Bingoed

by Patricia Rockwell

  “I know, Grandma,” he replied, and Essie could hear a little bit of a scolding coming on.

  “Can you tell me what to do? So I can show my friend?”

  “All right. Maybe you should write this down.”

  “No, no. I’ll remember. Just tell me how to do the Google.”

  “Okay, first make sure the computer is turned on. Can you do that? Then, sign on to the Internet.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Grandma, you’d better let me come over and help you.”

  “I’ll figure it out. Go on.”

  “Maybe someone there who actually uses the computers can help. Anyway, once you’re on the Internet, you type in ‘Google’ which will take you to the Google home page. Here you will see a search box.”

  “A box,” she replied. “I’ve got it.”

  “Just type in the person’s name in the search box along with whatever other information you have like address and home town. Then hit ‘enter’ and you’ll see a long list of items. If you click your mouse on each of these items, it will bring up pages about this person.”

  “These items are about the person?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “some of the items may be newspaper articles about the person. They may be related to social or business aspects of the person’s life.”

  “That’s great! That’s just what I . . . I mean, what my friend needs!”

  “But, Grandma,” cautioned Ned, “if you have any problems doing any of this, I would be more than happy to drop by your place and help you or set you up with your own unit.”

  “No thanks, Ned. I think I understand. Google, search box, click item with mouse. Thank you. Bye!”

  “Uh, bye, Grandma.”

  Essie gently placed the receiver back in its cradle. Grabbing a pad of paper and a pencil, she quickly jotted down what she remembered of Ned’s directions. She really didn’t understand any of what he’d said but she hoped that when she and Marjorie and Opal sat down at one of the two computers in the family room, one of the three of them would be able to figure the directions out.

  Computers, she thought. She had avoided the treacherous machines ever since they had appeared. Now it seemed she would have to make their acquaintance.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Anyone who stops learning is old, whether at twenty or eighty.”

  —Henry Ford

  Several hours following breakfast, Essie and her three companions in detection were ensconced before one of the two large desktop computer consoles located along the back wall in the family room. Essie sat directly in front of the screen in her walker seat, having removed the rolling computer chair off to the side. Fay was to her right in her wheelchair, Opal was directly behind, and Marjorie sat on her left. All four women were bent close to the glowing computer screen, partially because they couldn’t see it well and partially because they didn’t want any passers-by to notice what they were doing.

  “If anyone asks,” said Essie, turning from one woman to another, “we’re practicing our computer skills so we can learn to be emailers. I’ve heard that term and it seems like something we could all do.”

  “Email,” they all agreed in a pact, including Fay.

  “I hardly get any regular mail,” noted Opal from behind Essie’s chair, “so maybe getting some of this email is just what I need.”

  “We’re not doing any email,” explained Essie. “We’re just using it as an excuse for all of us sitting here at this computer.”

  “Okay,” said Marjorie, “let’s get busy. What do we do first?”

  Essie picked up her small notepad and ran her finger up to the first item on her list.

  “First, we have to get on the Internet,” she said.

  “How do we do that?” asked Opal, bending over and peering intently at the colorful screen.

  “Ned said something about a mouse,” recalled Essie.

  “I think that’s the mouse,” said Marjorie, pointing to the small round plastic device attached to a long cord next to the monitor. The mouse sat on a rubber pad that proclaimed “Happy Haven Assisted Living Facility.”

  “Oh,” said Essie, touching the round plastic mouse cautiously. “Ooops!” As she touched it, the screen came to life and a white arrow appeared on the blue screen.

  “Oh, my!” said Opal, applauding. “That was wonderful, Essie!” Essie quickly removed her hand from the device as if she’d been stung.

  “No, Essie, don’t let go!” directed Marjorie, “You have to hold on to it! Look, when you touched it, that little arrow popped up!”

  “Do you think that arrow is pointing us to the Internet?” asked Essie.

  As the three women argued about what to do next, Fay reached over from her wheelchair seat to the right of Essie and grabbed the mouse. Expertly using the mouse to slide the white arrow down a list of choices along the left-hand side of the screen, she stopped her hand movement at an entry that said “Internet.”

  “Look!” said Opal with a surprised cheer. “Fay’s found the Internet!” And indeed, as soon as Fay clicked the link, the screen changed. Fay lifted her hand from the mouse and sat back in her seat smiling.

  “How did you do that, Fay?” Essie asked the rosy-cheeked, smiling face to her right. Fay smiled even more broadly as the other three women were awed at her performance.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Marjorie, calling their attention back to the screen. “Look! It’s the Google!”

  And sure enough. On the screen, in large, primary colors, the words “Google” appeared at the top.

  “Essie,” said Opal, pointing at a rectangular-shaped box directly below the Google icon on the screen. “Look! It’s a box!”

