Thea and Milan had created a private room by now. I checked the listings and grinned. They’d titled it motel. I wondered whose idea that had been. Geoff L had gone to bed, Maia was gone, and Vixen was PMing with Teddy, her current cyber-paramour. Lea, Kara, Carlin, and Twirp were playing at having a hot-tub party, flicking each other with cyber-towels and generally getting up to no harm.
My Notify list blinked as Sanders appeared. He must have left the link open a long time, since his entrance wasn’t announced on the open screen. Although I was visible to anyone searching lists of current users, I hadn’t posted anything recently, so it was a bit surprising to receive a PM from Sanders almost immediately.
And how is the ether woman this fine evening? *Smile* I’ve been thinking about you. . . .
I pondered a response. I had to admit the man intrigued me, but I wasn’t sure whether it was the hint of danger I felt from his physical proximity, or his personality. From the general postings I’d read, he seemed nice, but I had the feeling that, were he to realize where I lived, he might request a coffee date or some such, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to go down that road.
Lots of Babellers had met up in real time, and most of the time it seemed to enhance their friendships, but there was still the thought in the back of my mind that any one of these folks could be an ax-murderer. Just as I was thinking up a suitably evasive reply to Sanders, my telephone rang.
It startled me. I picked up the receiver cautiously, my mind still half on the screen updating in front of me.
“Randy?” My heart still flipped a bit whenever I heard Steve’s voice. It had been almost five months since we’d decided to cool it, and although I’d managed to persuade myself it had been all for the best, I still missed him desperately.
“Hi there, Officer. How’s it going?”
“A lot better, hearing your voice.” I could hear him smiling through his words. “I was wondering if you might like to catch a bite later. I miss you, you know.”
“Tonight? I’ve already eaten, I think.”
“You think?”
“Well, I’m not hungry, so I must have.” This was likely not the right response, since Steve had always been on at me about my eating habits. “Actually, Steve, I’m busy tonight, but I’d love to get together. How about,” my eye raked the calendar above my desk, “day after tomorrow?”
“Thursday? For dinner? Sure. How about I pick you up at, say, 7:00?” Steve sounded a bit deflated, but that could have been just my imagination.
“Sounds great, I’m looking forward to it.”
“Me too, Randy. Me too. Well, I’d better get back to it. Crime doesn’t sleep.”
“Catch the bad guys, Officer. That’s what I pay my taxes for. See you Thursday.”
I hung up the phone, thinking I’d better notify Alchemist of my date on Thursday to see if he could cover for me. I’d offer to take one of his day shifts, I figured, although we hadn’t yet decided what my day off would be, I realized. It would be good to see Steve again. I wasn’t sure how much I would tell him about my new job, though. I had a feeling he wouldn’t approve, although I wasn’t sure what was giving me that idea.
I turned my attention back to Babel, where there was another PM from Sanders.
Still with us, lady of shadows?
PM from Chimera to Sanders: Nice to see you; merely contemplating life, the universe and the price of wheat in China.
PM from Sanders to Chimera: Overrated, too big to clean, and stick to rice.
I laughed. Sanders was funny, I had to give him that. To be on the safe side, I opened another window to watch the room in general as I chatted with him. I was certainly curious about him, but I couldn’t very well ask any pointed questions without leaving myself open to having to answer in kind. I played along, hoping he would allow some personal tidbits to slip out. I had a wacky vision of him turning out to be my next-door neighbor, Mr. McGregor, tired of his Hammond organ and gone cyber, and almost spit coffee onto the monitor.
In a way, I had been lucky that Steve had called when he had, or I might have been tempted to tell Sanders a little more about myself. I had been feeling lonely. It was mostly my own fault, but it didn’t help for Sanders to know that.
