The Monitor

by Janice Macdonald

  After a latte and bagel at one of the myriad coffee shops within the three-block radius, I meandered over to HUB Cigar. It was an anachronism, even in this neighborhood of eccentric establishments: a news agency par excellence with the original old wooden floors, where business people, children, rubbies, and covert voyeurs mingled easily.

  I love this store, where you have to keep an eye to which aisle you wander down to get to the literary periodicals. You mustn’t catch anyone’s eye, just in case they happen to be carrying several assorted issues of Bouncy, or indulging in a glut of X-MEN comics.

  After picking up a couple of writing quarterlies and a Quill & Quire, I found myself in front of the wall of international newspapers. I’d never paid much attention to these before, in that I usually paid little attention to anything smacking of current events, but today they drew me. They were stacked in cubbyholes with the names of the paper crafted on crude cardboard signs beneath each opening. I stood and read the names of places that had never interested me before: Chicago, Atlanta, Singapore, Austin, San Diego. I spoke daily with people from these places now. On an impulse I grabbed three or four of the ­cheaper editions, although none of them was very inexpensive. It would be cheaper to log into most of these papers’ on-line editions, but the local flavor wouldn’t be there; the ads, the local interest feel-good stories, and the people-oriented articles seemed to get leeched out of what made it on-line.

  It would be fun to sprinkle my conversation with some knowledge about what was happening elsewhere in the world. I smiled wryly, thinking that this would be a way to confuse the trail for Sanders as well. I kept worrying that I’d inadvertently say something too “Edmontonian” and give it all away. At least, if I dropped hints from various places, it might keep him guessing a while longer.

  I paid for my papers and headed back out onto the bustling center of Edmonton’s trendy area. I walked down a few doors and popped into one of the nicer coffee bars to reward myself with another latte.

  Block 1912 was my latest favorite of all the coffee shops along Whyte. There was a postmodernist flair to it, but mostly I liked the fact that the chairs were padded. I dumped my coat and bag in a chair and went up to get a skim milk/decaf latte. Some wag of a waiter had once called my order a “why bother?” but I liked them.

  Once I’d got my coffee, I scrunched down in my chair and hauled some of the newspapers I’d just bought out of the plastic bag. The San Francisco Chronicle was interesting, although I felt a bit pretentious reading it in public. For some reason, it just felt too foreign to be reading it in the middle of Edmonton.

  I took out the Austin American-Statesman. It was a traditional folded newspaper, along the same lines as The Edmonton Journal. I cannot bear tabloid-styled papers—for some reason they make me feel tawdry—but I must admit that they are easier to handle in cafés. I peeled off the International section for later and began to read the city news.

  One article caught my eye at once, which wasn’t difficult, as the headline was huge: COMPUTER KILLS MAN.

  I guess it is not that unusual to be electrocuted by a piece of electronic hardware. It gave me pause, though. I thought about all the times I’d worked straight through thunderstorms. It had never occurred to me to be ­cautious about using my computer. One more thing to get neurotic about. Maybe I should have a rubber mat under my desk.

  It seemed that one Charles Banyon had been surfing the ’Net in the comforts of his own home when he had connected a circuit by touching the keyboard at the same time as he clicked his mouse. He was discovered by his wife, Theresa, when she returned from the hairdresser’s. In her anguish, after cutting the power at the breakers, it seems she had bashed the computer tower to smithereens with a shovel.

  The spokesman from the police was quoted as saying that there was as yet no explanation for the faulty electrics, but that they were investigating, and the possibility of foul play had not been eliminated. The article went on to list the number of deaths by accidental electrocution that happen yearly, although they neglected to point out how many of these might be from murderous computers.

  I sat back. This was going to get blamed on Internet chatting somehow, I’d bet. How did they know he’d been on-line, anyhow? Maybe he was checking his accounts or writing a novel. But, no, they had to say he’d been surfing. It was no wonder folks like Denise were so wary of the on-line frontier. I was betting there would be folks talking about this in Babel pretty soon.

