In the beginning, there was sincerity. Then God created Man, and Man became frightened by sincerity. Who wants to speak their mind all the time? It’s absolutely exhausting. There must be some sort of script to lean upon, some way of keeping the soul so hidden that no one will ever see it, not even God. Yes, this was the solution to human conversation that God himself never dared think of, the forbidden fruit that would shake the universe forever: the invention of automated responses. 

“I’m good, how are you?” “I’m sorry to hear that.” “You’re so sweet.” “Thank you and have a nice day.” Just to name a few. The perfect remedy for the terrifying disease known as hesitation, that awful state of simply not knowing what to say or how to say it. Available at your local pharmacy for two cents apiece. Ten cents if you want a cocktail mixing one or more. “I’m sorry to hear that you were rejected, you’re such a sweet guy.” “I’m good, thanks, have a nice day!” Twenty cents if you say the same thing with slightly different words. “I’m saddened to hear that you were turned down, you’re such a good person.” “I’m okay, appreciate it, have a good one.” Everything repackaged and repurposed as far as the capitalistic eye can see. Because after all, hesitation is the #1 enemy of human progress. Or at least many people think so.

In the middle (because if there’s a beginning, there must be a middle), there was a rebellion, a renaissance of original thought, if you will. People got tired of saying the same-old phrases for every conversational situation; it had become utterly meaningless and frankly cruel. For unless you’re deaf, the refusal to actually listen to people is profoundly unkind. Might as well be an animal (although most dogs listen better than the average human does). But the problem was that this rebellion simply resulted in fresh automated responses that eventually grew stale like the old ones did: “I hear ya,” “I receive that,” “I appreciate you,” “My pleasure.” Most people remained terrified of improvisation; there needed to be some sort of script they could fall back upon. And when you grow used to falling back upon something, you’re no longer just falling back upon it; it becomes your whole identity. 

There’s always at least one brave soul who rebels even after the rebellion is over. Barry Vlaskoff was one such brave soul, and he was deeply lonely because of it. It’s all-too-common for people to grow suspicious of you when you don’t talk like everybody else does, and it’s seldom likely they’ll keep you around very long. Barry was okay with this sad reality; well, on some days. On other days he thought seriously about conforming, at least on a now-and-then basis so he didn’t feel as utterly lonely. What was wrong about asking “How are you?” He could really mean it, couldn’t he? That would be his strategic work-around: say the fake things that everybody says, but actually mean them. Words were just words at the end of the day; their meaning was entirely a construct of the mind. 

Yet he was no better than anyone else; he was terrified of words and their constructed meanings. That’s why he improvised so much, otherwise he’d have a horrifying arsenal of empty words floating around in his head every day. He simply didn’t want to think about it so much. 

“How are you?” Barry asked a cute cashier at Chick Fil A one seemingly insignificant Tuesday afternoon.

“I’m good, how are you?” The reply came as quickly and as automated as it always did.

But Barry wasn’t going to tolerate that. Not today. “Are you though?”

“What?”

“Are you really good?”

The cashier seemed a little taken aback. “I mean… I think so.”

“That’s good, so am I. But if you weren’t good, that would be fine too.”

“Good to know. What can I get for you today?”

“Just a small side of mac and cheese and a small order of waffle fries. I’m a vegetarian.”

The cashier tried not to roll her eyes at this unnecessary information. “I see. That’ll be $7.03.”

Barry promptly paid and received his receipt. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“Is it though?”

The cashier tried even harder not to roll her eyes. “You’re not as much of an empath as you think you are.”

“I never said I was an empath.” 

“You did in so many words.” Damn, this girl’s witty! Barry had picked the wrong guinea pig to torment with his anti-automated responses experiment. Or rather the perfect one. He almost wanted to ask for her number, but that would be too forward. One step at a time. 

Anyhow, he ended up resorting to a cliche to close out the unexpectedly flirtatious conversation: “Well, have a nice day.”

“You too.”

And Barry went to his seat without another word, hoping the cashier would be the same person to deliver his food (which was often the case in an understaffed Chick Fil A). Sure enough, she was, and he couldn’t help but attempt to discover her identity in the most flirtatiously unflirtatious way possible: “And whom do I have the pleasure of hearing ‘My pleasure’ from?”

