I worry about Charlie. Every morning, he complains about the drone rush hour noise. And he’s been getting worse since the twins left us empty nesters.
“Isn’t it better than hearing the whirring all day?” I say. “We have twenty hours of quiet now. We can hear the birds again.”
“Who needs all this crap?” Charlie presses his palms into his ears. “Breakfast delivered? Lattes? Newspapers! Who even reads the newspaper anymore?” He’s worse during the 5-7 slot for evening deliveries.
Not sure why I answer. It never helps. “People like to hold something in their hands, I guess.”
“What’s next? Milk bottles? Ice like in our great grandparents’ day?”
Our phones ping like a string of firecrackers. “They have it,” I say. “Borden’s® milk.” A parachute delivery lands outside the window. “They’ve sent a free sample. Must use that NewGlass®, so it doesn’t break.”
“More like Lizzy Borden” Charlie shivers, “It’s all so creepy.” His phone pings. “Lizzie Borden® milk! Jesus!”
The drones certainly are spooky–buzzing 40 feet over the road in tight formations. Privacy laws forbid flying over yards except for drop-off and pick up, but they look and hum like a river of grey bees, 80% quieter per the new regs, but at a higher pitch that stings Charlie’s ears. It isn’t just the drones. Our new EvenSmarter® Home Help and Security Program is creeping him out too. It’s free but our info goes straight to targeted ads and instant sample deliveries.
“You know they could turn on us.” Charlie presses his face into the window. “Some hacker could program them to kill us all.”
By the evening rush, Charlie can’t eat, can’t sit. He’s muttering, coming over to whisper in my ear so the house can’t hear.
“Put the headphones on,” I say. “Set for white noise.” I throw an arm around his waist. I coo in his ear. “Take a breath. Let it go.” I nestle the headphones onto his head. Charlie can’t stop pacing, so I do what he did for me when the drone deliveries first began years ago. I put my hand on his chest. “There, there.” His heart is going a crazy. Butta thump, butta thump, butta thump.
“Easy,” I say, like calming a spooked horse. Charlie had paced with me back then until I found the right medication, and mastered the art of letting it all just pass right through me. We were so happy then. But now he paces faster and faster. “Maybe it’s time to try my med–”
Charlie bolts for the door. I stand, mouth open, holding his headphones. Did he hand them to me? Out the window I can see him throwing gravel at the drones–looking like some cartoon kid with a stash of ammo at his feet. There should be a slingshot in his back pocket. He rifles stones at the drones which wobble comically as the rocks ricochet off. The drones dip or bang into neighbors before righting themselves. They’re easy pickings flying in such a dense river–like a flock of grackles but packed tighter. Rising over telephone poles. Dipping around branches.
I laugh until three safety drones triangulate over Charlie and hit him with darts. His arms drop to his side, his head sags, his knees buckle, he sits back and then tips sideways onto the lawn.
My phone rings as I run out the door. “Mrs. Crumple?” the voice says when I answer. “This is Sergeant Able Nelson.” One of the drones hovers at eye level a few yards in front of me. I stare at the red flashing light. “Your husband is fine. He’ll wake in two hours. He’s been sedated as per the Bigger Better Drone Safety and Privacy Act of 2026. Charges have been filed and dismissed since it’s his first offense. All the paperwork’s downloaded onto his phone. But you need to get him help. This can’t happen again. I’ve suspended messages on your phone, but when I hang up, it’ll light up with offers for legal representation, surgery, counseling, who knows what. Our experience–”
I cut him off. “Are you a person?”
“Would you believe me if I said yes?”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Yes,” he says and pauses just long enough to be awkward, to suggest he’d gone off script.
“In our experience,” he continues, “music helps, particularly classical and reggae. But ChíllaQuin® is most effective. It will allow your husband to let it go and there are virtually no side effects.”
“I’m familiar with ChíllaQuin®,” I say.
“I know, Mrs. Crumple.” He pauses again. “You can hide it in his coffee or eggs, but it’s better if he takes it willingly.”
I slip the headphones over Charlie’s ears as Sergeant Nelson lists all the legal disclaimers. I roll Charlie onto his back, take off my sweater and put it under his head. His smile is goofy. Medicated.
“Any questions?” Nelson says.
I stare at the drone like I expect its expression to change.
“This will all work out fine,” Nelson says. “Just a blip. In our experience.”
“Thank you,” I say and the three drones zip up and dive back into the buzzing river.
I click on the link to update Charlie’s headphones to reggae, turn off my phone, lie down and put my head on Charlie’s chest. I listen to the slow Thump, thump, thump of his heart. “You’ve got to give it up,” I say, almost singing. Thump, thump, thump. “Give it up,” I sing again in a whisper. Thump, thump, thump. “Oh, Charlie, give it up.”
From a drone’s-eye view, we probably look like fallen soldiers left behind by a defeated army. As the sun settles low on the horizon, the smell of dirt and grass fill the air. Our breathing syncs. Slow and steady.
Jack Powers is the author of two poetry collections: Everybody’s Vaguely Familiar (2018) and Still Love (2023). His poems have appeared in The Southern Review, Salamander and The Cortland Review. His fiction has appeared in Inkwell, Flash Fiction Magazine and Flash Point Science.