max’s video

by Wyatt Robinette

Months after Max’s funeral, someone texted me a video of his death.

"Look who's finally gone viral," it said.

I wasn't doing anything so, after a brief hesitation, I clicked the link.

The video was from a GoPro Max wore during the war. Like most GoPro scenes it was chaotic, unclear. Also, you never saw Max’s face, you just heard him.

It started with Max clearing a dilapidated building.

He dragged men and women out of their derelict apartments and handed them over, kicking and screaming, to impatient soldiers waiting in the street. Amidst the yelling and chaos, I almost forgot he was dead. I almost forgot I was watching a video of his death. He just looked so alive, so loud, that it was hard to imagine him any other way.

Before Max finished clearing the second floor, a loud and upbeat commercial for ranch flavored chips cut-in. 

I paused the commercial and walked outside to smoke a cigarette on my small patio. I sat in a green plastic folding chair and tried to remember if Max liked that brand of chips.  I tried to remember what chips he did like. I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried. When I pictured him eating something it was always ice cream. Not chips. That was probably because whenever he got suspended–and he got suspended a lot–he treated it like a vacation. He would text the group pictures of himself eating ice cream in his parents' pool or spa, making a goofy face with the caption, "Another tough day at the office."

I had almost forgotten why I came outside to smoke when my phone beeped. There was another text. It said, "The Internet got a hold of Max’s video."

I stumbled inside and, even though I lived alone, checked my surroundings before clicking the link.

The new video must’ve started towards the end of the original.

It began with the loud clap of heavy gunfire. It took a couple of seconds before I realized Max was hiding behind a car in the street. The other soldiers were out of sight, hidden or dead offscreen.

I crumpled onto my soft couch and put my headphones in.

You could tell Max was shot from the blood on his shaky hands. When he started screaming and begging for his mother, the autotune kicked in.

I almost dropped my phone. Almost.

The Max I knew wasn’t content. He was just a guy. A guy who used to get kicked out of class for talking too much. A guy who, one boring summer day, convinced us to steal all of the shopping carts from a nearby grocery store. Before we even met, he grabbed an asshole that had been bullying me and told him to leave me alone. Max got a black eye and his lip split open for it, but he didn't care. That was just Max. Someone who fought for a guy like me. We were never close friends. More like friends of friends. But that was enough for Max.

Now, he was just a soundbite.

What should have been Max’s last, painful cry became an absurd, warbled melody that spun into a high-pitched tune that sounded note for note like the chorus of a new popular song.

“Fuck," I thought.

This couldn’t be the Max I knew. The Max I knew would’ve been stronger, tougher. He was the loudmouth who got us into trouble back in high school. He was always talking about how tough he’d be when the shit went down, how he’d handle war like a pro. But here he was, shot and begging for his mother.

Autotuned into a meme.

"You should probably stop watching," I thought. But I didn't.

The comments were predictably horrible.

"I didn’t know soldiers had such great voices. Maybe he missed his calling in music?"

"Someone drop a beat under this!"

"Anyone else think this could be part of a VR game? Graphics look kinda real but also off, lol"

"Max be like: 'This wasn’t in the recruitment brochure!'"

"POV: You’re on the final boss level and realize you forgot to save."

I hated myself for it but that comment made me laugh. It wasn’t funny, just absurd and mean. But I could relate to it. It was hard not to. I was never a soldier. I never went to war. I stayed in a safe apartment my parents paid for. I played video games. Went to class. Made shitty comments online.

After dozens of similar comments, I saw one that let me know things weren't going to get better.

It said, "Check out my remix on TikTok! It's fire!"

A part of me knew I should put my phone away. Stop watching. But another, uglier part knew it was already too late, and that I couldn't help myself.

I clicked the link.

The remix opened with Max’s voice autotuned over the popular song his death throes reminded me of. His pain-filled cries were synced to the rhythm, each gunshot timed with a drumbeat. In the comments someone asked where they could download the track. Someone else suggested it was already added to their workout playlist.