“Felicity.”

“Felicity? That means ‘happiness,’ doesn’t it?”

“Depends on my mood.”

“Makes sense. Does it mean happiness today?”

“It will in an hour.”

“Is that when your shift ends?”

“Yep.”

“Ah. I’ve always been a very perceptive person…”

“Don’t get cocky now.”

“I can’t help myself.” He was officially flirting with her now, and there was no going back. Thankfully, she seemed to be flirting with him too. Although one could never be sure. 

“You didn’t tell me your name,” Felicity inquired in statement form. 

“It’s Barry.”

“Like Barry Manilow?”

“If you like that sort of music.”

“My mom does.”

“Whose mom doesn’t?” Barry suddenly rolled his eyes. “Great, now I have ‘Copacabana’ stuck in my head.”

“There are worse songs that could get stuck in your head.”

“True. Like ‘Springtime for Hitler.’”

“Springtime for Hitler??”

Barry tried not to go into mansplaining mode. “Haven’t you ever seen The Producers?”

“No. Is it antisemitic?”

“Not at all. It makes fun of the Nazis, it was made by this Jewish dude named Mel Brooks.”

“Oh yeah, he made Spaceballs, right?”

“Yep, and a bunch of other classic comedies.” Every session of flirtation calls for a few moments of simple small talk, so he continued, “Do you like movies?”

Felicity instinctively took a step back. “I do. But I’m afraid I have to get back to work. It was a pleasure to meet you, Barry.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.” Seize your moment, Barry, seize your goddamned moment! “Would love to continue this conversation some other time.”

“Uh… sure.”

“Do you want to exchange contact info?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Felicity was being a bit hard to read. Did she have a boyfriend she hadn’t mentioned yet? Most women would have dropped him into the conversation by now. Then again, Felicity didn’t seem like most women, which was why Barry was so attracted to her. Maybe she was a lesbian. Or maybe she just didn’t find him attractive. Damn, Barry, stop being so insecure! “What’s your number?”

“630-555-8425.”

Barry quickly typed the number into his phone before Felicity could change her mind. “630? Isn’t that a Chicago area code?”

“Yep, I grew up there.”

Barry’s eyes lit up. “Me too!”

“No way! Whereabouts?”

“St. Charles.”

“I grew up in Aurora. Small world!”

“Great, now I’ve got that song stuck in my head.”

“Hahaha, sorry.” 

Barry quickly sent Felicity a text so that he wouldn’t have to do so later and get all insecure about her not responding right away. “Just texted you.”

“Great, thanks. Well, see ya around, Barry.”

“See ya around, Felicity.”

Score! Of course, she may not text him after this occasion, but right now, he was willing to ride on the hope that she might. Human connection was the most underrated drug on the market; it could give a high like no other, even if that high was usually based on false hopes and delusions. Barry had been searching for his future wife since the end of high school, and he had a habit of seeing opportunities before he saw people, spotting a cute barista behind a coffee counter and immediately wondering if she might be the one he’d been waiting for. He knew this was a bad habit – he prided himself on seeing the three (sometimes four or five) dimensions every person had – but he just couldn’t stop it. A hopeless romantic has to be what he is; as much as he tries and tries, he cannot break the mold of his rose-tinted, falsely clairvoyant eyes. 

Barry didn’t say goodbye to Felicity on his way out of Chick Fil A, as he firmly believed in leaving things at a nice goodbye, and they had already had one. But would they have another hello? Or would their moment of connection be a moment and nothing more, as most instances of connection were? He didn’t want to think about it yet; he was still riding on the hope, remember? Nevertheless, one could only ride for so long before hitting a curb and flying over the handlebars, rudely awakened to the delusional nature of their hope. He didn’t want to reach that point; every time he picked up a new bike, he thought maybe this time he wouldn’t hit a curb. Maybe this time, he wouldn’t fly over the handlebars and land on the ass of his own delusions. Except he hadn’t stopped saying “maybe this time,” so clearly the “maybe” always ended in negative territory.