To be extra safe, I dialed up Denise’s number and left a request for a coffee date on her answering machine. Sanders and I continued to quip as I kept an eye on the room at large. I checked in on Thea and Milan in their private room, motel, every so often, but they were getting rather embarrassingly explicit, and I felt uncomfortable. Sex has never been a spectator sport for me, even if only described in words. Alchemist might have the stomach for this sort of thing, but I didn’t think I ever would.
Thea must have been a reader of bodice-ripper romance novels. Her postings had that faint edge of patchouli to them.
Thea: *breast heaving* The thought of your hands claiming territory, drawing me toward you, pulling me ever nearer . . . being impaled. . . . *moaning*
Milan: Darling, I cup one perfect breast in my hand and bring my mouth down on your warm nipple, my tongue licking it to attention, as I push deeper into your mysteries. . . .
I had to admit, Milan knew his audience.
Thea: *writhing* Oh . . . oh lord, I hear him coming down the hall. . . . *kiss* Bye.
Milan: Thea. . . .
I shook my head. I tried not to be judgmental, but this was ugly. I have never understood the penchant some folks have for starting things without finishing others. Thea might be unhappy in her marriage, but there was no excuse, in this day and age, not to simply walk away from that unhappiness before starting something new.
I’d always been puzzled as well by the acceptance of chivalric romance, the old Arthurian idea of pining for the unattainable. I had been too shy to ever question it in university English classes, and the professors, all male, come to think of it, had seemed to find nothing wrong in the concept of lusting after another man’s wife. I wondered if Milan was truly in love with Thea as Thea, or if he was harboring some Lancelot complex.
It has been my opinion that Lancelot should have forgotten about Guinevere and checked out the poor old Lady of Shalott before she boarded the barge, but then where would Tennyson have been? Stuck with some bedraggled seabird for eternity. I grinned to myself. Maybe it was a good thing I didn’t have a classroom job this winter. With any luck, by May, when I was hoping for a literature course, I would be back on an even keel, maundering on about pastoral poetry and the need for informed readers to allow parody to exist, instead of sermonizing on the moral turpitude of the previous generations. There might be a paper in comparing chivalric romances to cyber-relationships, but I doubted I’d be the one to write it.
PM from Sanders to Chimera: Forgive my intrusion to your reverie. I must confess you have been the cause of mine.
I smiled, in spite of myself. Well, I wouldn’t be teaching English literatrue for a living unless I could be swept up by words, now would I? I had to admit it; the man was getting to me.
PM from Chimera to Sanders: Perhaps if the shadows were highlighted a bit more, our reveries would take on a similar hue . . . tell me about yourself . . . I’m a very good listener.
I remembered an old roommate of mine, famous for having a date every weekend through undergrad days, even prior to exams, when most of us were busy trying to cram eight months’ reading into forty-eight hours. Her advice, when pushed for her secrets to dating prowess, was relatively simple. She had admitted that she would look into her date’s eyes and say, “Tell me about yourself,” and spend the rest of the evening listening and nodding.
It wasn’t that easy to just smile and nod in a chat room but it might work to get some more information without having to divulge.
PM from Sanders to Chimera: Certainly, but there is no such thing as something for nothing in this world or any other. *smile*
Rats. Oh well, if I played my cards warily, things should be safe enough.
Lying in bed later that night, I was
still mulling over some of the intriguing conversation I’d had with Sanders. It was so much more titillating, for me at any rate, to think that I’d been speaking to someone I might ostensibly one day meet, someone from my own milieu. And he was that, indeed.
While we had maintained a veneer of banter and metaphor, some salient facts had come through. I was hoping more had come to me than had gone out, but then one could never be sure just what anyone read between the lines.
He had said he was involved tangentially and occasionally with the arts, but not paid for those connections. I had divulged that I was between jobs at the moment. He was divorced. I was single. His reading tastes were refreshingly eclectic, spanning poetry, biography, and the Booker nominees. He frequented the Yardbird Suite for good jazz, he drank his lattes decaffeinated and his beers dark, he played backgammon for money and started each day with the Globe and Mail cryptic crossword. He knew his way around the south side and university area, from the sounds of things.