  The café was beginning to fill up, making me feel guilty. I packed away my papers and bundled up. It always surprises me how many people seem to be at loose ends on a workday. For years, as a freelancer, I used to wander about in a wasteland of empty shops and cafés, seeing only the occasional “lunching ladies.” Now, it was as if half the population of Edmonton was ambling through the workday world. Downsizing?

  11

  It was about 10:00 when Sanders showed up that evening. Most of the folks were telling jokes on-line. My favorite was the knock-knock joke about the interrupting cow. “Interrupting cow wh—?” “MOOOOOO!” It made me laugh to see how much really could be transmitted by sheer verbiage, even without the handy asterisked moods, gestures, and smiley-faced “emoticons.”

  I’d been filling Alchemist in about the lag attempts with ZZBottom, and he was highly appreciative of my methods, even though he’d had to fend off about seventy-five messages to Alvin about the bad service. Neither of us had spotted ZZBottom around all week, and Alchemist passed on to me Chatgod’s praises as well.

  Alchemist: That’s exactly the sort of thing Chatgod gets worried about. You done great, kid.

  Chimera: Well, I’ve been watching Venita, but, beyond her being a borderline nymphomaniac, I’m not sure what might be amiss there. I have some spidey senses about Thea and Milan, though I’m not too sure yet. The rest of the list you gave me hasn’t really made much of a showing.

  Alchemist: No, well, people come and go; but they might be back. I’d say to always trust your spidey ­senses on this job. *grin* And well, about Venita . . . would it help you to know she is thirteen?

  Chimera: 13????!???? That makes my skin crawl. I tell you, slutrock music has a lot to answer for.

  Alchemist: Yeah. *shrug* Venita’s not the one I really worry about, though. This isn’t her first liaison. Keep an eye on her if she comes in at night. I usually ride herd on her while she’s in computer lab at school. I think she only gets to the library to “study” at night once every couple of weeks at best.

  Chimera: Okey-dokey. Well, I think I’ve kept you overtime. Thanks for covering for me last night. *hug*

  Alchemist: Any time. *grin* Hot date?

  Chimera: Well, hot-blooded at any rate, as opposed to silica chipped. *LOL*

  Alchemist: *LOL* The best kind! Gotta dash. Have a good night! *hugs*

  I was just belting my velour bathrobe and pouring another cup of decaf when I got a PM from Sanders.

  Evening, Milady. *gallant bow and sweeping of plumed hat*

  I chuckled as I scooted my chair into the desk and posted back to him.

  PM from Chimera to Sanders: In a costume drama mood, are we, this evening?

  PM from Sanders to Chimera: Indubitably. I am in the mood for wild, romantic, courtly gestures. The moors are beckoning, the winds are howling, and the dogs are baying at the moon. How goest it with you? *grin*

  Damn. There were times when I wished for nothing so much as a seventeen-inch monitor screen. Even with frames and two windows open, it was getting difficult to keep the banter running with Sanders and maintain an appropriate eye on what was happening in the general room. The jokes had petered off, and Milan was in talking with Vixen and Ghandhi. I was on the lookout for Thea to appear, but I hadn’t seen her in a couple of days.

  PM from Sanders to Chimera: Or it could simply be that I just finished seeing The Man Who Would be King for about the seventeenth time. *chuckle*

  Rats. I hadn’t even known it was on TV. Not that I watched much televisio
n any more, come to think of it, but I have to admit to having long adored Michael Caine. I stretched my hand out to the side table next to my desk, which held the remote. It still seemed vaguely ridiculous to have a remote control for a television that sat only seven feet away, but what the heck. I clicked onto CBC, which was starting into the news. Sometimes it helped to have a background drone of human voices in the place with me. I leaned back to read what had been happening in the open room. Sanders had surfaced there, to Vixen’s delight, and perhaps to Ghandhi’s relief. Vixen had a habit of teasing him unmercifully over his occasional malapropisms. English was his third or fourth language, and he was far clearer to understand than many of the people from the contiguous forty-eight, but that didn’t stop Vixen.

