The Monitor Read online

  Steve smiled, pulling me close to him. “I would love to come and see you shine. When is it?”

  “Thursday, at the Timms Centre. We could walk from here, since I don’t intend to wear anything nearly as silly as Denise’s new shoes.”

  I ended up telling Steve about the wild shoe-shopping trip we’d had, and we laughed some more. It was so good to have him back in my life, so real and solid. That was one thing about dealing in the printed computer-message world. It lacked the solidity of real people.

  I hugged him tighter than usual as he left for his own evening shift. He laughed and again promised to give me a call when he found out if he could free up Thursday evening.

  “I gather you’ll be home tonight?”

  “Oh, you bet. Just me and my imaginary friends.”

  16

  When I logged on that evening, after treating myself to a pita stuffed with tuna and chopped celery, I was juiced. It was probably from being with Steve, I admitted to myself; there is just nothing like the obvious admiration of a gorgeous guy to make you feel like you can conquer the world. After chatting a bit with Alchemist, who was sounding pretty flirtatious himself that evening, I waved him out the virtual door and scanned the notes he’d left about the folks in Babel that day.

  Milan had posted several PMs to Alvin, all having something to do with finding Thea. Apparently she still wasn’t answering his e-mails, and he was sounding more and more frantic as the messages progressed. I tried to think of the last time I had seen Thea in Babel; it must have been nearly a week. It was hard to sort out time frames on-line. There is a saying that a week in cyber is like three months in real time, so no wonder Milan was so edgy. They had been thick as thieves for several weeks before, and now nothing. Seemingly, according to Milan, she had vanished without any reason; they hadn’t fought or broken up; she wasn’t planning a vacation.

  I was trying to think up how to reply when I noticed with relief that Alchemist had posted back something soothing to Milan under the guise of Alvin, so I went on my rounds.

  There were a couple of private rooms open. Vixen was showing Maia pictures of her new car in one of them, and two middle-aged lovebirds, one in Nebraska and the other in Melbourne, were cozying up. All in all, it looked like it was going to be a quiet night.

  I popped into the general room as Chimera after pouring myself a cup of coffee. Grace was organizing a word game whereby you could only speak in haiku for the next half hour. Carlin and Maia were up for it, Vixen was playing along, though I could sense she found word games tiresome, and Theseus popped up with a great one:

  Theseus: Nothing on TV

  Cursor invites connection

  So here I am, folks!

  I *LOL*-ed in response but then tracked back to see when he had slipped in without my seeing him. I hated to get caught like that. I found him, logged in from the early morning, way up on Alchemist’s shift. He must have left his connection open all day long and just wandered back in. I couldn’t imagine anyone lurking in Babel all day. Anyone who wasn’t getting paid, that is, I grinned to myself ruefully.

  I figured he must have had a cable connection. No one would leave his phone line tied up that long. I decided to check through and see if anyone else was lurking in the background, and I thought I should make a note to Chatgod to see about a program that tracked that sort of activity. As it was, we only had log-on times, log-off times, and posts to go by. If I wanted to make sure of someone, I had miles of transcript to scroll through.

  The haikus were flying fast and furious, and of course getting a bit bawdier each time. Oh well, it was past 9:00 in the evening in most parts of the western hemisphere; and most of the occupants of Babel were over the age of majority. That thought brought me back to Venita, and what Alchemist had said about her. I hadn’t seen her in a while, and I wasn’t at all sorry. She made my skin crawl, I had to admit. Of course, with all the schoolgirl-uniform poses of the pop stars, and barely there clothing pumped at the teen set, what could one expect in behavior from the very young? Patterning has to come from somewhere, after all.

  Sanders logged on, and tonight I was up for him. While I was still very circumspect about where I lived in the real world, I managed to banter without feeling too awkward. Again, the residue of a day with Steve made me feel invincible. As that thought came into my mind, it occurred to me how close that word was to another: invisible. There was a lot to be said for anonymity and invisibility, I had to admit.

