Agents of the Internet Apocalypse (13 page)

The professor drove us to campus in his Prius and that wasn't just a hostage prevention tactic. As a natural-born teacher, he wanted a captive audience for his lecture. Tobey kept trying to catch my eye from the backseat in disbelief, but I played it cool. I'd liked what I read about the professor, and I wasn't too surprised he'd take the opportunity to talk about his true love. Also, he was a bit of a subversive. He brought up the news story again, and it became clear that any enemy of the senator's was a friend of his.

He explained things I already knew from my reading, but it was better to hear it from him. In 1969, he was provided with a device known as the Interface Message Processor, or IMP, and he used it to supervise the connectivity between four computer networks at four separate campuses. It was called “internetworking.”

“I was spot-checking,” he said. “Basically, I was supposed to test the limits of performance.”

Hearing the story for the first time, Tobey was more surprised. “You were figuring out how to break the Internet?”

“Well, no. Figuring out where it was breaking. How to make it work. Scientists build things.”

“Yeah, like bombs,” Tobey said, and the professor drove in discomfort for another half a block before pulling over to the side of the road.

“Wait a second,” he said. “I can't believe I was so foolish. I thought you wanted a tutorial, but I'm really just a
suspect
in your little investigation?”

I wanted to say no. To say that I was positive the professor was a good man. And a lucky man, fortunate enough to be professionally brilliant for a living, because all that intelligence would have turned to anger if put to use in a factory or business. Instead, his soul was intact and vibrant in old age. I was jealous, but not in the way Tobey was, causing him to act out petulantly in the presence of a great mind. My envy was tempered by admiration because the professor clearly enjoyed sharing his knowledge.

“It's not personal, Professor. We were told that everyone in this phone book was a potential suspect. That this book, which started out representing who was online, changed and began to record who had power online.”

“Let me see that again,” he said, taking back the phone book. “1988?”

“Yeah. We're hoping to find more recent editions.”

“I don't remember getting a book like this as late as 1988, and it's too small.”

“Well, right,” I said. “It's no longer a phone book. It's a listing of those with power,” I repeated.

“Well, whoever made this in 1988 never gave it to me.”

“That's okay,” Tobey said, excited by an idea. “The fact that you didn't get it doesn't mean this book doesn't hold the VIPs of the Internet. It just means they didn't give it to you.”

“Meaning?”

“Maybe it's not for you. I mean, look, you're the father of the Net. Of course, they're gonna have to include you, especially in 1988, when everything is still new. You're necessary.”

Professor Leonards waited and watched me think. He saw me sizing him up. He saw me hearing Tobey.

“What are you thinking, Mr. Gladstone?” he asked.

“I think you're telling the truth, and I think my friend is right. The book is real, but at least in 1988, it still included people who knew how to make the machine work and not just those who sought to become its master.”

“And that's the only kind of learning you hoped to do today? Is that right? That's the kind of investigation you're leading?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Is that bad?”

When you've lived long enough, you can turn disappointment into a smile, and the professor smiled. He wasn't going to give his typical birth-of-the-Internet show-and-tell speech today because for now our investigation was about people, not parts. But being a genius, he also found a way to give his lecture and answer my question at the same time.

“Y'know, Mr. Gladstone,” he said, placing the phone book in my lap and giving it a tiny tap, “in the early days of the Internet, it ran on the existing network of telephone wires. We had to invent a communication protocol that accepted the limited power we had over those existing networks. Essentially, we developed a system of tolerated differences. We recognized the autonomy of our members. So you ask me if your methods are bad? I guess I'd say only if they keep you from connecting.”

*   *   *

The professor drove us back to our car, and no one felt the need to talk further. We had our learning.

“It was an honor to meet you, Professor,” I said, exiting his car.

He did not return the same compliment, but he did say, “I'm glad I got to meet you, Mr. Gladstone. Good luck with your investigation. And if it reaches a point where you do need some technical assistance, you may call on me.”