  Sanders: I hear that computers can be injurious to your health.

  Vixen: Tell me about it. Mouse elbow! *LOL*

  Milan: What do you mean, Sanders?

  Sanders: I heard on the news this evening a fellow was electrocuted by his computer.

  Vixen: WHAT???

  Sanders: Well, that’s what they’re saying on the CBC.

  I frowned. The news here in Edmonton had just begun. I punched up the volume on the remote. They were still on the first story headline, something about a riot in Afghanistan. Maybe he had watched the 6:00 news or listened to As It Happens on the radio. I was impressed that the CBC had covered the story. It hadn’t been in the local paper, just the Austin paper, which was four days old when I purchased it. Of course, maybe it had been in an earlier Edmonton Journal, if they’d taken it off the wire.

  Chimera: Where did that happen, Sanders?

  Sanders: Somewhere in Texas.

  This was strange. The news on the tube had already moved from important international items to current Canadian content. They were interviewing a scientist in BC who had come one step closer to a vaccine against herpes. It would be the weather next, and no word yet of a computer death in Texas. Perhaps the earlier news had been more extensive. I’d always thought they ran the same clips for the 6:00 and 11:00 newscasts, but maybe something had been bumped for a newer story.

  Milan: Did they say what had happened?

  Sanders: *shrug* Just that a man had been electrocuted while on the Internet. That should give Luddites something to talk about. The police are investigating, though.

  Vixen: Maybe Bill Gates is the culprit. Was he on a Mac? *chuckle*

  Ghandhi: I always turn things off in a lightning storm.

  Chimera: Vixen> *LOL*

  Sanders: You might have something there, Vixen. *LOL*

  Vixen: Oh, I never turn anything off. I likely should, but I like to live dangerously. *grin*

  Milan: Well, I’ll look out for that story. Wouldn’t want to go out that way.

  Sanders: Amen, Milan. No, I want to go soft and quiet into that good night . . . a long time from now. *chuckle*

  The conversation started to segue into a comparison of deaths and funerals. I made my general goodbyes to the room and then went in quietly to check on any Alvin PMs that might have cropped up before the California crew got into high gear. I could see what Alchemist had meant; there were still some snarky anti-lag PMs from a couple of folks, seven from one fellow who ran a computer store in Ontario and knew more about computers in his little finger than Alvin could ever hope to know, blah, blah, blah. I cleared them and checked through the private rooms from earlier to clear them. Motel was still up, but from the looks of it, Thea hadn’t been in to pick up any of Milan’s rather urgent messages. I decided to leave it up for them. It didn’t take all that much server space.

  Sanders was still chatting in the open room. Quite a few folks had popped in, and it was beginning to get festive, in the way of all Friday nights. I doubted there would be much to worry about, given the mix of folks there. But, as I had been warned, when things happened, they happened quickly.

  The phone rang, which, surprisingly, didn’t startle me as much this time, with the television still murmuring in the living room. I clicked the remote off, wondering who would be calling this side of midnight. It was Denise, of course.

  “I knew you wouldn’t be in bed,” she began.

  I laughed. It wouldn’t have mattered if I were, in her mind. “How are you doing? Do you have time for a get-together any time soon?” It would be great to spend some time with Denise, especially now that I could actually pay my own way.

  “I would love it,” said Denise, “and I have a suggestion. Let me buy you lunch after we do some shopping. I have to find a pair of shoes for a do next week.”

  “Sounds great. When? Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I’ll pick you up. There is just one hitch. We have to go to the mall; I’ve tried everywhere else. But it will be painless, I promise you. And we’ll eat at the Old Spaghetti Factory. Shall I get you about 9:45? Great. Can’t wait. See you!”

  She rang off quickly, probably afraid I would be forming a negative response. I sat with the phone still in my hand, envisioning myself at West Edmonton Mall on a Saturday morning in the company of a mad shoe shopper. I laughed and set the phone receiver back in its cradle. It could be worse. I could have been electrocuted by my computer.