  PM from Sanders to Chimera: Good evening, lovely lady!

  PM from Chimera to Sanders: Hail, sir! And how has been your day?

  PM from Sanders to Chimera: All the better now that I am here with you.

  PM from Chimera to Sanders: *smile* I am sure you say that to all the truly lovely women you chat with.

  Sanders: Ah, you have caught me out. It’s true, I only flirt with the very best. I am an elitist. Shoot me now. But let me die in your arms.

  Damn, he wasn’t bad. When you considered that he was simultaneously posting this to Vixen:

  PM from Sanders to Vixen: Hey, darlin’!

  PM from Vixen to Sanders: Hey yourself, hotstuff! How are you doing, sweetie?

  PM from Sanders to Vixen: Fantastic as always, angel. So what are you doing this evening? Is your dance card full?

  PM from Vixen to Sanders: Not since you walked in, sugar. Why don’t I just sit here real close beside you and we’ll see what pops up? *wink*

  I’ll admit I was a little miffed, but not overly surprised. Moreover, I was honestly impressed. His manner and style were almost completely different with each person he was talking to. Meanwhile he was also participating in the haiku extravaganza and keeping up with a discussion of various laptop advantages that Ivories and Gandalf were pursuing around and through the zaniness of Grace’s game. He tailored himself to fit the conversation, and I had to admire it. He was truly the ideal writer for each script, throwing his own persona into a back cupboard for the sake of his diverse audiences. I wondered what that real persona was like and whether I would like it half so much as the world-weary roué he seemed to have chosen as the mask he showed me.

  I had popped into the kitchen to pour myself another cup of coffee and make a note to pick up more milk the next day when I saw a pulsing on the Alvin window at the top right of my screen.

  Someone new had signed on. This wasn’t in itself unusual, since many of the folks in Babel lured real-time friends into the fold, and strays surfing through chat-room listings happened upon us from time to time. Chatgod had created the pulse program just to let monitors know that someone was new. Occasionally, Alvin would pop in with a PM to the newbie, welcoming him or her and pointing out the general rules of conduct. It was up to us to decide whether the new person required a full-fledged Alvin welcome or just a general group howdy. Since Lea and Kara were in the room, I was loath to bring Alvin into things. Both of them had a thing for authority figures, and they would spend the rest of the evening trying to coax a flirtation out of Alvin. If I could avoid that, I would.

  I checked the board. Tremor had arrived. Vixen had already said hello, and Sanders was asking him if he’d been to Babel before. Maybe Alvin didn’t have to appear at all. Virtual community is such a cool thing. It has to evolve naturally, and the folks in the virtual community have to take pride in their place on-line, but if that all happened, then monitoring became simply a matter of cleaning up the odd teenaged expletive off the screen; the community took care of the rest. Babel was almost at that stage, I sensed. However, as Chatgod and Alchemist had pointed out, it didn’t take much for an unscrupulous person to bring it all down if we weren’t vigilant on the sidelines.

  Tremor seemed to be an old hand at chat rooms and knew enough netiquette to hang back a bit, typing when typed to. He introduced himself as an acquaintance of Milan’s, and asked if we’d seen him this evening. No one had, and I chimed in with a thought that he had been in earlier (his posts to Alvin had been time-stamped, the last one at 5:
00 p.m.), but that I hadn’t seen him since then. I figured no one there would pay much attention to the fact that Chimera hadn’t been in the room until 7:00. For all they knew, I flitted in there a dozen times a day, just barely missing them by moments. After all, unlike me, they didn’t have access to the time logs.

  Tremor seemed slightly distracted by this, but it didn’t stop him from sticking around. Vixen was trying to pry some information from him, which was her general way. She liked to pigeonhole people a bit, but she had a point. If you know someone is an engineer, there is really no point arguing Camus with them. Tremor was vague, saying he did some contract work on-line. Sanders laughingly called him a hit man, and Tremor *grinned* back at him. Vixen was charmed. She was taking some computer courses herself and was always ready to talk shop.