Before I could stop watching, a new video loaded. It was a dance challenge. Kids performed his last moments, collapsing to the ground, mouthing “Mom!” as though it were a punchline. I stared, guilt curling in my stomach.

Then YouTube recommended a month-old reaction video from a popular creator. In the overly dramatic thumbnail he was making the exaggerated face he made in over half his thumbnails: one hand over his mouth and the other pointing at an off-camera computer screen. He paused every few seconds to share his take, saying things like “This is so powerful” and “This is why we need to appreciate soldiers more.” Each reaction felt rehearsed, shallow. The comments cheered him on, thanking him for “honoring” Max.

At the very bottom of the comments, one veteran wrote: “I served with Max. He deserved better.”

A reply beneath it read simply, “OK boomer.”

It had more likes than the veteran’s comment.

I scrolled through countless versions of the same footage, each one reimagined for a different audience. Some were old. Others were brand new. Some were slowed down with somber music. Others had been sped up and overlaid with dance beats or commentary. In the more popular ones, famous lines from movies—some funny, some dramatic, some absurd inside jokes for whatever niche group was the audience—were edited in over the music.

Each remix pushed me closer to laughing, to forgetting the heavy silence that must have filled the plane carrying his body home.

When I went to Facebook for a breather, people were arguing about the videos. Some were calling them disrespectful, demanding they be taken down. Others insisted Max would’ve thought they were hilarious. A few shared a video from the singer whose song was used in most of the clips. She asked fans not to use her music that way. Someone else named Amy posted a comment saying, “Max was my childhood friend. His family sees this stuff. Can we please stop sharing this?”

No one answered, but someone replied below her comment with a meme of Max’s face, distorted and captioned, “Can’t stop, won’t stop.”

Buried among the chaos, one comment thread stood out. People, friends maybe, were reminiscing about Max. Not the soldier or the viral meme, but the guy who cracked jokes at the worst times, who picked fights just to prove a point. They said he’d probably laugh at a video like this, maybe even make the first joke.

“He’d get a kick outta this,” someone posted, followed by laughing emojis.

"Max was the guy who could turn the worst situation into a joke. This would’ve been right up his alley."

"He always said, ‘If you’re gonna go out, make it memorable.’"

Another wrote, "This dude went viral doing what most people fear the most. Respect for staying relevant even after death."

I liked those thoughts. I didn’t recognize any of their screen names or know if they were lying, but I wanted what they said to be true. Maybe they served with Max and knew him better than me. I was desperate. I needed Max to be the one who’d laugh at this, the one who wouldn’t care. I needed him to be that person more than anything. If he could laugh, if he could joke about his death, why couldn't I?

And maybe I was thinking about this too much. We weren't that close. We were just friends of friends.

A half hour later, I was laying on my back with my headphones out, laughing my ass off. Max used to tell me he'd take a hit for anyone who needed it. Now I was watching him take hit after hit, and I did nothing. I just continued watching videos. There seemed to be a never ending supply.

Then, without knowing it, I circled back up to the original video. My thumb hovered above the screen. I thought that I’d finally put my phone down and stop watching. But I pressed play. I just had to see it. I don't know why.

I didn’t finish it the first time so a lot was new to me. It felt long, drawn out.

The unedited gunshots hit harder.

I waited for the joke, the meme or funny twist that would make me laugh. What new spin had they put on it this time?

But it didn’t come.

There was no joke. No meme. No funny twist.

Instead, I watched my friend die, slowly, in a foreign country, surrounded by strangers.

When it was over, I mechanically scrolled to the next video. 

I paused, for a second, my thumb hovering uselessly. I knew watching wouldn't change anything. Whatever this was: punishment, mourning, or maybe just numbness, I didn't know.

I pressed play anyway.

Photo of Wyatt Robinette

BIO: Wyatt Robinette lives in Tucson, AZ with two cute cats. Previous work can be found at Bourbon Penn and CityWide Lunch and forthcoming in Scaffold. Twitter: @vvyattrr