Social Life 

by Eric Helmstetter

Chapter One – Morning

Morty woke before his alarm. He always did.
The projector clock’s red digits illuminating on the ceiling like an emergency vehicle read 4:59. He waited for the numbers to flip to 5:00, as if confirming that his day had officially begun. Then, with the quiet precision of habit, he swung his legs out of bed, rubbed his eyes, and reached for his glasses which he always left sitting in their open case on his nightstand.

Bruno’s tail thumped against the floor.
“Alright, alright, I hear you,” Morty whispered along with a grunt as he stood, feet perfectly placed in his fur lined slippers.

The house was still half-asleep. In the kitchen, the coffee machine gurgled to life, spitting the first scent of morning into the air — Peet’s Dark Roast. Morty didn’t have a favorite coffee brand nor did he do the grocery shopping so he thoughtlessly filled his travel mug and stepped outside with Bruno.

The streetlights still glowed. The neighborhood was a grid of trimmed lawns and sensible sedans, each driveway holding its own quiet story. Bruno sniffed at the grass while Morty gazed up at the sky, where the first pink light blended through the edges of the dark.

He pulled out his phone, framing the horizon in the viewfinder. Another sunrise, he typed. Grateful for quiet mornings.He added an emoji — a coffee cup, a smiley face and a sun but deleted the sun because he thought it was a bit predictable — then hit post.

He stood there a moment longer, staring at the glow spreading over the rooftops. The screen’s light reflected faintly in his glasses, the digital version of the sunrise cleaner, sharper, prettier than the real one. He glanced down at his phone one last time hoping to see a thumbs up or comment – Nothing.

When he returned, Monica was awake, robe tied around her waist. She was sitting in front of her laptop with her reading glasses perched halfway down her nose.
“Morning,” she said, not looking up.
“Morning.”
“You see Adam’s message? He sent pictures of the new apartment complex.”
“Looks nice.”
“He looks happy.”
Morty joked. “who knew he was a decorator.”

She studied him for a moment. “You should be proud, you know. You’ve done good.”

Morty brushed her words off with a smile, though pride was not exactly the feeling he carried. It was something softer, quieter — a kind of wonder that these two boys had grown into lives of their own, while his had stayed mostly the same.

He turned to refill his coffee. In the stainless-steel reflection, his face stared back — the faint asymmetry of his eyes, one always drifting slightly off center. It had been that way since childhood. Strabismus, the doctors called it, though the name never softened the reality. Kids had called him Morty the Goldfish, more than once.

The nickname stuck in some invisible place. Not in memory — deeper than that. It wasn’t cruelty he remembered so much as laughter, the echo of it rippling around him while he blinked, unsure which way to look.

Now, at fifty-three, his reflection seemed gentler but no less foreign. A goldfish in a bowl, he thought, looking out through glass at the moving world beyond.

His phone chimed – his post getting its first like, ironically from a girl he went to high school with. They had never been friends during those years, but now, shielded the safety of their devises, they reinforce each other’s lives with an occasional smiley face emoji. 

Chapter Two – Work

Freightliner’s headquarters rose like a cube of mirrors against the Portland sky. Inside, the air smelled faintly of copier paper and ambition.

“Morning, Morty,” said Tina from accounting, waving her travel mug.
“Morning, Tina. Ready for the meeting?”
“Always,” she said, though she wasn’t. No one ever was.

Morty’s office was organized, functional. He liked the quiet hum of the HVAC, the certainty of routine. He kept his office tidy – oversized contemporary desk with two monitors, framed family photos filling the wall behind him, and a small plant Monica had insisted on, although what she said when she gave it to him has always bothered him. (“Every office needs something living,”). 

He had worked for Freightliner for twenty-six years, climbing from mechanical engineer to Vice President of Operations. His work mattered, though the higher he rose, the less tangible it became. Now his days were filled with numbers, projections, strategy calls. Things that lived in spreadsheets, not steel.

At lunch, he took his usual walk around the landscaped grounds. Ducks moved across the corporate cared for pond, their reflections scattering in small waves. He thought again of goldfish — how they lived surrounded by their own ripples, always refracted, never still.

His phone buzzed. Monica.

Don’t forget we’re meeting Adam’s girlfriend tomorrow.

He smiled, typed back:

Yes. He reminded me last night. Lol

Then, reflexively, he opened Facebook. A co-worker had posted a photo of his family skiing — four faces behind goggles, all perfect teeth and sunlight. Beautiful day on the slopes! it read.

Morty clicked “Like.”

He scrolled further — a friend’s new car, a neighbor’s anniversary dinner, Ethan’s med school group photo from Wake Forest. His younger son looked leaner, older, in his white coat. So proud of you, son, Morty commented. A minute later, the “heart” appeared under his words. Ethan had liked it.

The confirmation sent a quiet warmth through him, though it passed quickly — a sip of affirmation that never quite quenched anything.

He typed another post before heading back inside:

Resharing Ethan’s photo on his own feed. So proud of Ethan. #proud

He sat for a minute longer taking in his surroundings, almost artistic — trees, pond, perfect symmetry. He walked to the water’s edge and watched his own reflection shimmer in the ripples, eyes not quite meeting. He took a picture with no intent of ever sharing – a reminder of who he really was.