  12

  I don’t want to be cast out as some pariah from the human race, but I have to admit that I don’t count clothes shopping among my favorite pastimes. However, in the company of a good friend, it can be a diversion. In the company of a good friend on a mission, it can be a blast. I was leaning against a table of shoes that looked as if they had been made by disconsolate Russian workers, listening to Denise explain her predicament to the third manager along Phase One of the mega-mall.

  “I have a ridiculous dress to wear next Thursday, and it requires ridiculous shoes to go with it. Shoes that are delicate, frothy, impractical, beautiful. Do you have anything like that?”

  The last shop manager had just laughed. This one seemed to commiserate. “We have nothing like that this year. Look what they send us! These big, clunky heels. They don’t even have the redeeming quality of being practical, look at the last on this one. You would break down your arch in ten minutes! And for what? So your calf can look like it’s soldered to a block of cement? Where is the elegance in that? Pah!”

  Although I doubted this was the way to sell shoes, I enjoyed seeing someone who seemed to take his business seriously. He leaned in and whispered something to Denise. She smiled and shook his hand, then slipped back into her loafers.

  “C’mon, Randy. I’ve been given a lead,” she whispered in high-drama, spy-movie mode, as she grabbed my arm and spun me out of the shop.

  I was having a great time. Part of it was being with Denise, whose conversation was always witty and intelligent. Besides, she was so damned gorgeous that the crowds seemed to part and melt to let her through. She just shook her head, allowing her smooth, thick blond hair to fall into place, and, despite her strong feminist convictions, took it as her due. I tucked an escaping tendril from my braid behind my ear and followed along, graced by association.

  I was intrigued with her quest. I couldn’t wait to have her rationalize both her search for what our mothers would have dubbed “hooker shoes” and her costume for the event with her own rigid ethical code. I figured I would get it all from her over lunch. Right now, she was hot on the trail.

  We passed two more stores filled with Russian Realist footwear, then she pulled me into a small store near the ice rink.

  “This is where André told me to try.”

  “André?”

  “The man at the last shoe store,” she grinned. “He said if anyone had Cinderella shoes, it would be this place.”

  André was probably right. There was a crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the small shop, lighting glass and marble shelves on either side. Two round banquettes for sitting were placed down the center of the store. A young woman in black tights, a black jumper, and dead-black hair appeared from the back of the store. She ­wasn’t really as anachronistic as she might have
been; in this milieu she seemed more like a milliner’s apprentice than a goth.

  “May I help you?”

  Denise launched into her spiel. I sat on one of the banquettes and counted the number of opera bags on the wall behind the back counter. The girl seemed to be nodding, and she disappeared.

  Denise giggled. “I think we may have found the ­mother lode.”

  The girl reappeared with several boxes. Denise positively gurgled with delight as she opened the first one and pulled out a black sandal with tiny spaghetti straps, perched on a clear Lucite heel. A three-inch heel. My feet cramped as I looked at it. Denise was kicking off her loafers and rolling up her wide-legged wool trousers. She eased the straps over her toes and wound the ankle strap twice around before belting it, then she stood up and made her way to the mirror.

  “Perfect,” she announced.

  “We have them in gold as well,” offered the clerk.

  “I think that just might be gilding it,” Denise said ­seriously.

  I made strange, strangled noises into the shoulder of my jacket.

  Trust Denise’s luck. It turned out that the wonder shoes were also on sale and the only ones left in black just happened to be her size. Life just works out that way for her. True to her word, we were on our way to the Old Spaghetti Factory as soon as her treasure was bagged.

  I love this restaurant. It is one of the great redeeming features for me when I go to visit the mall, beyond the $1.50 second-run cinemas and the funny fountain in the entrance to Galaxyland, which is no longer as charming because of all the pastel statuary built up around it. The original Old Spaghetti Factory in the Boardwalk downtown has all sorts of great antiques, like the one in Vancouver’s Gastown, but all of them have that amazing Mizithra cheese, which supposedly is what Homer ate while composing The Illiad. I tend to expect epics to burst out of my forehead, fully bound, after a meal there.