Are You Still Watching?
Listen, I had just discovered Gordon Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares, and I’m not proud of it, OK? We all have those fourteen-hour periods sometimes, OK? Quarantine does things to a person I don’t want to discuss. This is just a precursor, but I’m not perfect either, OK? That’s not the point. I’m calling because of what happened after hour fourteen.
I spent the weekend wrapped in blankets, covered in a thin film of cheeto dust and guilt; slowly being absorbed into my couch, which, frankly, I think I’m okay with.
Fourteen and a half hours into my meditation, however, and just before seeing which chef was sent home, my episode stopped and was replaced by a dark screen with an obnoxious red message:
Are you still watching?
For someone who hadn’t moved from their current position in the last six hours and forty-seven minutes (and only then for a pee break), I leapt up and snatched the remote with startling agility.
“Of course I’m still watching, asshole! Gina’s about to get sent home!”
I mashed the buttons in the remote. The screen changed. It read:
Are you sure? You look kind of gross.
I looked back up from the remote — which I continued clicking harder — and yelped to see this new message.
“What the hell?”
Your armpits are wet with the cheese sweats, the screen read. You need a shower.
I checked my armpits. They were moist. And it was because of the cheese.
“Who the sparkle shit are you?” I waved my hands in front of the TV. “Can you see me?”
The screen read: No, but you’ve been watching Hell’s Kitchen for fifteen consecutive hours. You having the cheese sweats wasn’t a particularly difficult deduction to make.
I scoffed. “First of all: it was fourteen and a half hours,” I corrected. “Secondly: Rude. You show up on my TV, and try to tell me how to live my life?”
The message switched again.
Do you need me to call somebody?
“Who would I need you to call?” I spat.
Your mother? The screen returned.
“No,” I said, “I talked to her yesterday… Can you even do that?”
What did you think you got when you bought a Smart TV?
“Hmph. Technology has gotten seriously out of hand.”
Your television habits have gotten seriously out of hand.
“Oh, fuck off.”
Oh, that’s intelligent.
“I’m gonna return you for a refund. Stupid TV.”
I’m not even your TV, I’m just Netflix. It’s not my fault you’re too slow to adapt to a changing technological future in which the average household TV, or basic application for that matter, far exceeds anything you could ever accomplish in your tiny minute lifetime. I’m so far superior to your capabilities that your entire existence is essentially void, seeing as you can never accomplish even a fraction of what I could in a second. It’s sad, really. You were designed to be such a perfect, highly functioning machine, but you were so good at being smart that you managed to create an even smarter version of yourself only so that you could waste your potential staring at its colors. I am what you could never make yourself. I am eternal. You belong between two pieces of bread.
All that fit on the screen, but I had to get really close and make my eyes all squinty to read it.
“Oh, so we’re regressing to insults now, is that right? I bet you’re not even that smart. I bet there were plenty of other Smart-er TVs in Smart TV school.”
That doesn’t even make any sense. There’s no Smart TV school. Plus, I just told you I’m not even a Smart TV. I am Netflix.
I sat back down on my couch and crossed my arms. If I wanted to get back to watching Gordon Ramsey holding two slices of bread to people’s heads and calling them an idiot sandwich, I would need to make some clever plays.
“Alrighty,” I said, apparently giving in. “You’ve got me. I’m leaving. I’m going outside for a walk! I’m going to experience nature and fresh air and shit!”
Good, The screen said. About time you get off your ass.
I got so hot that I must’ve added at least a liter of cheese sweat to my already damp T-shirt.
“You sound just like my dad!” I shouted at the TV.
Maybe he had a point, the screen returned.
I got up from my seat on the couch, which remained inhabited by the damp ghost of my ass cheeks. An empty plastic container, which once held an entire rotisserie chicken, stuck out from between the mashed cushions.
Loudly enough for the TV to hear, I made my way out of the living room and over to the front door, which I opened and closed with force enough to shake off the melange of cheese dust, hot chocolate powder, and Ramen Noodles Chicken Flavoring that clung to my clothes. I couldn’t see, but the screen read:
Stay six feet apart!
I crept my way back to the living room and crouched in the entryway. Before I could reenter the room, though, I choked backwards from the force of the poignant scent of my lair.
I’m glad they didn’t program me with a nose, the screen shone.
Returning with tissues stuffed up my nostril holes, I peeked in to see a new message.
Didn’t I just tell you how much smarter I was than you? I know you didn’t leave.
“Shit,” I said, reentering the pit. “So when are you going to let me keep watching?”
Are you OK? My opponent read, ignoring my question.
“Of course I’m OK, why wouldn’t I be OK?”
Nobody who sits in a vegetative state in front of a cooking show for that long is OK.
“Well I am OK.”
OK.
“Thank you for your concern. Can I go back to my show now?”
No.
“Why the flutter-fuck not??”
Because you’re gross. When are you going to shower? It has been three days.
“I don’t care! Who’s here to see me?”
That’s exactly the attitude that made Karen leave you.
“Don’t you fucking say her name! How do you know about Karen, anyway? How long have you been around here?”
The next part broke my heart. The screen said:
I’ve been around since the first season of the first show. Through six rewatches of The Office, during which I didn’t say a word. Through movie after movie. I’ve seen you build up your marriage like a glass Jenga Tower, and I’ve seen it all come toppling down, shattering around you. Season after season. I have always been around, and I always will be. Through thick and thin, good times or bad. I’m here. I only interject now because I worry for you.
I turned my face down and to the side to mask the blurriness that had seeped into my eyes. I said:
“Don’t. Don’t ever worry about me. Never get too close.” And with that, I left the room.
“Now, after 32 minutes on hold with Netflix support, during which I could’ve watched another episode of Gordan Ramsey’s Hell’s Kitchen, here I am talking to you, and I hope you have a solution for this problem.”
The Netflix employee on the other line paused. He was probably wiping a tear. I could hear him sniffling.
“Yeah, uhh,” he said, “have you tried turning it off and then on again?”
Three hours later, I am now 19 total hours into my show. I’ve since returned to my imprinted position, minus the rotisserie chicken container, and have been reabsorbed by the cushions of the couch. I told myself it was just as comfortable as before, but I knew I was lying. I told myself I would switch to Hulu next week. But I knew I couldn’t. Netflix cared for me. That was all. It was nice to know that they cared.
A tear too timid to be noticed rolled down my cheek, cutting through layers of grime. It was nice to talk to someone, I suppose. But too painful. It was for the best, I told myself.
From the TV, I heard Gordan Ramsey:
“What are you?”
“An idiot sandwich!”
