Wading through the jungle of mental health ads, you almost feel bullied into peer depression. And what’s wrong with bottling things up? Works for the whole family.
But when a branch of We Worry finally opened up in our little backwater town, I got curious. Business was decent, I got a full seven hours most nights, and I had read a glowing article about these guys in ProDuckTivity. They were exploding all over the country, and I figured, maybe it’s okay to try something just for myself. I had certainly reached an age where I didn’t have to apologize for being selfish.
The place, just off the Monument and close to my usual route to the office, used to be a pet supply store, with a large front window full of birdcages and dog food sacks sporting cute dogs, tongues hanging out, looking smart.
The cages and trees had been replaced with large leafy plants covering almost the whole display window, currently being arranged by a delicate woman with long, auburn hair, tongue sticking out in concentration, looking smart.
It took her a second to see me, but when she did, her face lit up with a blooming smile. She vanished behind the shuddering leaves, and reappeared at the door, which opened with a tinny Wuff, Wuff. A leftover from the pet shop days, no doubt.
“Welcome, please come in! First customer!”
I immediately liked Chloris. Here was a person who makes chicken soup for all her sick friends, is entrusted with many secrets, and, whenever wronged, simply says don’t worry about it.
“Hi, uhm,” I said, my customary and involuntary greeting when addressing a member of the opposite sex.
“Come in, come in, I’m just setting up. I just put all these plants in the window so people can’t look in, it was the only space I could find, and I guess the customers don’t want to be on display, I really like plants. The place used to be a pet shop, the door still goes Wuff, Wuff, ha! I kinda like it, I love dogs. But anyway, I’m all set up and ready to go, please come in! I’m Chloris.”
Chloris gets a bit chatty when she’s nervous. Her face is almost perfectly round.
The office was tiny. A large terminal of some sort sat on a wooden desk, flanked by two chairs. Behind it, fresh drywall framed a flimsy, plasticky door bearing a bold blue logo—We Worry, Inc. More plants lined the corners and sat on the desk, among them a tiny, chubby cactus. The air was thick with a calming, natural fragrance, and I found myself inhaling deeply.
“Please, sit. I hope you’re not allergic.”
I couldn’t resist plucking one of the cactus’s long spikes, resulting in a comical twang.
“My protector,” beamed Chloris.
“I like it. I’m surrounded by tech all day, this is very nice.”
“We’ve got the tech too, it’s right behind that door. It takes up most of the space, but that’s okay, I like that it’s small; it’s cozy and easy to heat. I hear it’ll get pretty cold up here soon, I’m already a bit chilly, but I ordered a big heater and I’m wearing my supersocks until it gets here.”
Somehow she managed to keep her smile even while her mouth was going full throttle. I imagined her toes wiggling under the desk.
“I saw your ad, and uhm, I read about you guys, so… how does it work?”
“It’s super easy, you just fill out a form right here on the terminal and enter your worries and We Worry Will Worry For You!”
“So someone, somewhere, will just take over my worries?”
“We are a rapidly growing brand, but the assignments are mostly local. We believe worries are often tied to a person’s immediate surroundings, and although I hope to expand my little franchise here soon, for now it’s just me. So, I will be worrying for you. I’ve always been good at that.”
It felt like getting a hug.
“And… is there anything I have to download, or do I get a gadget or anything?”
“Oh no, you just sign up here and you’re done. It’s all quantum these days.”
Little quantum hugs, I thought.
“Alright! Let’s do it!”
“First customer!”
Chloris lifts her shoulders when she’s excited. Her eyes are almost perfectly round.
She swivelled the terminal toward me and politely turned away like the guys in the shops when you have to enter your PIN.
“You’ll know my worries, right? Since you’ll be the one worrying?”
“No, your worries are entirely confidential and only known to the system. The system encodes the worriage and assigns it to your local worrier without violating your privacy.”
“No need to worry about the worrier. Got it.”
After entering the usual stuff—name, card details, and biocode—I was asked to select a package. True to form, I went with the first and cheapest option: three worries for $9.99 per month.
But at the bottom of the list, I noticed an option called AutoWorry.
“What’s AutoWorry?”
“AutoWorry is our most comprehensive option. Instead of selecting specific worries, the system will monitor and automatically take over all emerging worries—both pre-existing and new. Would you like to try? It’s only $59.99!”
“Uhm.”
“You can of course always upgrade.”
Scrolling through the list of commonly chosen worries, I couldn’t help but notice that despite all the hatred, the endless fighting, and all the crap in the news, our anxieties seem strangely universal.
I selected health, parents, and finances.
And that was it. A confirmation beep on my phone, and just like that, I was a client of We Worry, Inc.