“Y'know, I'm an idiot,” I said. “I didn't even ask you if you have theories on who took it.”

“Scientists always have theories, but nothing worth reporting right now, I'm afraid. I'm mostly retired.…”

I leaned in closer. Even Tobey was silent and respectful. We waited.

“I will say, however,” he continued, “this is not a one man job. You know that, right? The Net is bigger than any one man. That's the whole point of the Net.”

*   *   *

We drove back home and spent the rest of the day setting up a Messiah meeting at The Hash Tag. We posted fliers all around town, and then we stopped by a different FedEx Office (because Tobey was supposed to be at work) to make new copies of the journal. Understanding the importance of a brand, we also dubbed the journal
Notes from the Internet Apocalypse
and made copies on light blue paper, and left about twenty copies lying around town. Although that trend had actually already started, now we were explicit. Like Ziggy Stardust commanded listeners to play it at maximum volume, the book now instructed readers to place extra copies in places where like-minded people might read them. Libraries, buses, sexual supply shops. A new kind of manual retweet. And then there was the last page with its ongoing invitation:

Fans of
Notes from the Internet Apocalypse
? Meet Gladstone and Tobey at The Hash Tag, Santa Monica, Tuesdays at 7 p.m.

We'll discuss all things Internet Messiah and how to bring back our Internet.

Tobey had decided on Tuesdays to mirror the date of 4Chan's meet ups at the Bowery Poetry Club back in New York. He wanted to make people feel like they were part of something. Acting out the novel in their way, and he encouraged me to go back to the brown sports jacket and fedora, which I refused to do. I'd be nervous enough without sweating my balls off in front of an audience. After several hours of promotion, we ended up at Apocalyptic Records in Culver City.

“I can't believe a Type A guy like you is going into your debut without a plan,” he said, admiring a still-wrapped copy of Emerson, Lake & Palmer's
Brain Salad Surgery
. “What's the point of that?”

“I'll tell you,” I said, “but first answer me a question: Why the hell would losing the Internet bring back records? Our downloads and CDs still play.”

“Yeah, but you can't download new shit,” Tobey said.

“Yeah, but these are
old
records, so…”

“See, this is what I'm saying. You're getting all analytical about the logic behind a used record store, but you're just gonna freestyle in front of new recruits? Also, you can't download old shit, either.”

I stared at the cover of
Ziggy Stardust
. Bowie, still yellow haired and not yet a god, existing among the painted oil slicks and garbage outside K.West furriers.

“I have to see the people first,” I said. “See what I'm dealing with. But the truth is … I have nothing to tell them. I can't give them a reason to follow me. They're gonna have to want to.”

“That's bullshit. You can't just sell yourself. Even Jesus promised eternal life.”

“Yeah and look where that got him,” I said.

*   *   *

Around five, we drove back to Tobey's place and he let me take his car. I stopped by the liquor store, having heard enough about Hollywood Forever to know I might be needing it. One bottle of Jameson and one Grey Goose. Then I hit a Subway in Brentwood. The usual twelve-inch veggie delight on whole wheat for Romaya and a twelve-inch turkey and Swiss on Italian for me. Maybe she wouldn't be home. Maybe she wouldn't want to go, but I had to try, and worst case scenario, I had booze and sandwiches.

I remembered how to get to her apartment and I thought that was a good sign. The weather was nice, and that seemed auspicious too. I rang her doorbell, sandwiches under my arm, a bottle of vodka in my right hand, Jameson in the left. I could hear movement inside and I thought of a scenario that hadn't yet occurred to me: She could be home, but not alone. I took a step back, turning halfway from the door, just as I heard the deadbolt retract.

“Hi?” she said before looking down at the booze in my hands. “Um, sorry dude, the kegger's canceled. My parents ended up not going out of town.”

“Oh, bummer,” I said.

“Yeah.…”

And then our fun improv game was over. She was thirty-seven again, with her hair tied back and wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and no shoes.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I'm great. Can I come in? Or, y'know if it's a bad time…”

“No, come in, I was just trying to send out more r
é
sum
é
s, but it's hard because I feel really good about that Google thing.”

