The Tipping Point
by Hayden Avery
“Why would you wear yellow and teal together?”
His eyes are fixed on his fresh white Reeboks. The brown splotch on his left toe conjures feelings of obsessive compulsion.
“Are you even listening to me?”
He winches.
“And with white runners too. You look like a Subway logo.”
“Which subway?”
She rolls her eyes between fake lashes, “Anyway, are we going to take this or not?”
“Just take it.”
She rolls her eyes again with a click of the tongue. Her arm raises above her shoulders, the phone held horizontal between her sparkled acrylic nails. The black screen opens to a photo of Taco, her seven-year-old chihuahua. His teeth poke out from his pathetic snarl, his eyes are asymmetrical. Her finger taps the camera icon on the screen and they see the image of themselves with his arm over her shoulder.
Tanned complexions.
Hairdos styled to perfection.
Their teeth white as pearls.
They’re the ideal young couple, hopelessly and forever in some kind of artificial love.
“Closer,” she says, holding her smile. He moves in tighter into the frame. Their teeth glimmer off the sunlight as their faces shine radiantly. She taps the capture button and they hear the phone’s artificial Polaroid effect.
Smiles return to scowls. She opens her gallery, her thumb moving against the screen at light speeds. The filter menu opens.
Warm? Cool? Blossom? Vignette?
No. Nope. Nah. Ugly. Passé. No way.
She groans. “Ugh, we need to take another one.”
“Why?”
“It’s just… it’s not right.”
His eyes are glued to his screen, his thumb moving exponentially slower.
“Hello?”
“What?” The irritation is apparent in his tone.
“Never mind, let’s find another spot.”
She leads the way down the paved walkway. He trails behind her, lethargic and despondent. He looks out into the vast canyon — the erosion of the valleys with steep buttes and slanted mesas. The Colorado River flows in a curved shape nearly a mile below.
They reach Mather Lookout Point, a popular destination overlooking the plateaus of the canyon. A tour guide talks to a circle of elderly in cargo shorts and sun hats. A middle-aged couple holds each other by the waist while their two young children grip the rail and joke about falling over. Two teenage girls wearing sports bras and baggy jeans approach them.
“Hey,” one of them calls out, “aren’t you that couple on Instagram?”
“You’re Carrie and Jo!” the other says.
“That’s us!” Carrie replies with enthusiasm. Jo keeps his eyes fixed on his screen —the euphoria of fame is drained out of him.
“We love your posts,” the first teenager says as they walk past. The second stops and turns.
“Can we get a photo together?”
Carrie pretends not to hear the girl and adjusts her hair in the reflection of her phone. She waits until she no longer feels the weight of their presence. She nudges Jo slightly, hoping he’ll give her just a moment of his attention.
“I miss Taco.”
“Who?”
“Taco. Our dog?!”
“Hm.”
“You can be such an idiot sometimes. You can’t even remember that we have a dog together.”
“Yes, actually I do remember!” his outburst startles her as she recoils. “And it’s not my dog, it’s your dog! I hate that stupid fucking dog!”
She clutches at invisible pearls.
“I hate that good for nothing, rat mutt, that does nothing but piss on my carpets!”
“How can you say that about Taco? I thought you loved Taco.”
“I LOATHE TACO!”
They stand silent as the tourists begin to saunter away, avoiding a potentially awkward display between the young couple. The area is soon deserted and they stand alone at the point, resting their bodies against the railing. She wants him to say anything to her.
Anything. But he doesn’t say a word.
“Let’s take another one.”
Carrie shuffles towards him and turns her back to the canyon. She runs her fingers through her hair before raising her phone above her shoulders — wide-screen orientation, above the eye-line. The black screen opens to the image of Taco.
She suddenly hears a woman scream from a great distance.
Strange.
Her finger taps the camera icon on the lower right and the reflected camera image of the canyon focuses in slowly. She moves the hair off her cheek and smiles before she realizes that he is no longer standing beside her.
Her heart stops.
She turns to see where he had previously stood just moments ago, his footprints fresh in the dirt.
He’s gone.
She scouts the area and sees nothing but the red dirt and vacated walkway. She grips the railing, too scared to look. Too horrified by what she might witness at the foot of the bluff. Her pulse races at the thought of his lifeless body, and what she knows to be true in this very moment.
Not knowing what to do, she responds in the only way she knows how. In habitual circumstance, her unshakable tendency takes control of the situation. She runs her fingers through her hair and moves her part to one side — the strands grab at her face with the wind. She sniffs back her heavy mucus, and holds the phone at shoulder level. The screen opens to Taco again before the image of her anguished expression dominates the video frame.
Perfect.
“To all my fans, this is an emergency. I think… this is Carrie by the way. I really need help right now. Please, I need help! I’m here at the Grand Canyon, and I think... I think my boyfriend just jumped off the edge! I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to do…”
Hayden Avery writes fiction that mirrors the human condition and questions modern society. Originally from New England, Hayden emigrated to Vancouver, Canada, where he studied at the University of British Columbia. He’s been featured in a book of short stories, Seven Deadly Sins, published through Free Spirit Publishing, and currently lives in Victoria, BC, where he wrote his debut novel, Sisters Not Angels.