It took a few days before I noticed any change, just as Chloris had explained. I was walking home from the office—I think it was Friday evening—the sun was just setting behind me, bathing the white marble of the Monument in a dazzling orange glow. I stopped and looked up, something I hadn’t done once in the six years I had lived here. The outstretched wings of the Angel of Liberation seemed to embrace the entire evening sky, her proud face watching benevolently over the town. It was beautiful.
Over the next few days, I began to see things my bowed head had never truly taken in: quiet church towers, balconies draped with flowers, and the sweeping hills in the distance. I felt a strange lightness, a clarity, and a readiness to find joy in the most insignificant of things.
But it didn’t last long.
I soon felt new worries emerging, seeping into the spaces cleared by We Worry, and decided to upgrade.
Chloris was sitting at the desk, buried in a gigantic woolen jumper. Wuff, wuff, went the door. A wave of green humidity washed over me.
“Wuff, wuff,” Chloris smiled. “Everything okay?”
“Hi, uhm, yes, I’m very happy with your service. I’d like to upgrade.”
“Wow, great! I’m so happy to hear that! Please, sit down!”
“Are you cold?” I asked, combining my expertly developed skills in stating the obvious and asking stupid questions.
“A bit. My heater hasn’t arrived yet, but I’m sure it will be here tomorrow!”
Just for a moment, the bright, complete happiness slipped from her face.
Chloris puckers her mouth when she’s annoyed. Her lips are almost perfectly round.
“So, what can we do for you? You can add three more worries for only $5.99!”
“Sounds great!”
The value of crippling human conditions: two bucks a pop.
Chloris gently twanged the long spikes of her cactus like a kalimba while I selected social acceptance, failure, and loneliness—and suddenly found myself looking into her eyes a little longer than necessary.
The beeping from my phone yanked me back to reality.
“I hope your heater gets here soon!”
“I’m sure it will. Don’t worry!”
This time, the wonderful lightness took hold almost instantly, and for the first time I experienced the beauty of autumn with senses unclouded by the lingering dread of tomorrow. But the soothing rustle of leaves beneath my warm boots and the invigorating breeze on my face weren’t the only things smoothing the wrinkles from my ever-frowning face. I found myself thinking of Chloris more and more often, and about a week after the upgrade, I decided to take a little detour and pass by We Worry on my way home.
When I reached the office, I slowed down and peeked through the vibrant wall of green leaves.
Chloris was sitting at the desk, the gigantic jumper now paired with a similarly mammoth hat, staring blankly at her little cactus. I almost didn’t recognize her without the wide smile sparkling across her face. She looked miserable. A sharp pang shot through my stomach, and without thinking, I stepped into the office.
I lifted my head in disappointment and looked at the little plastic gadget above the door.
“I think the battery is dead. I’ll change it tomorrow. How are you?”
Her smile seemed tortured, the sparkling joy in her eyes replaced by a dull sheen. A tiny green space heater hummed softly in the corner.
“Hi, uhm.”
The greeting.
“Hey, the heater’s here!”
The obvious.
“Are you ok?”
The stupid question.
“Oh, no, that’s not it, I just bought that this morning. I keep calling them and they keep telling me it’ll get here soon. Fingers crossed! Hi! Yes, I’m great. Business is a bit slower than I thought, but I’m optimistic! Everything ok with the new worries?”
Chloris tilts her head slightly when she’s exhausted. Her cheeks are almost perfectly round.
Instead of saying whatever it was I wanted to say, I said:
“Uhm, I’d like to upgrade again.”
For a second, her joyous smile returned and immediately spread across my own face.
“Great! Please sit down. I’m so happy you like our services! Would you like to add another three worries?”
“I think I want to try the AutoWorry.”
“Fantastic! The system will immediately latch onto any emerging worries, providing you with a completely carefree life!”
Another pang in my stomach. For a brief moment I wondered if this was a good idea.
Two minutes later, my phone beeped to remind me of my diminishing finances. But I wasn’t worried.
“If you have any problems or questions, don’t hesitate to come back!”
“Ok! Uhm, I think I have a few of these button batteries lying around at home… for the door?”
“Oh, that’s very nice of you, but I can pick some up tonight. Don’t worry!”
The next few days, I experienced a state of bliss unlike anything I had known before. Time in the office passed like a breeze; I enjoyed talking to my clients, took long walks in the cool indigos of the early October evenings, and, much to my surprise, booked a vacation for the upcoming long weekend. I often pictured Chloris’ comforting face, and I passed by her office every day, peeking in through the green curtain of her plants. She sat behind her desk, weighed down by an increasing amount of clothes, her head sometimes buried in her hands, dark rings forming under her eyes. Some of the plants had started to wilt, and one day I saw her staring at a drop of blood on her fingertip.