  Tremor began to PM with her, mainly getting the general idiosyncracies of the room down. She was telling him how to create a private room, how to leave a message for someone not currently logged in, and how to choose an avatar or icon for his own use. I had to admit, she had it covered. I knew why she was telling him; she was always on the prowl for a new conquest. Vixen liked to think all the men in the room were pining for her, and she was a nice enough woman that everyone played along, even those who probably had no real interest in her, or women of any kind. I wasn’t too sure why Tremor figured he needed to know all this immediately, though, and made a small note to keep an eye on him. I decided to leave a small note for Milan to the effect that his friend had dropped by and was looking for him. As I posted it, I saw that there was another note for Milan waiting, from Tremor himself.

  PM from Tremor to Milan: Remember, a deal’s a deal.

  I wondered what Milan had got himself into, on top of losing his girlfriend. Oh well, it wasn’t my business. As long as folks were conducting themselves properly in Babel, that was all that counted. I tuned back into the conversation on the general board, parried a few more flirting darts with Sanders and signed off at 3:30 a.m. For notes to Alchemist, who would be logging in at 10:00 a.m., I listed Tremor’s arrival, and the haiku games, and listed the evening as uneventful. No fights, no problems. I shut down my portal to the global village, which was very rarely frequented by anyone from the Far East through their evening hours, and padded off to bed.

  17

  Monday morning brought two essays in the mail and one tortured e-mail from a student pleading for an extension of a week. I granted it, with stern warnings not to get too far out of sync, and marked the two papers. I made copious notes on both their papers and on bright pink bond paper, thinking that the verbiage would substitute for the lack of a physical presence and the pink would make up for the jokes and smiles there would have been in a real-time class. I decided to walk the mail up to Whyte Avenue and catch a bus from there. I was heading off to get something to wear to the writer-in-residence gala. There was no way I would match Denise’s splendor, but as her friend I couldn’t arrive wearing overly drab clothing; it would mock her decision to go glamorous.

  Besides, it was turning out to be quite a production. Not only was the present writer-in-residence going to be reading, but they had also invited back all the past writers-in-residence, who were a stellar crew, and many of them had written to say they’d be there. I doubted they would lure Margaret Atwood back, but there were some pretty fancy names responding, according to Denise.

  She, of course, was thrilled that Steve was coming with me. She was absolutely sold on Steve. I was just relieved that Denise and Steve never had been attracted to each other, unlike any other man who came near Denise. She had that effect on men. She had been dating a reporter for a while, but that had fallen through about three months ago, and she was starting to look a bit “lean and hungry,” if you asked me. I figured anyone caught in the path of that sequined dress on Thursday would be fair game.

  I had nothing that would be up to a sequined dress and no budget that could remedy that obvious oversight in my wardrobe. However, I did have an ace in the hole, and its name was the Value Village. I caught the bus across from the TD Canada Trust corner and headed down Whyte Avenue to bargain heaven.

  It wasn’t too busy today in the Whyte Avenue store. I wandered down the jeans aisle by habit, just checking. Nothing today. That was the thing about shopping thrift shops, though. You had to be open to whatever was there, not dependant on discovering exactly what you were looking for. I had once come in hoping for a red sweater and left with three bathing suits. Fatalists tend to do very well in thrift shops.

  I strolled through the skirts and blouses but couldn’t see anything that sent me reeling. This wasn’t going to be a picnic, after all. I wandered into the dresses aisle, hoping something would hop out. I ran my hand along the fabrics when I got to my general size, letting a tactile impression in as well as the obvious visuals. Sometimes the feel of a fabric would lead me to a great find. Inside the size category, things were organized by color, with patterns grouped at the end. If you squinted down the aisles, it was like looking at rippling rainbows. I looked through the blues carefully, and then checked out the reds, even though I couldn’t see myself blazing in scarlet. I’m just not quite that showy. Cream would mean careful undergarments, so I didn’t spend much time on that section.

