Fix it, Felix

an original short story by hannah head

Hannah last year on our trip to the USVI.

I posted on Twitter last week that my daughter has finally surpassed me as a writer. And as I said at the time, it's a bittersweet moment.

Regardless, this is the story that convinced me. 

I'm presenting this as is, completely unedited. That is not by any means normal for me, but after giving it some thought, I decided that I'd rather keep Hannah's original voice as is, even the occasional typo and syntactic wacky bit.

Enjoy this, folks. It's really something.

Fix It, Felix

You wake up in your standard boxy apartment⸺long-proven to be the most efficient living model for compact living. It’s alright, you don’t mind the sharp edges. That’s why you bought those green curtains, with the little golden flowers⸺pretty excellent at blocking out the early morning sun, wouldn’t you say?⸺and a couple houseplants. You still don’t really know how to take care of them. It’s a miracle they’re still alive.

The day is already bleary before it has begun. The sun has long hidden away behind harsh and hazy clouds that do nothing but sit and wilt over the city of Genericopolis. It makes your apartment feel darker than it should be at seven in the morning; maybe you should open those curtains. You opt to turn on a few lights instead. It makes the room feel small and yellow. You hope that your skin only looks that washed out in your crappy apartment lighting, and not in real life.

Your morning is simple. Get up. Get dressed⸺in a gray suit, of course, your office has forbidden colors. Make coffee. You take your Daily Pill with it. Everyone does. You reread the label on the yellow bottle for the millionth time.

Felix: The Cure for all your problems!

You swallow it with your coffee⸺has it always tasted this stale? Maybe your milk has gone bad. You think nothing of it. The pill, of course. Doctors have created a pill that solves all your problems. They’ve eradicated sadness. There is nothing to be depressed about anymore. 

Of course, you cried yourself to sleep last night because of that chick flick you were watching. You’re right, it really was romantic of how the guy told her that he loved her whilst standing in the rain. He must’ve really meant it, if he was all wet and he still didn’t leave. 

You can’t think of anyone that’d stand in the rain for you. Then again, to be fair, you can’t think of anyone you’d stand in the rain for. Guess you get back what you give, right? 

You should probably think of putting yourself back out there. Maybe you’ll go out tomorrow, and wear that dress you shoved somewhere in the back of the closet. Wait, no, tomorrow they’re taping your favorite show. The day after? Oh, no, it’s going to rain. Oh, well. Guess you’ll have to find another chick flick. 

You realize that you’re running late to work. Again. Well, Felix always did make your head cloudy. You can’t seem to remember anything anymore. 

It’s really nothing to linger on. Everyone takes Felix. Everyone has problems⸺or, at least, they did. You’re not special for being depressed. Of course, you should probably get yourself together. Your neighbor’s on Felix and she goes to pilates every day. Don’t you keep saying you want to lose that weight in your stomach?

You leave the house in such a rush you almost forget your keys. Isn’t that dumb? You shove them back and berate yourself a bit before taking a calming breath. Felix digs its fingers into your lungs and forces the air out like smoke in an exhaust pipe. Gah, don’t you feel so much better? 

You ride the subway to work. There’s a man who gets in after you and starts singing a song you sort of recognize, but he keeps changing the key. The stranger standing next to you whispers in your ear how glad he is to be on Felix. You force a laugh because you’re slightly uncomfortable by the tone in his voice. The stranger offers the man a Felix from his bag. The man screams a litany of curse words in his face and runs off at the next stop. The stranger nudges your elbow and calls him rude. You don’t really know what to say to that. Conveniently, you haven’t said anything at all. 

You really need to get a car. Maybe your boss will give you that raise he keeps hinting at. 

You work for a company called GeneriTech. You know they make something, but you can never remember what. You’re sure you’ve seen their products in the supermarket before. It’s not really relevant to you, anyways. You just fill out spreadsheets all day. You still don’t really know what they’re for.

You sit at your cubicle in the corner of your office. You get a nice view of Genericopolis from your desk. When you get too bored, you like to look down and watch the various pedestrians on the street below.  In the distance, a blimp colored the iconic Felix yellow floats along the horizon. Let Felix Fix-It, it reads. You think the slogan is a little on the nose. Felix coats the world in a haze of yellow and gray. You would stop taking it⸺if you could.

Your least favorite, most annoying coworker comes over to your desk ten minutes before you’re about to break for lunch. You get a mildly entertaining vision of “accidentally” spilling your half-drank mug of stale coffee down her too-fancy white blouse. Honestly, shouldn’t she know that ruffles aren’t considered business casual anymore? 