But I was sure she’d be fine. Surely the heater would arrive any day now. She would water her plants, and if her other clients were as satisfied with her service as I was, she’d soon be able to expand and run a lucrative business.
It must have been Thursday evening when I first felt that something wasn’t quite right. I still don’t know how to describe it—it was like that sneeze that never comes. I felt like I was being watched, as if something was trying to reach me, a sense of something bobbing on a violent ocean, struggling to stay afloat, drowned and drowned again by angry waves only to emerge once more, gasping.
But I was not worried.
I spent the long weekend at a little lodge outside of town, walking through the blazing yellows and reds of autumn—the same auburn as Chloris’ hair. And when I realized I’d left my phone at home, I simply chuckled. I had become a new man, thanks to We Worry, Inc.
But that strange feeling—like the unsettling certainty that someone is about to knock at your door with terrible news—kept coming back, like a persistent itch, and I decided to check with Chloris on Monday if this might be a side effect of the AutoWorry.
Well, and that was Monday the 28th of October. I drove back into town listening to The Cure and turned on the TV when I got back home, around 11 a.m.
It was the same chaos on every channel. People running aimlessly behind frantic reporters, their words drowned out by wailing sirens. A woman clutching her chest, screaming in anguish, a young man in a suit strapped to a stretcher, his body thrashing, trying to break free. A news anchor weeping hysterically, people rocking back and forth in hospital hallways, their knees pulled tightly to their chests. The ticker at the bottom of the screen blared a stock market in complete turmoil.
I spotted my phone on the sofa, its notification light flashing angrily. 57 missed calls. All from We Worry, Inc.
Suddenly, my whole body turned ice cold. Beads of sweat formed on my back, and just as the reporter on TV said something about a massive overload at the headquarters of We Worry, wrecking the minds of millions of subscribers and thousands of employees, something seemed to snap in my stomach, and in my mind. All my worries hit me at once and the looming presence that had been scratching at the edges of my mind finally broke through the collapsing barriers of my AutoWorry subscription.
Without knowing it, I had been worrying about my worrier.
I jumped into the car and raced to We Worry, my mind spiralling in and out of a raging panic for Chloris. I realized her deteriorating condition must have been the result of the feedback loop of her worrying for me worrying about her.
I came to a screeching stop. A dark, unmarked van was parked right outside the office. I slammed the door open and saw Chloris sitting in her chair, her back to me, surrounded by five bulky men in black suits and dark sunglasses.
“That’s him!” one of the suits shouted, pointing at me.
“Wuff, Wuff, motherfucker!” I barked, “Let her go!”
“Sir, you have to stop worrying NOW!” another suit shouted, stepping in front of me. From behind the door with the logo came a roaring, high-pitched screech. I shoved the guy aside as a third lurched toward me, brandishing a taser, but he suddenly tripped—his foot caught on a large, bubble-wrapped heater on the floor. I sent another suit stumbling into the desk; his yelping scream added to the crescendo of whatever inferno was unfolding behind the door as he plunged his hand into the cactus. I finally reached Chloris as the screeching noise surged to a deafening wail and spun her chair around.
Chloris shatters my heart when she’s crying. Her tears are almost perfectly round.
That’s when it happened.
It wasn’t really an explosion—just light. All over the country We Worry’s quantum network overloaded and burned out. Apparently, the feedback loop and the resulting worriage had quickly become too much for Chloris’ server to handle and had been outsourced to the network. Every time I saw her, head buried in her hands, the rings under her eyes growing darker, I unknowingly sent stronger worriage through the system, making her even more miserable and me worry more about her. It seems no one had ever worried about their worrier before. And the fact that I had a crush on mine only made everything worse.
Turns out, worry and love form a strange unity.
As I walked beneath the fiery reds of autumn that constantly reminded me of her auburn hair, the system spiralled out of control. It distributed the excess worriage to worriers nationwide. They were the first to break, quickly followed by clients bombarded with concentrated worries they hadn’t faced in months.
Nobody got killed, that’s the good news. But a lot changed. All these companies had to shut down, RegretLess, GuiltShift, CryBank, all gone. The technology that was once hailed as the salvation of mankind was sent back to the drawing board, and people have to face their emotions the old-fashioned way again.
And that suits Chloris and me just fine. The tech collapse took my business with it, and we’re both doing more with less. Our little garden is full of plants, and we don’t need a gadget to go Wuff, Wuff when someone’s at the door. And our little wood stove is almost perfectly round.