I trek down the sidewalk, grey like the sky. I glance from side to side and see congruence across every yard and house. Each one coated with the same white paint, the same brown; dying tree, and the same lifeless grass. My white shirt, pants, and hat reflect an image of old days: the milkman. But I don’t deliver milk, that would be outrageous. Why have someone walk the streets to bring you milk when your Amazon Dash Delivery Drone can bring it to you in a flash?

 

The lanyard on my neck swings from side to side as I step. Hanging off the end is my work ID. In big text it reads, “Vibe-Corporation,” V-corp for short.

 

My phone buzzes, and when I take it out to check my notification, I’m greeted by the YouTube 2075 Rewind. Originally, YouTube Rewind was a yearly collaboration for the most popular video creators, but one year they received excessive dislike for their video, so they instead opted for a yearly top 10 style video. Seeing the rewind come out reminds me that I’m not ready to see “2076” on every paper I sign. Maybe this year I’ll write in pencil so when I mess up the date on every paper, I can just erase and rewrite it.

 

Anyway, my job: I'm a vibe man, someone who delivers serotonin with finger guns.

 

Jason Baxter was the one to innovate this sort of technology. A tank of chemicals called Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors, or SSRIs, sits on your back, and is connected to a patch on the back of your hand through a tube. It runs up your forearm and shoulder onto the top of the patch, and will transmit the chemicals to another person through a patch on the side of their head. The chemicals will dissolve into their body and creates serotonin, which makes said person feel good. Before I give them "the guns," I have a device to check their serotonin levels called a vibe-checker. It's like a little metal detector, I run it up and down their body and it tells me whether or not the person passed or failed the vibe check.

 

My favorite part of the job is saying “You passed the vibe check,” before flicking my finger gun in a receiver's direction. To me, it's almost like I'm receiving SSRIs of my own. Not everyone needs a vibe check, though. Those who have a fulfilling job, or can manage to fit things they like in their low budget opt out of the vibe program.

 

What is the purpose of a vibe man? That's a question I think about a lot, and not just because being a human in this time means I live in eternal mediocrity. See, if there are other people out there who don't need artificial happiness, why are vibe men needed at all? Shouldn't we all be able to become happy on our own? A lot of media thinks that this is just a result of humans becoming too powerful.

 

In a sense, humans have life on easy mode. Your life will never be in danger, and, if it is, everyone has an S.O.S. button attached to their hand. What was it like to live before technology, or even further back? Cavemen had to kill animals with their bare hands to sustain themselves, and I don't even have to leave my seat to get a Taco Bell three cheese quesalupa.

 

As I turn the corner to 9th street, the street sign welcomes me, “You are now on 9th street, Nashville, Tennessee!” I work in a part of the slum that is occupied mostly by dropout students aged 18 to 22. I walk down 8th, 9th, and 10th street and ring the doorbell on every house before I begin my routine.

 

"Good morning gentleman/woman. I'm Bartholomew, your local vibeman."

 

I ask, "How are you today?" and ready my scanner. After I get my diagnosis, I train my gun on their head and prepare to fire. A swift blast recoils my hand back as the SSRIs are sent straight from my right hand to their patch. I promptly thank them for their time and leave to finish my route. I'm not paid hourly, but instead just for making my rounds.

 

When I get home, though, I like to listen to music and play video games on my couch deep into the night, where I inevitably fall asleep, TV on and music like ambiance in my home.

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