Agents of the Internet Apocalypse (20 page)

“And what's your excuse?” Jeeves asked, turning to Tobey, but he didn't wait for an answer. It wouldn't have been good anyway. “Tell you what,” Jeeves said. “Give me that phone book and take me to a library. A real one.”

*   *   *

Jeeves had made us feel equal parts shame and gratitude, so after we dropped him off at UCLA we set about making our contribution: preparing for an emergency Messiah meeting to address the Farmers Market explosion. By now it was midafternoon and we had only a few hours to get it together for that night. Fortunately, in my time away, Tobey had practically become royalty over at The Hash Tag. Along with my book, he'd elevated a hack drug den masquerading as an Apocalypse party place to ground zero for the Messiah Movement. So he arranged an impromptu “Messiah Release Party,” and we made fliers beseeching followers to call their friends. We also stressed calls to anyone they knew in the media. The Hash Tag liked that. With no Internet, being on the news was just about the coolest thing there was.

“I still think we should get Anonymous involved,” Tobey said while stapling a flier to a telephone pole.

“Who? Quiff? Isn't he 4Chan anyway? Why do we call him Anonymous?”

“Because who knows? There's a fine line between defenders of liberty and pranking jackasses.”

We showed up at 8:30
P.M.,
which we felt would give us enough time to fill a room—or at least fill the first few tables near the stage so it would look like a full room if the media came. There was a line down the street. Jynx busted out of the door and kissed Tobey right on the lips.

“You did it, baby! I'm gonna make mad tips tonight.”

Another change from the last few weeks. He hadn't even mentioned they were dating.

“Gladstone,” Tobey said, “you know Jynx.”

“How are you?” I asked.

“Great. Good luck with the show tonight. There's, like, five different networks here! I'm gonna be on T.V.!”

“Exciting.”

“Hey, you changed your outfit,” she said.

“Oh, yeah. The old one had kinda had it.”

I didn't bother reclaiming the white sports jacket after the paramedic episode. I thought about appearing in my prison clothes, but that would send the wrong message. So before the show, I stopped back at the apartment to throw on jeans, a T-shirt, and my old brown corduroy sports jacket. It looked kinda worse for wear after the dip in the Hudson River, and was far too hot, but I wanted to be recognized. Also, I still needed a jacket pocket to carry my love letter to Romaya. Then I swapped the white fedora for the old brown one so I'd match, because even guys who dress like assholes have standards.

Tobey and I took our spot as we had before, only this time our free drinks were a Scotch for me and the most expensive beer the bar kept, Radeburger, for Tobey. People stared like we were celebrities, but they did not approach. I wondered about that, but then I noticed a truly terrifying six-foot-four bouncer standing behind our table.

“Gus,” Tobey called to him. “Say hello to my friend Gladstone. He jumped off the Staten Island Ferry to find the Internet.”

“Evening,” Gus said without uncrossing his arms or taking his eyes off the crowd.

“The dude's fucking unflappable,” Tobey said.

Jynx took to the stage and played to the cameras in a way that made me incredibly uncomfortable.

“Say you want a revolution?!” she shouted, and everyone hooted and hollered because if we hadn't, holy shit, the douche chills would have been unbearable.

“All right,” Tobey said. “But she's really nice and a freak in bed. And, oh, by the way, I told her to just introduce you tonight. It's your night.”

“Before I bring up our special guest, straight from his NET Recovery Act arrest, I urge you to try some of our special drinks. There is The Messiah, which comes in two versions, an $8 Jameson and a $12 Macallan. There's also The Tobey, which is just PBR in a can, except you call it The Tobey. Sorry. I thought of that one. And The Oz, which is a Foster's because that's Australian for beer, mate, even though I understand that no one actually drinks Foster's in Australia. But still, y'know?”

Tobey was deeply embarrassed.

“So here he is. You might know him as the Messiah, but to us, he's just Gladstone!”

I was greeted by the loudest ovation of my life, and none of it felt personal.

“Thank you,” I said, and the applause did not die down. I waited. I watched the cameras zoom in.

