Static

Socrates used to infuriate certain people

who couldn’t stand to discover under questioning

that they didn’t have sufficient reason to think

the things they believed they knew with absolute certainty.

He used to delight others who enjoyed

seeing self-certain blowhards taken down

a peg or two in public. But those who learned

the most from Socrates were those who saw

that they themselves were almost entirely ignorant

about what mattered in life. They were the people

who could begin the search for real wisdom.

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If you only want to have your prejudices confirmed, you can’t expect others to tolerate your blindness.

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Static

The red ON AIR light glowed above the glass booth. A stack of neatly folded caller notes sat beside the microphone. The host adjusted his headphones, pinched the bridge of his nose once, then leaned forward. His voice, calm and steady, floated into living rooms and kitchens across the county.

“Tonight we’re taking calls on public trust. What it means to believe in science, in institutions, in each other. Our next caller—go ahead, you’re on.”

The line crackled. The voice of a young man rushed through the static. “Don’t feed us your lies, old man. Masks? Experts? They’re sheep tricks. I know the real truth.”

The host glanced at the blinking console, then back to the microphone. “We deal in facts here. Do you have one?”

The caller laughed, high and thin. “Facts? You mean the scripts they hand you? Wake up. They take our jobs, our streets, our kids’ futures—bit by bit. You sit there with your charts. No cap, you’re bought.”

The host let in some dead air. Then he said firmly, “Cite a source.”

“I am the source!” the caller shouted. He could hardly catch his breath. “Doctors lie. Teachers lie. Scientists lie. You parrot them, and you expect us to kneel? Nah. I’m the wolf, not the sheep. I’m viral enough without your mask mandates.” The host let that sit for a few moments.

At a red light, a driver froze, hands on the wheel, listening as the static filled the car.

“Again,” said the host, weary but precise, “do you have evidence?”

The caller’s voice cracked now. He sputtered, “Evidence? Evidence is everywhere. Open your eyes. They—you—they—” His breath gave out. The rant frayed into coughs, and uncontrollable throat clearing.

The host pinched the bridge of his nose again, closed his eyes for a moment, then steadied himself at the mic. His finger hovered above the cutoff switch. He waited.

On the other end, the caller tried again, voice trembling: “Don’t cut me—don’t—you don’t get to—” Then a clatter, as though the phone fell, then a smear of garbled sound, then nothing.

For a beat, nothing—just the hum of the system, the faint squeal of feedback, the host’s breathing. People listening in their kitchens suspended their forks over their food. Radios hissed in cars. The silence spread like fog.

The host exhaled. Then he pressed the button. “Without facts,” he said, exasperated, “no airtime. Next caller."

A pause. Another line lit green. A woman’s measured voice began: “According to the CDC . . .”

No one could see him, but the host nodded. In the studio glass, his reflection looked older than he felt.

Across town, a boy sat on the edge of his bed with a phone in his hand. It hissed with static—thin, unending.