Set in the world of social media moderators, @Sa>ag3 and @Jun1p3r must survive their first 90 days to qualify for health benefits and a life-changing mystery bonus. As they flag a nonstop torrent of the most heinous [NSFW] videos, their coping mechanisms expand to include on-the-job sex, pharmaceuticals, and a jellyfish.
But when copium is no longer an option, @Sa>ag3 & @Jun1p3r turn to a more bizarre form of therapy: intimacy. Meanwhile a stream of ominous warning videos keeps popping up…COMING SOON…hinting at an event that will alter the American landscape. The clock starts now.
Hay manages not to horrify the reader quite as much by only briefly describing the videos, rather, he redirects with a litany of depressing observations of social media’s absolute subjugation of our humanity. “The best and brightest from Ivy League schools are not curing cancer. They’re trying to get you to like things,” observes @Sa>ag3. While some workers die by suicide, @Sa>ag3 and @Jun1p3r literally turn their apartment into a garden, installing sod and trees, and suggest a murder-suicide pact. But they inevitably crack after viewing a child pornography video and learning that their boss, known only as face, is releasing a new device that runs on the body’s bioelectrical charge so that people need never live a moment unplugged.
Hay shrewdly addresses the real human issue of our present lives hypnotized by the glow of our devices and the lengths we will go to adopt the latest tech, regardless of what it does to our humanity. This exposé of the seductive power of tech is a passionate wake-up call.
Takeaway: Smart, outraged novel of social media moderators facing humanity’s worst.
Comparable Titles: Hanna Bervoets’s We Had to Remove this Post, Calvin Kasulke’s Several People Are Typing.
Production grades
Cover: A
Design and typography: A
Illustrations: N/A
Editing: A
Marketing copy: A
Agroup of content moderators explore their humanity in this near-future, SF love story.
After a traumatic event, a Chicago, Illinois, man whose digital handle is @Sa>ag3 begins work at Vexillum Co. His job is to flag offensive video content in a “war on savagery.” He, along with other trainees, like @Jun1p3r, must work for 90 days as subcontractors for the enigmatic ƒace before they can acquire a good wage and health care. With a daily grind that involves viewing horrendous images like terrorist bombings and school shootings, @Sa>ag3 and @Jun1p3r immediately start using the office lactorium—reserved for breastfeeding—as a sex cubicle. Soon, co-worker @Skiny_Leny becomes their source for Xanax. When fresh hires arrive, including @Babyd011, they join the free-loving culture. Their boss, Mr. Ray Gunn, encourages everyone to do what they must to meet the team’s impossibly high “accuracy number” goal. A substantial bonus has been promised if they can. Meanwhile, @Sa>ag3 and @Jun1p3r become “savages” and delete their social media accounts. They bring numerous plants and soil into their apartment. They also keep a jellyfish in a tank, though it requires a lot of maintenance. When the office team does earn a bonus, it comes in the form of a sleek new phone (called a ƒŌne) that doesn’t require a typical battery. Launched by ƒace, this ƒŌne is powered by the human touch. @Sa>ag3’s commitment to an earthy individuality has won him the respect of Mr. Gunn and a new position of power. However, he must now navigate a violent world radically altered by the ƒŌne.
Hay’s latest throws a permanent Gen X scowl at technologically dependent modern life. Embedded in his prose are lyrics by the band Rush (“conform or be cast out”), old slogans (“BE_KIND_REWIND”), and many references to director Stanley Kubrick’s oeuvre. While this creates a lexicon that canny readers will adapt to, akin to Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange (1962), current motifs pulse just as brightly, like the opening list of trigger warnings that includes drug use, witchcraft, social media, and capitalism. Hay’s tonal mimicry of Fight Club (1996) author Chuck Palahniuk is astonishing. Those unfamiliar with the flat, declarative sarcasm of the 1990s can use this piece as a how-to pamphlet. Yet there’s truth in Hay’s best bons mots, such as, “The luxury of a worldview diminishes because it’s time to cook supper.” And because “Outrage trumps a like,” readers who clutch their worldviews too tightly will find something here to be upset by: the Columbine shooting, adults breastfeeding, and a sitcom about Middle Eastern terrorists assigned to destroy Mount Rushmore. When Hay writes, “People on the train stare looking up from the glow of their devices. Their faces illuminated like trophy mounts of a big game hunter,” it’s easy to proclaim digital detox as the narrative’s goal. But the burgeoning love between two protagonists for whom sex is easier than conversation is the true resonating center. @Sa>ag3’s journey inserts a wild-eyed freshness in the prospect of life in the 21st century.
A potential cult classic that all but demands a second read.
See List. \m/
