Hank got home from work late. His 1969 Buick Riviera—metallic blue—rolled into the carport of a nondescript one-story-one-bath in Suburbia, USA. He stepped out of his car. He stretched his back.
It was nighttime. The moon was out.
He was tall, lean, with salt-and-pepper hair. More salt than pepper. He wore a tan suit and a striped necktie because this was the uniform of the American desk jockey.
In his den, Hank found his son and daughter sitting cross-legged before a glowing television screen, their two noses practically smooshed against the tele-tube glass.
Hank’s wife was perched on the edge of their sofa, smoking Camels, her eyes focused on the RCA console.
“Hi,” said Hank.
“Ssshhh,” his wife said.
She didn’t say “Hello.” Neither did she say, “Hi, honey, how was work?” It was just “Sssshhh.”
“Sorry I’m home late,” he said. “Traffic was just—”
“Sssshhh,” everyone said in unison.
He left the den and entered the vinyl kitchen. He placed his briefcase onto the enamel kitchen table. He retrieved an Old Milwaukee from the Kelvinator refrigerator.
In the oven was
his Swanson TV dinner, baking on low heat, still boiling in its volcanic-lava gravy. He took one bite of his unevenly heated turkey-and-mashed-potatoes and the roof of his mouth was ruined forevermore.
This food reminded him of the C-rations he ate when he was in Italy, fighting Hitler. Except, the field rations tasted better than this flash-frozen slop.
He returned to the den to find his family still rapt before the screen.
He said, “What are you all watchin—”
“SSSHHH!!!”
The voice on the TV sounded like it was coming from a walkie-talkie. The voice said: “This is Houston, Roger. We copy. And we're standing by...”
His family was lost within the black spell of the boob tube. He didn’t understand these people. How had they let technology invade their lives like this? Look at them. They were vegetables.
…