On the walk back to his apartment, he blasted his Spotify playlist (beginning with Liza Minnelli singing “Maybe This Time,” of course) and rode the metaphorical bike faster and faster as the high got higher and higher. Felicity was such an original person, someone he couldn’t expect to meet every day no matter how many coffee shops and fast food joints he frequented. She could keep him on his toes with her wit and no-bullshit attitude. Sure, he had felt this way about other girls before, but Felicity seemed even more special than those other girls had been; maybe this time his “maybe this time” wouldn’t be in vain.

He almost thought about visiting Chick Fil A again the next day but decided against it; didn’t want to creep her out or anything. He also resisted the urge to text her right away; space was a virtue he had failed to embody in the past, much to his own downfall. Did women require more space than men when it came to these sort of things? It often seemed like it, although he knew there were no absolutes. Everything varied from person to person, as much as his more logical friends liked to confine everybody to a mathematical equation for the sake of simplicity and understanding. As far as he was concerned though, “simplicity” and “understanding” were two of the most dangerous delusions out there; true compassion had to be rooted in the acceptance of complexity and misunderstandings.

Maybe she wasn’t even real. His father had been a schizophrenic, so he knew that all-too-convincing hallucinations ran through his veins. He hadn’t been officially diagnosed yet or anything, but he was definitely paranoid about it. And even if Felicity wasn’t a hallucination in the strictest sense of the term, she could be one of his many romantic projections. Maybe he had only imagined her to be so witty, had written a script for her in his brain that had played over what she was actually saying. 

Nevertheless, sooner than later he found himself back at Chick Fil A; he couldn’t help himself. Thankfully, Felicity didn’t seem too surprised by his return. “Back already, eh?”

“I was up all night dreaming of waffle fries.”

“They are pretty addicting.”

“As is talking to you.” Damn, coming out of the gate fast! 

“Nah, I’m not as interesting of a person as you think I am.”

“I doubt that. You’re just interesting but humble about it.”

“I’m just putting on a show. I am an actress, you know.”

‘Is that so? What might have I seen you in?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Oh. You’re that kind of actress. Don’t quit your day job, kid!”

“Hey!” Felicity’s tone suddenly became professional as a line started to form behind Barry. “Are you going to order anything?”

“Just a large waffle fries and a small mac and cheese.”

“A man can’t survive on carbs alone, you know.”

“This man can.”

“Whatever. That’ll be $8.03.”

Barry reached into his pocket and took out nine dollars. “Why the three cents? Seems like an irrelevant tax.”

“Every penny counts.”

“True. If it had been $8 even, I could have kept this dollar and bought a donut on the way home.”

“Alright, see ya later, Barry.” Felicity locked eyes with the next customer, promptly kicking him out of line. He tried not to sigh, taking a seat and wondering what the best path forward was.

She’s totally flirting with you, Barry! Perhaps. Or perhaps that was just the devil on his shoulder. Perhaps he was the most delusional of all delusion artists, even more high on a pipe dream than actresses who have never actually acted in anything beyond the background of a student film. For all he knew, Felicity could be married. Nah, she was too young for that. Unless she was Catholic of course. But she didn’t seem like a Catholic. 

Sadly, she was not the employee who delivered his lunch of carbohydrates. It was some acne-ridden, baby-faced wannabe punk rock star destined to play in garages the rest of his life. Damn, stop being so cynical, Barry! You may be an old man at heart, but you don’t need to be a grouchy one. He glanced up at the register and saw that Felicity was still very busy. Ugh, why am I doing this to myself?? His appetite dissipated, if it was even there to begin with. Of course, he couldn’t just sit there and stare at her, THAT would be weird. But it was clear he probably wouldn’t get another chance to talk to her unless she took her lunch break very soon. 

He took one bite of waffle fry and then stood up to leave; his heart was aching, even if it didn’t really have any solid reason to ache. He was being dramatic, but he couldn’t be anything else; that was just the way he was built. His mind always went back to that classic Western Shane his dad once showed him as a kid. A man has to be what he is, Joey; he can’t break the mold. I tried, and it didn’t work for me. Now you run on home to your mother… never mind.