Romaya walked into her apartment and it was much like it had been weeks before. Maybe a little messier, and I was glad I couldn't be blamed for the clutter. I sat on her couch and placed the bottles and food on her coffee table.

“So what's up?” she asked sitting cross-legged in her dining room chair.

“Have you ever been to Hollywood Forever?” I asked.

“What's that?”

“It's fun. It involves food and movies and booze. If you come with me, I can explain.”

She didn't understand what was happening.

“I got you a toasted veggie sub on wheat,” I said, holding up her sandwich.

“I heard Subway uses rubber in their bread,” she said.

“Fuck, I dunno. Bring a gluten-free pita pocket and scoop the contents into it. Just come with me. It'll be fun. Promise.” I picked up the bottle of Grey Goose to up the ante.

She stood up and looked at me hard, trying to see what was new. I was wearing jeans, sandals, the Son of Man/WiFi T-shirt I won at The Hash Tag, my
Miami Vice
sports jacket, and a fedora.

“You still dress like such a fucking asshole,” she said and went to the other room, returning in flip-flops and a light sweater she'd had since college.

We took Tobey's car east on Wilshire and made our way to Hollywood Forever. I put the booze and food on the floor by her feet. I wanted to put my hand on her leg. That's what I would have done if we were still married. Or I would have held her hand. Squeezed it. And depending on what year it was, she would have squeezed back.

“Are those apartment buildings?” I asked.

“The Towers? Yeah, I guess you can live there. If you have an ungodly amount of money. So what's Hollywood Forever?”

“It's a cemetery,” I said. “Where lots of movie people are buried.”

“You're taking me to a cemetery?”

“Yeah, but the cool thing is, they show movies. They project old movies onto the wall of a massive mausoleum. And everyone picnics.”

I turned to her as much as I could while still driving, and grabbed her hand to give it a shake. “I'm taking you to a cemetery that hosts movies and picnics, baby!”

She smiled and I let her go, before I could feel her not hold back.

“What's with the Jameson?” she asked. “No more Macallan?”

“You still haven't read my book, huh?”

“It's only been a day since you last asked. No, I didn't read your book last night after driving five hours from my Google interview.”

“It's okay,” I said. “Part of it's in the book. I started drinking Jameson because it was cheaper. I was out of the apartment for two months, searching New York City. Drinking in bars. It was a business decision. It's cheaper. Sweeter. Not as good.”

“I see.”

She was mad. I shouldn't have given her shit about the book again.

“And then I kind of broke myself. I got used to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last week I was in some Santa Monica sports bar and I decided to treat myself to a Macallan for the first time in months, but I didn't like it. It was too smoky. Harsh. I'd lost the taste I'd acquired.”

“So you drink Jameson now?”

“I guess, but that bottle's not for me. We're late. They line up for this place. I heard you can bribe yourself a spot in line with a bottle of booze.”

She looked down at the vodka.

“Don't worry, Babe,” I said. “The Grey Goose is yours.”

Wilshire continued on as it does: The luxury apartments give way to porn offices that lead to foreign consulates without anyone noticing. And why should they? Those things can go together because everyone likes nice weather and only a handful can afford it. I cut north on Highland, optimistic that I might actually navigate my way from Brentwood to Hollywood without fucking up. I wanted to do that. I wanted to be on Romaya's home turf without needing assistance. I wanted to be the master of everything, and so far so good.

“I think it's up here,” I said. “In the town. We should look for parking.”

I slowed down, looking for parking around shitty supermarkets and tiny takeaway taco joints.

“There's no lot?” Romaya asked.

I was about to say “don't think so,” but I was surprised by a patch of vibrant green grass emerging from the surroundings, and I thought it was funny that the first thing to look alive among the cheap Californian markets and eateries was a repository for so much death. I kept that thought silent. Romaya didn't have to follow every turn of my mind tonight. It was enough that she associated my presence with comfort.