“I don't have a lot to say. I understand this is a bar. I understand we're all united in a cause. I understand that we're celebrating my release from an undeserved incarceration, but today is a day of mourning. People died today. I saw people die today. As you know, something dark and evil blew up a trolley at the Farmers Market. That order did not come from me. It did not come from anyone I know, and if anyone here committed murder today under the twisted notion that it somehow supports our cause, then leave. This organization wants no part of you.”

I took a candle from the front table.

“I know this doesn't change anything or mean anything, but I'd like us all to pray. To pray that the wounded heal and to pray for those who lost people today, that they find strength to continue.”

I closed my eyes and lowered my head, raising the candle high.

“What is this, fucking church?” a voice called out. I looked up and saw some kid with a shaggy haircut, shaved at the sides, and a neck tat. “I don't need to hear some messiah talking about God.”

“Did that sound smarter in your head before you said it out loud?” I asked.

“You know what I mean. Save that shit for Senator Bramson.”

“Look, I'm not sure God exists either, but we're saying a prayer, and if you need to believe in something better and more important than yourself to join us, then why not look at every other person in this room who had the decency to keep their mouth shut?”

I lowered my head again and thought of all I'd seen wounded. I thought of the boy and wondered if reattaching that arm was at all possible. I thought about the squirrel I killed in my backyard. And after a minute, I thanked everyone and returned the candle.

“That's mostly what I had to say tonight. Tonight can't be about anything else.”

“Can it be about the five more reported dead from an explosion in San Francisco twenty minutes ago?” a reporter by a cameraman asked.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I just got off the phone with my breaking-news editor. Right at this bar. He called to tell me a bomb went off in a San Francisco movie theater today. Five already reported dead.”

“I have no idea. That has nothing … why would … why would you even think that has anything to do with the Internet Reclamation Movement?”

“There was a WiFi hat symbol on the wall outside the theater.”

“That's it? No. I know nothing about that. And I don't see how murdering Americans would help us get the Net back, turn back the awful NET Recovery Act, or get me out of prison, as I'm already free.”

There was no answer and the cameraman just kept filming. Everyone was waiting.

“Well, the only other thing I have prepared for tonight is this: Tobey, hand out the memes.”

Tobey sent out three sets of photocopies to the crowd, all with the image of the M-shaped fedora-wearing WiFi, with blanks for writing above and below.

“The paper you're receiving is the symbol of our organization and it was drawn by idiot savant Brendan Tobey over there. Some of you have been spray-painting it around town with the words ‘Free the Messiah.' Well, there's only two things wrong with that: One, I'm free, and, more importantly, I'm not the Messiah.
We
are the Messiah. This is our organization. And we decide what the message is. So go ahead, take a paper meme and make it your own and spread it around. Make more. Leave it everywhere. In your classrooms, on your doors, on workplace bulletin boards. On walls. Spread what the Web is to you and why you want it back.”

There was silence and confusion. There was the sound of skepticism, which is silence plus tiny movements.

“This is a movement of words. Of thoughts and ideas. But what I'm asking you to do is to write something pure. Boil the Internet down to the purest most valuable thing it offers you and spread that around.”

The skepticism remained.

“I am not the Messiah. This is the Messiah,” I said taking off my fedora. “And anyone can wear this hat who believes in pure things.”

“So the Messiah's a hipster douchebag?” the guy with the neck tat said, getting some laughs.

I ignored it. “Well, friends, when there's more to report, we'll report. But it's been a busy day, so that's all … for now.”

I knew it was time to leave. Slowly, calmly, but now. Seeming indifferent to the crowd's disappointment was the best defense to being called a failure. I had to rise above and let it sink in. I didn't have a car, I still didn't know my way around L.A., but I walked out into the night and took my hat with me. There was some faint applause and chatter as I hit the doorway, and I kept walking. It didn't matter where. All that mattered was removing myself and leaving words in my place.

No one followed. Not Tobey. Not Alana, who I didn't even see in the audience. Not the reporters. No one. And as I turned a corner, I could just barely hear Jynx say, “For the next thirty minutes, two-dollar Tobeys!”

*   *   *

For the first time in our weeks together Tobey woke me. He dropped a copy of the L.A.
Times
on my head.

“You made the front page, Gladballs,” he said.

“You're up early,” I said.