By the end of the evening I had almost blurted out a request to meet him for drinks. I chuckled. What would his reaction have been had I casually said, “Why don’t we meet at The Second Cup in Old Strathcona for a latte tomorrow?”
This was something I hadn’t prepared myself for—the thought of actually wanting to meet someone from the chats in real time. What if, after all the interesting banter, he turned out to be some acne-riddled nebbish with an overbite and body piercings? Or worse, short?
I eventually drifted off to sleep, and my dreams were crowded with visions of typing “Thursday” over and over onto a computer screen.
8
Alchemist agreed to cover for me on Thursday night. I was nervous about seeing Steve for the first time in almost half a year. I warred against dressing up but didn’t want to risk hurting his feelings by appearing too casual. As well, I needed a little help masking the vulnerability I still felt. I decided on black jeans, a black cropped sweater, and just a hint of eye makeup. I braided my hair and reached instinctively for my favorite silver earrings. My hand stopped midway to the earring wall, two panels of cork tile over my dresser on which my earrings hung from dressmaker’s pins. Steve had given me those earrings. What would my wearing them say to him?
“Oh lord, Randy, you’re going to analyze yourself into an early grave,” I said out loud, and snatched the silver earrings off their pin.
I was ready well before 7:00. I wandered about the apartment, checking that all the dishes were washed, the towels hung up, the bed quilts pulled straight. I wasn’t planning anything; at least, I didn’t think I was.
I glanced over at my desk area in the tiny dining room. I had stowed all my cue cards in a yellow plastic recipe box, and, although there was a list of handles on the bulletin board to the left of the window above the computer, I doubted that it divulged any secrets. Not that I was hiding anything in particular from Steve. I knew I would answer him honestly if he came right out and asked what I was doing with myself every evening from eight till three these days, but I wasn’t sure I really wanted him to be too curious.
I was still trying to analyze whether I was ashamed of my involvement as a paid peeper in the chat room when there was a knock at my door. Seven o’clock; right on time. I felt my heart bounce upward as I moved to the door.
Steve looked just as gorgeous as he had the first time I’d seen him. His brown leather jacket emphasized his broad shoulders, and his shirt underneath was crisp and fresh. I wanted to run my hands through his hair, to pull him into me and drink in his scent, all warmth and clean shower soap, as I remembered so well. Instead, I smiled brightly and asked, “So? Ready to eat?”
We walked down the hall of my apartment building in silence. I found myself concentrating on the edge of the Persian carpet that ran down the middle of the floor. It was so strange to be awkward around Steve, who had shared my bed, my shower, my . . . well, it didn’t bear thinking about. I darted a quick look at him as he opened the door for me and caught his eye. The same thoughts must have been coursing through his mind, because he cocked his head to one side and said, “Oh Randy,” and all of a sudden we were locked in an embrace that would rival the hottest teenage couple in any bus shelter.
After a few minutes, we broke for air. We looked at each other and laughed. “Should we head back down the hall, do you think?”
I smirked. “No way, Browning. You promised me dinner. First things first.” I squeezed him once more, fiercely, before moving back a step. Who knows, it was very likely a mistake to go against all the well-thought-out reasons for not continuing the relationship, but I felt as if a part of me that had been missing had returned and brought me back to life. I felt like laughing, or singing and dancing.
Instead, I let Steve lead me to his car and drive me to Earl’s Tin Palace, where the beautiful people that evening just had to take a back seat to us.
9
We were back at my place, a bit disheveled and very mellow. Although I hadn’t forgotten how easy I felt in Steve’s presence, it was as if a fog had been lifted, having him back in my orbit.
Over dinner we had discussed Steve’s work, his project for early intervention with troubled teens through the community precincts, and the paper he’d delivered at a conference he’d attended in August. He’d kept himself very busy since we’d been apart; I wasn’t sure whether to be jealous or pleased.