Barry would never think of running on home to his mother. She only ever made him feel worse about things, as much as she tried to do the opposite. He ran on home to his laptop screen instead. No, no, not to do what you think an average male of his age would do. Just to surf the Wikipedia pages of his favorite movies, which was his healthier method for distracting himself from emotional pain. He always learned something new, and sometimes learning something new was enough to turn him on. That’s the real reason why God didn’t want Adam and Eve to eat the forbidden fruit: knowledge can be titillating. And you know what titillation can lead to…

What was so evil about sex anyway? It was simply a natural human urge. Maybe it was animalistic, but humans were animals at the end of the day, weren’t they? Anything else was a delusion. Barry had never been a particularly religious fella despite his Catholic upbringing, although he also didn’t pretend to have all the answers. He merely didn’t believe it was fair to prescribe more meaning to human existence than it actually had. Ultimately, most people weren’t particularly deep; thriving was based on surviving, and when you’re busy surviving, you don’t have a lot of time to ponder the reasons why you’re here in the first place.

Anyhow, that was a long tangent. But Barry didn’t really know how to speak in anything other than tangents;  it was his flawed but earnest way of making sense of all the details of this complex life. His one-person war against automated responses continued in the manner of Don Quixote tilting at windmills; it was a pointless mission, but an earnest one nevertheless. Did earnestness compensate for pointlessness? He liked to think so. Then again, he liked to think a lot of things, but that didn’t make them true; “I like it” and “it’s true” are practically antonymous phrases. Oh, why must the world be so unfair?

Ignoring his insecurities about potentially being creepy, he went back to Chick Fil A a couple days later to see Felicity. Emphasis on a couple; he still had SOME awareness regarding giving a girl space. She seemed semi-happy to see him, which was a relief; he halfway expected her to hand him a restraining order in her own cursive handwriting. But she liked him, which didn’t necessarily mean that she LIKE liked him, but one step at a time; he was simply happy not to be ocularly rejected by a “Call security” flash of eyes…

“Long time no see, Mr. Fuck-the-Script.”

“Mr. Fuck-the-Script, eh? I’ve never gotten that nickname before. Thanks for making me feel special.”

“My pleasure. Although it wasn’t supposed to make you feel special. It was supposed to make you feel pretentious.”

“But is ‘pretentious’ really such a bad thing, Felicity? Doesn’t it just mean that I’m deep?”

“You wish you were deep.”

“A dream is a wish your heart makes…”

“Don’t you be quoting Cinderella on me!”

“I’m glad you caught that reference.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Not everyone’s a Disney Adult.”

“Most Chick Fll A workers are.”

“True. Jesus Freaks and Disney Adults. Every straight white guy’s secret fantasy.” Barry was silent for a moment, pondering his next witty remark. Was it possible to run out of witty remarks? Absolutely. But it took him longer than most people to run out. Like a third grader obsessed with staying on the Mario Kart track as long as possible, he insisted on making the person in front of him laugh until his internal lexicon of witticisms announced “Game Over.”

“Who said I was a Jesus freak?” Felicity finally chimed in.

“I just assumed. It’s an essential part of the Chick Fil A brand, you know.”

“I’m actually Jewish.”

“That explains a lot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“You’re more beautiful than most Gentile girls.” Whoops, this came out of Barry’s mouth faster than he intended it to.

“Is that so?” Felicity was charmed but cautious; she didn’t want to give Barry the wrong idea. However, she knew he would get the wrong idea either way. 

“I’ve always thought Jewish women were the most beautiful ones on Earth. You’re God’s chosen people for a reason.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

“Don’t be so humble.”

“I’m not, I’m just being realistic. I’m no more beautiful than the average Christian white girl.”

“I beg to differ.”

“There’s no need to beg. Just differ. There’s nothing wrong with varying opinions.”

“I beg to differ… never mind.” Barry had finally run out of witty replies. Well, it was nice while it lasted. 

“I don’t even believe in God. But once a Jew, always a Jew.”

“I could say the same thing about Catholicism.”

“Oh, a Catholic, are you?”

“A lapsed one. But once a Catholic, always a Catholic…”

“So you, like, go to Confession and everything?”

“Used to.”

