Bathroom Monologue: Viewers Like You

The broadcast representative led him down the hall. Sammy was in awe of the stainless steel walls, dotted with their thousands of viewing windows. Each led to a tiny room that was bathed in a yellow glow, like the light of an incubator.

“We’ve always been sustained by donations. Sometimes they came from corporations, but even in our most shameless years, PBS has always been supported by viewers like you.”

Sammy had yet to see a television in his life, but the mere mention of PBS made him ache to sit down and watch something. He settled for listening to the rep.

“Not viewers precisely like you. They had two eyes, two legs and all that, but they were unreliable. Do you know how few viewers donated even once, let alone a second time? Many an unpaid intern was left in tears during the telethons, when some callous viewer barked to stop calling. Scandalous. All the interns were doing was trying to fund the best educational and cultural programming in the country. Plus the call list was opt-in.”

They neared the door at the end of the walls. There was another yellow light beyond it, this one not so much like an incubator. This light was like the sun, which Sammy was pre-programmed to recognize. He looked forward to seeing the sun.

“We almost went out of business. Telethons were futile. The internet only brought us more viewers who wanted everything for free. We had to take advertising from truly evil corporations. Our news anchors had to admit, in full disclosure, that the monsters we’d just done a story about paid for the show. All of it and we were still on the verge of insolvency. That was, until we got one saintly donor.”

The rep paused by the viewing window closest to the door. A naked man slept inside. Sammy looked in with the rep. He saw himself for the first time in his brief life, reflected in the window. He had the same face as the sleeping man.

“Samuel P. Lancaster was a viewer exactly like you, minus some epigenetics. He realized to keep our station afloat, we didn’t need a social network or a celebrity endorsements. We just needed several thousand more viewers just like you.”

The broadcast representative clapped Sammy on the shoulder. He beamed in the photogenic way all media people were designed to in this age.

“You’re free to live a life, Sammy. Get whatever job you like. Get married, get a car, get a penthouse – all we ask is you and everyone like you donate a certain minimum amount every year. Exceed it and we’ll send you a handsome tote bag.”

“Thank you,” were the first words of Sammy’s life.

“You’re welcome.”

He stepped aside and let Sammy walk into the light.

“Do us proud, Sammy! We’d hate to have to curtail programming.”