Now it was my turn. Steve had ambled out to the kitchen to get us some water. I was drowsy and didn’t notice how long he was taking. When he returned, he deliberately dribbled a bit of water into my belly button.
“You rat!”
“That’s not what you were saying a couple of hours ago.” I sniffed in mock hauteur and took the glass of water from him.
“I noticed a strange list of names over your desk there. You doing some research or something?”
“Yeah, something.” A brief thought of Chatgod’s strange, cold face flashed across my brain, and I remembered his admonition to tell no one about my job. But this was Steve, and in the afterglow of ultimate vulnerability, I had no desire to keep secrets from him.
I outlined my monitoring job for Steve. I found myself trying to make it seem as innocuous as possible and trying to gauge his reaction as I went on. He asked a few interested questions and seemed to agree that it wasn’t bad work for the time being.
“How do you feel about spying on people, though? Don’t you feel as if you’re somehow infringing on their privacy?”
“Well, I guess I’m rationalizing, but I figure that everyone should be pretty aware that the ’Net isn’t a secure place. I wouldn’t ever write anything I’d be worried about being overheard in church. There are other sites that log everything that takes place on the screen and in private. I think, in a way, that is worse than a few watchers. At least we don’t log private messages or do anything more than block people who are overstepping certain already posted rules against pornography and other nastiness. And they are never sure if they’ve been kicked out or if their link has just somehow gone down.”
Steve shook his head. “This Chatgod guy seems a bit strange, though, if you ask me. What if you all end up eating poisoned pudding the next time a comet whips around?”
I laughed at the thought. “Oh yeah, he’s a case, all right. And you aren’t far off the mark. I think he does have some sort of messianic complex, but he pays my salary right on time and hasn’t bothered me at all, so I can’t complain.”
“Well, I know there was a lot of talk about policing on the ’Net at the symposium I went to in August. I didn’t give it too much thought, as I don’t go on-line except at work, but I could get you the printout of the proceedings if you want. There might be something there useful to you, since you’re setting yourself up as a private cyber-cop.”
I’d not thought of myself as such, but the more Steve spoke, the more it rang true. Something told me that setting myself up as a private cyber-cop wasn’t quite what Chatgod had in mind, but I pushed that thought aside.
“Some of the people are fascinating, Steve. As an old sociology major, you’d love it. It’s as if folks are rediscovering the art of communication, or developing a new one.”
Steve leaned forward and took the water glass away from me, setting it up on the dresser within easy reach.
“Speaking of alternate forms of communication, mind if I stay over?”
“You always said it was like ‘sleeping at attention’ in this small bed,” I laughed.
“Who said anything about sleeping?”
What can I say? It never pays to argue with the law.
10
It was even later than usual when I finally got in gear on Friday morning, but I didn’t mind. Steve had gone home after having some toast and coffee, and I’d putzed about in my housecoat for a while longer, unwilling to break the spell. Finally, I roused myself and got dressed. Old Strathcona was calling, and I wanted to wander about.
I was halfway to Whyte Avenue, heading on a zigzag diagonal through the neighborhood of old homes and three-storey walk-up apartments, when I realized I hadn’t thought about the ’Net once since Steve and I had talked about it the night before, nor had I missed being on-line. Maybe I wasn’t quite the addict I feared I was becoming. I smiled, mentally envisioning an *LOL* sign. On the other hand, maybe I was a nymphomaniac. Well, all in all, neither addiction was going to kill anyone. There were worse vices.
I moseyed about in When Pigs Fly, an idiosyncratic little boutique. They always had something to look at. Some of their tee-shirts had very funny slogans on them. I found myself laughing out loud at one: “Inside this body is a thin woman screaming to get out; I ate her.” It would make a great global for the chat room, those little bits of cyber-graffiti that appeared above the screen occasionally when you refreshed. I smirked inwardly. Maybe I was addicted to the chats after all.
The Monitor Page 4
