Amabile by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Amabile

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Morey Goes to Saratoga Springs Town

Upon virtually instantaneous arrival, Morey was still thinking the same thought; “That all sounded reasonably good, but I didn’t come this far to not find out things for myself.” He walked from the fringe to the central, semi-dense, town section of Saratoga Springs.

Morey moved through Saratoga Springs the way a man walks through a town he half remembers from childhood; familiar outlines, unfamiliar details. The bones of Broadway are still there; the brick façades, the old awnings, the Victorian trim that insists on its own charm. But the texture has changed. The town hums now, not with conversation or horse season gossip, but with the soft, ceaseless glow of screens.

The people drift past him like pilgrims to a digital shrine. A teenager in a puffy coat stands at the crosswalk, head bowed, thumbs flicking upward in a motion so automatic it looks like a nervous tic, at the risk of dropping his cell phone.

A couple walks side by side without speaking, each absorbed in the separate universe of their “smart” phone, their faces lit in alternating blues and whites.

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A jogger slows to a near stop outside the coffee shop, not to catch his breath but to check a flashing cell phone notification, then another, then another.

Even the older folks; those who once read newspapers on benches, now tweak, pinch, and zoom with the same intensity they once reserved for crossword puzzles.

Morey watches all this with a kind of detached curiosity. He isn't judging; he's observing, as if the town has developed a new species of addicted wildlife and he's cataloging its behaviors.

Saratoga's storefronts have adapted to this new ecology. TechNest, a narrow shop squeezed between a boutique and a wine bar, displays rows of phone cases like rare butterflies; glittering, armored, neon, faux wood, faux marble. A sign in the window promises "Screen Repair in 20 Minutes or Less."

Circuit Sanctuary, once a used book store, now sells drones, smart home hubs, and headphones that look like props from a sci-fi film. A clerk in a hoodie demonstrates a VR headset to a customer who sways dangerously close to a display of Bluetooth speakers.

Byte and Brew, a café that used to be a quiet refuge for writers, now offers charging stations at every table and a "Tech

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Happy Hour" where you get a discount if you post something favorable about them on social media.

Even the convenience stores have adapted. Racks of chargers, portable batteries, and impulse buy earbuds crowd the counter where gum and mints used to live.

Morey walks through it all with a steady, unhurried gait. There's no bitterness in him, only a faint sense of estrangement; as if he's stepped into a parallel Saratoga Springs where the architecture stayed the same but the rituals changed overnight.

Every so often he catches someone's eye; briefly, accidentally-and in that flicker he sees a flash of the old town; the human underneath the glow. But then the gaze drops, the thumb scrolls, and the moment dissolves.

Morey keeps walking, letting the town reveal itself in layers: the past he remembers, the present he's witnessing, and the strange, glowing future that seems to be arriving one notification at a time.

Morey pauses outside Circuit Sanctuary, the former used book store now pulsing with LED accents and the faint, synthetic chime of demo devices waking themselves up. The door gives a soft electronic ping as he steps inside, and the warmth hits him

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first; dry, humming, the kind of heat produced by machines rather than radiators.

The place feels like a cross between a shrine and a garage sale for the future. Drones hang from the ceiling like mechanical bats. A wall of headphones glows in shifting colors. A display table showcases smart home gadgets that promise to anticipate your needs before you even articulate them.

Morey moves slowly, hands in his sweater pockets, letting the place wash over him. He's not here to buy anything. He can get any of these items for free at Amable’s Forbidden Dump. He's here to witness.

Near the counter, two customers; college age, bundled in scarves, are deep in a conversation that's half whisper, half argument. A clerk in a hoodie pretends to reorganize a shelf but is clearly listening too.

Customer 1: "I swear the new update is spying on me. I mentioned ramen once and now every app is pushing noodle ads."

Customer 2: "That's not spying, that's ... algorithmic intuition."

Customer 1: "That's spying with better branding."

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The clerk snorts softly, then says: "It's not listening to you. It's listening around you. Big difference."

Customer 2: "That's not comforting."

Clerk: "Didn't say it was."

They all laugh, but it's the kind of laugh that comes from people who know they're joking about something that isn't entirely a joke.

Morey lingers by a display of phone cases; carbon fiber, faux marble, glitter infused, one that looks like it was carved from a meteorite. The cases are arranged like relics, each promising protection from a world that seems increasingly eager to crack you open.

The conversation continues behind him.

Customer 1: "Do you think there's a phone that doesn't track anything?"

Clerk: "Sure. It's called turning it off."

Customer 2: "But then how would I know what I'm missing?"

Morey feels that line settle in the air. It's the most honest thing he's heard all morning.

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He steps back out onto Broadway with a faint smile. The cold air feels cleaner after the hum of electronics. People still pass with their heads bowed to their tiny screens, but now he sees them a little differently; not as zombies, not as addicts, but as pilgrims navigating a world that relentlessly keeps whispering and beeping for their attention.