“I haven't been asleep yet. I just came from Jynx's and saw the paper.”

I looked at the headline: “‘Meme-Siah' Denies Involvement in Farmers Market Bombing.”

“Fuckers took my joke,” I said.

“Yeah, congrats. You're as funny as the
LA
Times
,” Tobey replied.

Just then, Tobey's phone rang. Neither of us were used to that. He went over to the kitchen to pick it up.

“Hello,” he said, and somehow that seemed wrong, as if technology affixed to a wall required a more formal greeting.

“Oh, hi,” he said. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Well, yes, right, that is the address. Great.”

He was about to hang up before bringing the receiver back quickly to his face. “Quick question,” he said. “Can I come too? Okay. Awesome.”

“Who was that?” I asked.

“We have ten minutes to get dressed. There's a car outside waiting to take us to the Playboy Mansion.”

That certainly didn't seem like an obvious thing to be told, but ten minutes later Tobey and I were in the back of a limo arguing.

“I can't believe you didn't wear a bathing suit,” he said.

“I'm not going swimming,” I said. “Besides, they invited the Messiah. I might as well play the part.” That sounded like a pretty good excuse for wearing jeans, scrubs, and a corduroy sports jacket with a matching river-beaten fedora.

“Good point,” Tobey said. “Why would you want an outfit that would allow you to hop in a pool with Playmates?”

The car pulled into the estate and I saw all the assorted displays of wealth and success you'd expect. But the car didn't stop near the pools or tennis courts. Instead, it carried on until we reached a place devoid of anything you'd associate with the Playboy Mansion. We were let out at what looked like a tame country-club buffet. There were serving stations, a jazz trio, and waitresses going around with hors d'oeuvres. Attractive women to be sure, but still appropriately dressed in clothing that must have been too warm for the weather.

“I don't see a pool, Tobes, but maybe you can take a dip in a fondue fountain or something.”

“What the fuck is this?” he asked.

Just then a woman in her thirties introduced herself, but I didn't catch the name. Maybe Hugh Hefner's daughter. I thought I'd heard he'd had a daughter. I wasn't sure.

“Welcome to the Playboy Mansion,” she said. “We're all excited you're here. Please, make yourself at home.”

“Thank you,” I said, and wondered if Hef would be making an appearance. Tobey had said the invitation was extended on the phone directly on behalf of Hefner himself, but I didn't risk seeming uncouth by asking.

“Where's Hef?” Tobey asked.

“Don't worry, Mr. Tobey,” she said. “He's always around. Um, would you care for a change of clothes?…”

I laughed, and then felt bad because it seemed to be one of the few times Tobey was actually embarrassed.

“Actually, could I get one?” a twenty-something with ridiculously manicured hair asked. Like Tobey, he was in a bathing suit and tank top. His tan was immaculate and he had clearly paid someone to ensure that his pubes never escaped his skimpy suit. He looked familiar, but I couldn't place him. Some star of Disney movies or WB television shows.

“‘Sup dude,” Tobey said. “Loved you in that thing.”

I wasn't sure if Tobey was also blanking or if that was the cool way to give compliments here. In any event, their instant rapport and similar dress gave our hostess an idea.

“Y'know,” she said, “would you guys prefer to be by the pool?”

“Awesome,” the actor replied, as if that were a response, and I felt disappointed. Grabbing a crepe and a mimosa was all I had in me at the moment.

“You don't mind, hanging back here with us, do you Mr. Gladstone?”

I was relieved. “No. Not at all.” I turned to Tobey and the actor. “You kids have fun.”

Tobey and his newfound friend followed an escort toward some wholesome smut destination, and I headed for the bar. No one stared at me for being freakishly underdressed. Or at least they were too well-bred to let me catch them staring. I stood in line behind a man, clearly fidgeting with something, and waited for him to order before realizing he already had. He just wasn't good at getting out of the way. I ordered a mimosa because I thought that's what people at these things drank. I hadn't actually had one since my mom let me take a sip of hers at some Disney World hotel when I was a kid. It seemed to be a normal order, and when the bartender delivered it with a slight over-reveal of cleavage in an otherwise wholly appropriate black-and-white ensemble, I wondered if she'd worked her way up from bunny.