“What’s that like?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I’ll bet you really shocked the priest.”

“Oh, every now and then.”

Felicity’s eyes widened mischievously. “What’s the worst sin you ever committed?”

“That’s confidential information. Although considering that I’m broke…”

“How much you charging?”

“How much you willing to pay?”

“C’mon, that’s not how you barter.”

Barry’s eyes twinkled, prepared to go too far. “I’ve never been very good at bartering. But you’re at least Jewish…”

“Hey!”

“That’s not antisemitic! I just know dealing with money is a cultural gift you possess.”

“It’s a cultural stereotype. I personally hate money.”

“And yet we need it to survive. So what can you do?” Barry paused, happy to have his supply of witty comebacks back, but gradually running out of them again. Felicity was too, and she really had to get back to work; there hadn’t been any customers for the last couple minutes, but now they were starting to pour in. 

“I’ve really got to get back to work. But it was a pleasure talking to you.”

“Was it though?”

“Not this again…”

“Sorry. I can’t help myself.”

“Well, you can at least try.”

“I’m past the point of trying. ‘Trying’ is a childhood delusion, and I’m trying to rid myself of all delusions.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Not very well.” 

“I figured.” And without further ado, Felicity turned and began helping the customer behind Barry. Ah well, thought Barry. At least that went better than I initially expected. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned and exited the restaurant; his appetite wasn’t really present. He did stop for a coffee on the way home, but he almost instantly regretted it.

You see, Barry’s personal hell was the lobby of any Starbucks across America. The rigid assembly line of “Hi, WELCOME!” and “What can I get for you?” and “Can I have a name for that order?” and “Thank you, have a nice DAY!” It drove him out of his skull with its scripted friendliness and reminded him how apathetic the world really was, even if it was supposed to make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Aww, these strangers actually care about me! NOT. They just want me to get in and then get right out, like a prostitute who has exhausted all other means of employment. He couldn’t be fooled!

But many times he wished he COULD be fooled. Did most people mistake coffee shop scripts for genuine human compassion? Maybe not; they probably just didn’t think about it all that much. The majority of people were neither optimists nor cynics; to be one of either implied a serious level of thought, and a serious level of thought wasn’t appealing to most. Best just to accept things as they are and not ponder whether they could be better.

It was two weeks before he went to visit Felicity again. But he wished he hadn’t exercised such remarkable self-control; when he returned, he learned that she no longer worked there; in fact, she had moved out of state.

“Heard you jumped town,” Barry almost immediately texted, trying to conceal his rapidly-rising insecurities.

“Yeah, starting acting school in New York. Think I’ll stay here afterwards, already like it WAY better than LA.”

“Good for you.” Barry paused before his next response, not wanting to sound too hurt, although this was hard not to do. “I’ll miss talking to you.”

“Yeah, you were a fun customer. Good luck with everything!”

And that was it. Barry could have responded with “Thanks, you too,” but that would have seemed redundant. The water was already under the bridge; Felicity was just another random person he had chatted with and then never saw again. It was depressing, but such was life; happiness was the greatest delusion a person could foster. 

He spontaneously went to Chick Fil A’s rival, Cane’s Chicken, and threw his anti-script convictions out the door. It wasn’t worth it anymore.

“How are you?”

“I’m good, how are you?”

“Good, thanks. What can I get for you?”

“I’ll just have a six-piece chicken tender and side of fries.”

“Anything to drink?”

“No.”

“Alright, that’ll be $9.03.”

“Here ya go. Keep the change and buy yourself a donut.”

“Thanks, have a good one.”

“You too.” Barry walked in slow-motion towards the nearest table and slumped into the cold metal chair. He finally understood the real reason why automated responses were invented in the first place: to stave off heartbreak. Our hearts are broken when people say or do the unexpected, because it is a breach of trust, and isn’t that what heartbreak really is at the end of the day? Realizing we can’t trust someone as much as we once expected we could. 

“Here’s your chicken tenders and fries. Anything else I can get for you?”

“No, thank you.”

“Alright, enjoy.”

“You too.” Barry blushed, then smiled a mysterious smile. “Er, uh, I will.” No matter what, some phrases can never be automated.

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