leaked. His jog became a sprint.

Oh god that poor person hates me, they have to deal with this bullshit every day. I should walk a different route. Dammit, I say that to myself every day and every day I forget and then some poor woman who is probably sexually harassed all day anyways walks by me wearing the tightest yoga pants—stop being horny! Stop thinking about pulling hair it's weird!

"It is weird," a homeless man he routinely passed agreed. "You're weird Brian, get a new chip!"

"I'm sorry!" Brian said.

"I'm homeless. I live in fear and hunger every day," the man continued. "You are always the worst part of it.”

You're the worst part of mine. Don't think about feet.

"Jesus Christ," The homeless man said, his eyes wide.

Why did I think that? I'm not even a foot guy, they're the weird ones. Now everyone thinks I'm a foot guy! STOP THINKING ABOUT FEET!

Brian came to a crosswalk opposite the restaurant he worked at. Though the other pedestrians gave him a wide berth, Brian opted to jaywalk rather than risk waiting for the right of way and came to a handwritten note pinned to the door of his work:

We will be closed today due to technical difficulties. Thank you for your patronadge!

God, Stephanie needs to learn how to spell, Brian thought as he entered the restaurant.

"Fuck you, Brian," Stephanie said, her arms crossed over her chest.

"I'm sorry," said Brian, meaning it too.

Brian was greeted by the perpetual smell of garlic that hung in the restaurant’s air and the sour faces of the restaurant’s owner and his chef, Stephanie. "Have a seat," she said. Brian complied.

The owner, a balding man named Grigori in his fifties, eyed Brian contemptuously. It was a look he was now sadly used to. "Something has to be done about your chip," Grigori said.

No shit, Brian leaked. He winced. "Sorry," he said.

"We know you can't afford a new one," Stephanie said across from him.

I could if you paid me more. "I'm sorry." He avoided eye contact. She had gone to bat for him for a raise more than once before the leaking began. He hated himself.

"We have a solution," said Grigori.

"You do?" Brian asked. Maybe they'll help me buy me a new chip.

"No," Stephanie said. "No. We talked about that, about everyone pitching in what they could. We might have done that for you in the past...” Her arms were still crossed, her eyes now refusing to meet his, “But we fucking hate you now."

Don't think about pulling her hair.

"Yeah, you suck Brian," Grigori said.

"I know, I'm sorry," was all Brian could manage.

"We know you know," Stephanie continued. "We know everything you know, all of the time.”

"What's your solution?"

"That one's simple," Grigori replied. "We have decided to murder you."

"What?" Brian said. You dumbass you heard full well what he just said. They stared at him. "Can't you just fire me?"

"No," said Stephanie. "I mean, yes, we can fire you but that homeless guy down the block begged us not to. He does not want to share the street with you when you are inevitably homeless yourself.”

"Yeah," Grigori said. "No one is going to hire a guy who constantly thinks about pulling hair. We hate you but killing you is a kindness. It's just inevitable that someone does it."

"I don't think about pulling hair all of the time," Brian said looking down at his hands. When he looked up his chef's eyes said otherwise. "I'm sorry," It's better than thinking about feet.

"See that?" Stephanie said pointing at him, "shit like that, that's why you have to die."

"I don't want to die," yes you do. Oh god, they are still staring. I hate an awkward silence, except it isn't silent at all because—

Grigori pulled out a revolver. "I swear to god Brian if you start thinking about feet I'll kill myself first."

"I'm not a bad person," Brian pleaded. Not for his life, but just for the record. The thoughts that he had were never anything he would say out loud. He would never maliciously call someone a bad speller. He would never catcall someone or go out of his way to make someone else's life harder. But he did think those things.

"Did you know, Brian," Stephanie began, leaning in. "That I never once thought about Star Trek?" Brian shook his head as she continued. "But you, you think about it all of the time. When you should be paying attention to a recipe you think about Klingon culture. When you are in the bathroom I can hear you thinking about how cool Ricardo Montalban is and how much of a tragedy it is that people think he was wearing a plastic chest piece. I've never watched an episode, Brian, but because of you I know every little detail of every stupid little thing and I now have all of these opinions—deep, terrible opinions on something I have never seen." She shifted her weight in her chair and sighed. "I can't stop thinking about this stupid show because you can't stop thinking about this show. It's ruining my marriage. You are right, you are not a bad person, but you are insufferably boring."

"And horny," Grigori said. "Don't forget that. I thought I was asexual for a moment, had an honest-to-god identity crisis because I don't think about sex nearly as much as you."

"I thought," Brian said, "I thought everyone thought about sex as often—“

"No," Stephanie said, cutting him off. "No, just you, and it is exhausting when you are thinking about Star Trek while you are horny."

"Which as you must know," Grigori interjected, "is all of the time."

"Okay," Brian said. "I agree. I don't think I can live with this kind of embarrassment anyway."

Grigori cocked the gun.

"I just want to say something though," what time is it? "please." Brian took a deep breath. "I really respect you two, especially you, chef. You have taught me so much, mentored me, and shared a genuine passion for food that enhanced my life in ways I cannot believe. I never meant to make you uncomfortable. In truth, watching someone you revere slowly despise you has been the worst experience of my life. Mine was a platonic love for a teacher, for a leader, and I felt that love reciprocated in your patience and training. I wanted to live up to the potential you saw in me and show that all of your time and investment was well spent. Instead, I have been naked. You both now understand something that was only private to me — that I am a burden, I am uninteresting, perverted, and I am a fraud. Other people knowing this has been my greatest fear."

There was a spark of sadness in Stephanie's eyes.

I wonder how big Ricardo Montalban’s feet are?

Grigori shot Brian in the head. Across the street, strangers clapped in applause.

---

M.P. Fitzgerald is the author of A Happy Bureaucracy, a post-apocalyptic parody novel. He writes darkly humorous sci-fi and never thinks about pulling hair or feet. That’s just you and you are weird for it.