Author: Nick Jessee

The TV is blaring, but I don’t have the energy to turn down the volume. All around, I can tell others are in the same predicament: their TVs blast and rumble muffled shouts, explosions, and laughs through thin apartment walls.

My stomach grumbles. Leather creaks as I shift my sore cheeks on the couch. Last I ate was yesterday, ramen for lunch. I didn’t realize just how long it’d been.

CoBrain chimes in like a peppy morning bird—I can’t remember last I heard a bird, actually—, presenting nearby grocery stores in my mind. It’s amazing that CoBrain not only can work my side hustles, but it can place orders and answer my inquiries. Though what hustles it does, I don’t know. I just know the fine print in the Agreement states, “Agreement is here upon accepted that CoBrain(R) will decide on the work performed, operating within ethical and legal boundaries.” It takes a cut of profits earned, but at least I don’t have to get up and do anything.

An order for a fifteen pack of ramen, a carton of eggs, and some soda is placed unconsciously. CoBrain went ahead and ordered it from a nearby store. I’m shown what’s left in my bank account. The image surfaces like a vivid daydream, the number going back up as CoBrain continues to still earn me money. My head buzzes pleasantly, like inhaling deep breathes of oxygen. CoBrain pumps some extra feel-good chemicals for every purchase/subscription made. And for every ad my brain receives.

A knock on the door, a rustle of bags. Some people won’t or can’t opt to have CoBrain implanted, so we still have those that continue to work. If we didn’t, well…I’d starve, probably. I push myself off the couch and shamble to the door, encumbered by a feeling of burnout. It comes with CoBrain though, just a side effect. It’s careful in how much dopamine and serotonin it measures out, though sometimes it leaves you a little dry. Can’t overdo it.

I open the door to find my neighbor kicking aside littered aluminum cans as he’s scooping up my grocery bag with a grunt. His beard is overgrown, hair long and thick with greasiness.

“Hey,” I wave and lean my shoulder against the doorway. It’s an effort to be standing, as if a wet comforter weighs me down. “That’s mine.” I point to my bag he’s holding.

“Oh,” he looks around, appearing awkward, as if expecting a way out or someone else to interject. The fluorescent hall lights incessantly hum, contouring his sunken eyes and glistens a sheen of oil on his forehead. He starts to turn around, then freezes, eyes and mouth open. Must be an ad coming in. He’s known to indulge in vast libraries of adult streams, and his CoBrain knows to keep on subscribing to all kinds of it. Is that how I look every time I get an ad?

I tug the bag off of his fingers like you would a coat off a rack. He didn’t flinch, nor did his eyes look at me, but rather through me. He smiles absently. I head inside and set the bag on the grimy kitchen counter.

Oh wait, another ad coming in. I forget the groceries. A nice warmth creeps through me, a smile forming as I soak in another ad for yet another streaming service.

CoBrain’s already on it. Thanks, CoBrain, for subscribing.