7 hours, 59 minutes, 35 seconds to deadline. 34 seconds. 33 seconds …
2 hours, 1 minute, and 32 seconds after the statement, “Let’s keep going ‘til sunrise, yeah?” Now, Amy lay mouth agape, neck bent back upon the beanbag chair, face glazed by a single tear of drool nearing the edge of her cheek, reflecting the overhead light—light that was in her eyes, that managed nonetheless to slowly spin back and forth in time with her deep breaths. Across, hunched over a rickety wooden desk, squeaking from loose weight nudged by itches scratched in instinct, was the moss brown hair of Jojo, perspiring oil from concentrated stress oozing through pores in weak sweat, filling the room.
I went outside.
At 4:02 am, the world tastes different.
The sip of cold air sifts through teeth—nitrous liquid inhalation, chocolatey mocha exhalation, the stained glass to the window. Almost equivalent to vaping. Almost. With so much pageantry upgrading normality in daily life: flavored water in cola, beer, latte, etc. flavored food in fine dining, Instagram, mukbang, etc. flavored life in Ferrari’s, clubs, jets, etc. It’s nice that flavored air is free, albeit at the cost of sleep.
When the brain has been bootstrapped to stay awake this long—by copious injections of adrenaline interlaced with glucose, sucrose, caffeine, mellowed with protein, alcohol, and fatigue—it bounces from place to place, changing pace unpredictably. I tried to think of what the next line of my paper should be, what the next logical step in argumentation based on the successive line of evidence that was, to my credit, building solid lines of causation through the surface-level, at a glance, merely correlative data. Unemployment statistics when considering gig economy workers… In combination with housing data…
Whips of ice wind pierce through my detached skin; numbed to dreams of soft waves in a pool of warm water. I close my eyes and in breaths remember lakes that smell of juniper, with a deep blue through which smooth rocks and coral can be gleaned, that with a single dive can be touched by the fingertips, returning a warm pulse of the earth.
The door opens and Amy joins, limbs scrunched in the folds of her denim jacket, struggling to light the cig hanging from her top lip. Consumer data surprisingly shows increased spending, especially in food, illicit substances, and entertainment. This, in combination with mental health data, indicates…
“Yo, asshole, you were meant to wake me up half an hour ago,” Amy says, “Jesus H. Christ, it’s cold. How aren’t you cold?” She shivers.
“I’m used to it.”
The wind peters to a stop, leaving nothing but a ringing and numbness in the ears. Amy offers me a cig; I shake my head.
“Quitting.”
“Right.” She taps away the ash. “Terrible timing. Should have quit after all this was done.”
“You mean in 8 hours?” 7 hours and 40 minutes and 20 seconds… 19 seconds… 18 seconds…
“Yup.”
“12 on the dot?” I laugh.
“Exactly. And not a second earlier.”
When considering marriage data, prospects for the “lonely” generation look… The smoke entices, beckons like a cartoon hand inviting me to follow it into the air. I attempt, seeing the entrails of nicotine rise from the cigarette, to inject that shot of energy into my veins with deep breaths, flaring my nostrils. I clench my fist in my pocket and turn away.
“What are you up to now?” Amy asks.
“7500 words,” 6000 words when taking out citations. 500 words per hour required, which is 8.3 words per minute, which, when including quotes…
“Oo, look at you, Mr. Productivity.” She applaudes, mockingly; I respond in kind with a bow.
“You?”
“7000.”
I yawn, “Still early.”
Another gust of wind, vapors of ice slap our cheeks and freeze our eyes; I taste the brine of tears beginning to form and feel my body escape into itself in response. Gen Z now considers half a million to be a “successful” salary… In reality, their average income is…
“Got anything planned?” I asked Amy. “After you’re done, I mean.”
“Sleep,” she says with a cackle.
I laugh, too. “I mean after that.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well… After graduation. After the semester is over. What then?”
Amy nods. “Hmm.”
While waiting for her answer, I watch the sky with its usual city weather: smog on the horizon, gray clouds filled with muck and pitch black otherwise. When asked when they expect to be able to buy a house… When asked if they would like to raise children…
“Jojo wants to find work in Australia,” Amy finally says.
“Going with him then?”
“I suppose—I don’t know.” She places another cigarette in her mouth, offering me the open box.
I shake my head.
“What about you?”
I’m still staring at the sky. There’s a smudge of light where the moon must be.
“I don’t know. There’s just the paper. Outside of that—I don’t know.” A beach, good weather, a book—and all the time in the world. The wind stops once more. Amy takes a final drag from her cig and tosses the butt on the floor. “Come on,” she says.
Jojo is still softly snoring into his sleeves. I take a seat and yawn. Amy taps away. The picture for the future of Gen Z is… 3889 words left. 7 hours and 33 minutes left, not enough time, never enough time. I count the words as I go—not enough words. We therefore posit the prerequisite for a Gen Z middle-class dream… My eyes are twitching. My head is heavy; I yawn. Without this, the middle-class dream will only be found in…
A seagull lands by my deckchair; I “aw” and feed it bread. The sunlight feels like a well-knit lumpy blanket on my skin, and I snuggle into it, stretching the fabric. Then, I pick up my computer, lean back, and continue writing.