Nothing’s On

An essay by Chad Schomber

The popcorn was ready before the show. Which wasn’t unusual. But it had gone cold twice now, which was. Microwave said 8:17. No one had picked anything yet.

The screen was full. A carousel of rectangles. Some pulsing with previews. Others waiting like stubborn dogs—still, loyal, vaguely suspicious of your taste. The remote had stopped being a tool and tu…