She pesters you about her kids. You don’t understand why she chose to have them. You try not to linger on the fact that she’s two years younger than you. She complains that she got a call from their school, her older son is apparently bullying his classmates. She whines that he’s just “depressed” and  “socially awkward.”

You suggest sarcastically that she should put him on Felix. She looks at you as though you’re a genius and sets off to call her doctor to file a new prescription. Apparently, she’s refilled her prescription so many times she gets this new one for free. 

You can hardly mask your vaguely shocked expression as you watch her leave. You wonder how anyone could subject their kid to living a life that’s unendingly blurry and monotone. 

That’s not fair. You’re grateful to be on Felix. It’s so nice to have all your problems wonderfully taken away. Now you can’t feel sadness anymore! 

You really can’t feel anything at all, but they say that’s a sign that it’s working. Great, huh?

You’re halfway through your lunch⸺cold leftover noodles, you were too lazy to use the microwave⸺when your boss comes over to your desk. She’s always been hard to read because of her addiction to botox⸺her face really looks like plastic, doesn’t it⸺but you think she looks pleased. You slurp down your noodles quickly and “forget” to remind her that you’re on your lunch break. You have a good feeling she’s about to give you that raise.

She lays you off. 

She says GeneriTech is losing too much profit to OtherCorp. She conveniently forgets to mention how OtherCorp is sponsored by Felix, as written on that blimp you keep seeing in the window. Your boss says she’s really sad about laying you off; no one can calculate spreadsheets like you can. Of course, thankfully they just installed that new computer program, so, unfortunately, your job is now considered useless. She frowns and tells you it’s a shame.

You tell her that her botox makes her face look fat. You regret at bit as you pack your things⸺she’s just doing her job. 

Well, then again, so were you. At least your face is real.

You walk home instead of taking the train. It takes almost an hour. You don’t understand why you chose to walk, or what this new feeling bubbling up in your chest is. It’s weird, can you even feel feelings in your chest? Shouldn’t they be all in your head? And why is your mouth all dry? Do you need water? 

You don’t know the term for it. They taught feelings in school as vocabulary terms, but no one remembers what they learned in high school anyways, right? Your face feels hot and exposed. You want to run down the street and scream like the guy on your train earlier. You think you understand him now. 

You get home, set your bag down, and give yourself a few minutes to bang your head into the wall until you get a migraine. What are you going to do?

There’s no instruction manual for this. You checked. 

You pop another Felix. You’re not supposed to take more than one a day. You do it anyway. At this point, you don’t care.

The phone rings. It’s the hiring manager from Felix. He says he wants to offer you a job. He’s heard you’re good at spreadsheets. He says you can start tomorrow and emails you a contract. You sign it immediately.

Guess Felix really does solve all your problems, huh? 

Now you don’t have to move back in with your parents in Idealtown. Plus, you got a bit of a raise. Isn’t that just peachy? Maybe you can afford that pilates class now. Or organic groceries. No excuses now, right? Maybe you could even afford that car, if you’re frugal enough.

You go to bed dreaming of all the ways you can improve your new life. Technically, there’s nothing new except a job, but you let yourself get lost in the possibilities. The hiring manager says they let their employees wear colors besides gray. Maybe you should buy a suit in green. You’re pretty sure it’s your favorite color. Or is it blue? Wait, no, you hate blue. Wait, no, you’re pretty sure you like blue⸺who hates blue? 

You’re not really sure of anything anymore. You chatsize yourself, thinking that you have really got to get yourself together. Maybe you’ll buy a planner on the way home from your new job.

You wake up the next morning and turn on the news. The leading segment: Felix has been recalled. Turns out the doctors behind it had just repackaged cocaine. You watch them get arrested on live TV.

You reach for your bottle of Felix. There’s only one pill left⸺you knew you shouldn’t have kept putting off refilling your prescription. You decide to save it for when you really need it; maybe when you finally go out and try to Find Love Again like you keep saying you’re going to. 

The hiring manager who hired you yesterday calls you just as you’re getting ready to leave. He says that the company is getting shut down, and he can’t offer you the job anymore. He sounds genuinely sorry when he says it. You tell him that you’re sorry, too. Your voice sounds faker than your old boss’s face.

You pop your last Felix thinking, screw it. It can’t get much worse than this, can it? As the familiar wave of dry, bland mellow and hollow emptiness washes through you and finally settles in that soft little spot in your brain, you slowly start to feel your stomach lurch as you wrestle a new, terrifying question.

Who’s going to solve all your problems for you now? 

Because, obviously, it really won’t be you.