Chapter Three – Evening

By the time Morty got home, the sun had dropped low, spilling amber light across the kitchen tile. He poured a drink before taking off his tie — one, sometimes two fingers of middle of the road bourbon, just enough to smooth the edges but not the bank.

Bruno thumped his tail as Monica stirred a pan on the stove.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Meetings. Spreadsheets. You know.” Smells good, he said.
She smiled. “You always say that.”
“That’s because it’s always true.”

Adam joined them at the table, laptop still open beside his plate. “Work sent me my first project notes today,” he said between bites. “We’re redesigning a component for the Model Y.”
“Wow, that’s exciting. I’m proud of you,” Morty said, something his own father never thought was necessary.

After dinner, Monica clapped her hands. “Family photo, she blurted, Ethan will want to see it.”
“Mom…” Adam groaned.
“Come on,” she said. “Do it for me?”

They posed in front of the fireplace. Monica leaned into Morty, her arm around his waist; Adam half-smiled beside them. The timer blinked. Flash.

Monica looked at the result. “Perfect!” she said.

Later that night, Morty uploaded it.

Another family dinner. We miss you, Ethan. #familytime

Within minutes, the likes rolled in. Familiar names — old coworkers, high school acquaintances, a few neighbors.
Beautiful family! one wrote.
You’re so lucky, said another.

Morty stared at the screen longer than he should have. The image was warm, domestic, complete. But in the photo, his condition seemed front and center. His eyes looking in two different directions —one at the camera, the other, as if in heavy thought, somewhere else entirely.

He wondered which direction was real.

In the living room, Family Feud played softly. Monica laughed from the couch, her voice spilling like music into the quiet. “You coming, Morty?”
“Yeah. Be right there.”

He closed the app, though his reflection stayed glowing in the black of the phone screen — a faint ghost of himself trapped under glass.

He joined her on the sofa. The game show lights flickered across their faces in the dim light of the livingroom. She leaned her head against his shoulder.
“Long day?” she asked.
“Just a normal one.”
“Normal’s not so bad,” she said.
“No,” he said. “Not bad at all.”

Her breathing slowed as she drifted toward sleep. Morty laughed inside at some of the contestant’s answers — Name something you’d find in a kitchen! — the honesty of being real in the moment must be overwhelming, he thought.

Thinking back on his day, he recalled promising Dave he’d join everyone for drinks next week, though he already knew he wouldn’t. There was an uncertainty in the truth of who he really was that made him uncomfortable in those situations. He preferred the control of his social presents, always showing just enough — a sunrise, a dinner, a smile — without the long quiets in between.

He took out his phone again, opened his last photo — the one of the pond with his reflection scattered by the waters ripples.

There was something gold about the light in it. The surface shimmered, bending his features just slightly, like a fish pressing against the glass of its bowl.

His own image, a constant reminder of his youth, he deleted the image without regret, then turned his phone off and set it face down on the table.

As if echoing his feelings, the TV host distanced himself from the family celebration, as confetti covered the stage and the audience applauded. A new car and $10,000 split 5 ways.

Morty sat very still, listening to the applause fade into silence. The bourbon glass on the table caught the glow from the screen, its curved surface bending the light — a tiny world inside another, glimmering, contained.

He reached out and touched the rim, felt the cool smoothness of the glass beneath his fingers.

A world behind glass, he thought. That’s all it ever was — and somehow, that was enough.

Epilogue

The next morning, at five sharp, the alarm blinked to life.

Morty rose, made coffee, clipped Bruno’s leash, and stepped outside.

The air was cool and clean. A faint mist rose from the lawns. He watched the sun slide up from the horizon — slower today, but steady.

When he lifted his phone to take a photo, the lens caught his reflection in the screen again — a small, luminous figure framed by the glow of dawn, both looking out and looking in.

He hesitated, then lowered the phone.

This sunrise, he decided, would stay unposted.

Bruno tugged gently at the leash. Morty smiled.
“Alright, buddy,” he said softly. “Let’s walk.”

And they did — moving through the quiet before the world woke, questioning how he’d live life differently if he could relive it.

THE END

Social Life Lyrics

I found love 
In my faith 
I got gilt and it's written all over my face 

I move 
With such grace 
I make love cause I love the way it taste 
Oh yeah 

I can pay 
What it’s worth 
But I work hard put my hands right down in the earth 

Don’t drink more 
Than I should 
It hurts hard when it hurts the way it should 
Oh Yeah 

My social life is just a lie 
for the world to see 
Why do I hide we all know 
It’s not the real me that you see 

I post love 
For my kids 
So you see it’s great and I can tell you it is 

Always prey 
For good 
But I don’t think he thought that we ever would 
Oh Yeah 

(chorus)(bridge) 

We can’t run 
We can’t hide 
We’re lost in a world we made that leaves us behind 

Ask myself 
Through my friends 
Is this the life that I'd live if I could live it again 

(chorus) 

It’s not the real me

Written by: Eric Helmstetter (c) 2022 - All Rights Reserved