  Finally, I headed to the fitting rooms with four ­choices: a moss green dress that looked almost floor length, a black dress with an interesting twist of straps at the back, a gray wool sheath with a long slit up the side of the left leg, and a gold, shiny, sleeveless dress with a draping cowl neckline.

  The gold one felt itchy going on, so I didn’t even ­bother doing it up. Besides, it had that game-show ­pointer-model look. The black one was the most promising, I figured, so I slid my way up through the maze of straps and slid my own bra straps down into the sides of the dress to see what the final effect would be. I’d just try to overlook the enormous gray work socks on the ends of my legs.

  I backed out of the changing room, holding my hair up on top of my head with one hand. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t anything outstanding, either, as most little black dresses aren’t. They’re safe and standard. Oh well, there were two more to try.

  The gray was nice and warm. Somehow, though, it looked more like something you would wear to the symphony than something you would wear to a gala. I grinned at my own pronouncement; like I went to the symphony and galas every other weekend. I checked the ticket stapled to the sleeve. The gray was $7. With high black boots and a clutch purse, it would look fine.

  One more dress left. It was a simple cut, of light velour in a moss green. I dropped it over my head and it fell in waves. It had a scoop neck and long sleeves, and it wasn’t full length but hung to lower mid-calf, hitting my leg nicely above the turn of the ankle. I looked at myself in the mirror and liked what I saw. The color of the dress picked up on the green of my eyes, making them larger and more vivid. I stepped out of the dressing room to turn fully around. As I did so, an old woman sitting on a chair set at the end of the aisle said, “Yes! That’s the one!” I looked at her, startled. She smiled at me, saying, “You’ll be the belle of the ball, honey.” I grinned back at her. I’d found my dress.

  I picked up the gray dress, too, on the grounds that Steve might like the odd symphony this winter, and headed for home.

  18

  It was a nice evening for chatting. There was no great horror in the news to discuss, the weather was okay wherever anyone was, and everyone seemed in a pretty happy mood. Alchemist told me he was heading out to a movie, and wished me well. I hung about in the background, watching, and at the same time reading the Stephen King memoir on writing I’d been given for my birthday last year. There is a luxurious feeling that comes over one when the apartment is clean, student papers are marked and graded, and the computer is humming along with the coffee maker. It was cold outside and cozy within. I had a new dress and a man to take me partying. Could life get any better?

  Apparently it could. None of the potential troublemakers had logged in
this evening, and the folks in the room were inclined to be mellow. Tracy and Dion were having a sweet time trying to pretend they weren’t hooked on each other, discussing their favorite board games and why they liked them. Tracy liked Monopoly, a game I had always nicknamed “Monotonous.” Dion was describing the game Sorry to her, which apparently either had never made it to Singapore or had just never made it onto her radar. Some of the other folks were chiming in with their ideas of great games. Bean liked pinochle, Maia enjoyed Scrabble, Kara was into bridge in a big way, but we all knew that. She was forever heading off to tournaments, or inviting folks into Babel from her on-line games. They never seemed to stay; I guess we weren’t the bridge sort of crowd, and Kara was just an anomaly.

  I was wondering what sort of board games I could even remember, let alone consider my favorite, when Sanders popped in and added cribbage to the list of games.

  Chimera: Cribbage! Yes, I remember playing that with my grandma’s Golden Age group when I was little. I have no idea how to play it any more. All I can recall is saying “fifteen two, fifteen four, and a pair is six.”

  Sanders: That’s the gist of it, all right.

  Chimera: Do you still play it?

  Sanders: All the time.

  Bean: Can you play it on-line? Or solitaire versions?

  Suzy: Oh now, solitaire! I can play that for hours! I just get caught in it!

  Maia: And mahjong! Before I found y’all on-line, I used to play mahjong for at least an hour a night.

  Vixen: Half an hour of heaven and eight great hours of sleep! That’s my kind of game, folks.