  Essie glanced down at her notepad. Running her finger down the instructions that Ned had given her, she read, “type in name in search box.”

  “Hmm,” she said to herself. “Do you think that’s the search box? Ned said to type in the name. Now, how do I type in the name?”

  She started typing but nothing happened.

  “It’s not doing anything in the box,” said Marjorie.

  “I’m typing,” replied Essie, hitting one key, then another in her one-finger method. Again, Fay elbowed Essie away from the board, grabbed the mouse, and clicked on the search box where, magically, a black vertical line appeared. Fay pointed at the box, and then sat back in her wheelchair.

  “How does she know how to do this?” asked Marjorie.

  “Just type, Essie,” said Opal. Essie’s right index finger went flying (well, not flying) over the keyboard. After a few starts and stops, her efforts appeared in the magic Google box. She had typed the name “Ben Jericho.”

  “Now what?” she asked. “Is it supposed to do something?”

  “Maybe you have to click it with that mouse thing?” suggested Marjorie.

  “Maybe you have to rub the mouse thing over the box thing,” offered Opal.

  At this point, Fay again bent over towards the keyboard and with one finger hit the “Enter” button. Suddenly, the screen filled with a list of words and paragraphs, all containing the name “Ben Jericho.”

  “Oh, my!” said Marjorie. “Is all of that information about Ben Jericho?”

  “It goes on and on,” added Opal as she glanced from the top of the computer screen to the bottom.

  “There’s. . .” Essie looked at the bottom of the page where blue numbers running from “1” through “7” seemed to indicate additional information about Ben Jericho. “I think there’s more information about him. Look!”

  “Now what do we do?” asked Marjorie. Fay, who still had her hand on the mouse, moved the device quickly over the blue text on the first entry. She clicked her index finger on the left side of the mouse. Instantly the screen changed to a newspaper article with a photograph.

  “Look!” said Marjorie. “It’s a story about Ben Jericho.”

  Essie started reading the story, which was from the sports section of a Buffalo, New York, n
ewspaper. “The Buffalo West High School Bulldogs were led to glory last night in a squeaker over the Provincetown Panthers. Star guard Ben Jericho made the winning goal . . .”

  “Wait a minute!” shouted Opal. “Look at the date! It says 2005. If Ben Jericho was a high school basketball player in 2005, I don’t think he’s the one we want.”

  “Of course not,” agreed Essie. “Remember, there must be hundreds of Ben Jerichos. In the letter, our Ben Jericho said he had trouble tracking down Bob Weiderley because of the number of Bob Weiderleys that are in the United States. I imagine there are lots of Ben Jerichos too. This one is obviously not our Ben Jericho.”

  “How do we go back to that part that listed all those articles?” pondered Marjorie. As if in answer to her prayer, Fay reached for the mouse, moved it to an arrow in the upper-left-hand corner of the screen and clicked. The previous page appeared.

  “Oh, I get it,” said Opal from behind Essie. “The arrow points backwards, so she clicked it and it sent us back to where we were.”

  “Very clever! Good job, Fay,” agreed Essie. “Now, what do we do next?”

  “Fay, do that click thing on one of these other articles,” said Marjorie, pointing at the second listing in blue text on the screen.

  “Do we have to just keep clicking on every article until we find our Ben Jericho? What if we never find him? What if there aren’t any articles about him?” asked Essie.

  “Try putting some other information in that box,” suggested Opal. “Those articles seemed to have been generated by that mouse device based on the information you typed into that box, Essie. Maybe if you type in more information, the mouse will find the right Ben Jericho.”

  “Yes,” agreed Marjorie. “We know more than just his name. Write in his name, his address, his town. Write in everything we know.”

  “Okay,” said Essie, and she quickly went to work with her one finger typing. Soon the box was filled with the more detailed information about Ben Jericho. “Okay, now I hit this button that says ‘enter,’ right?” She turned to Fay who had fallen asleep.

  “Yes, yes,” said Marjorie, nodding.

  With her finger on the “enter” button, Essie felt empowered. As she pressed it, the screen immediately brought up a new list of information—although this list was much shorter. Indeed, this list had only three items.

  “Why so few?” asked Marjorie.

  “Because we narrowed our parameters,” said Opal.

  “Math again, Opal!” chided Marjorie.

  “Stop it, you two!” said Essie, bent over the three entries. She saw that the second and third entries appeared to be the same. That is, although there were some differences in the title or what she was calling the title, the descriptions below were the same and both mentioned a Ben Jericho as a local marathon runner. She didn’t think that would be much help. The first article, however, referred to Ben Jericho and a local business.

  “Click that first one,” said Marjorie, pointing at the first item. Essie moved the mouse over the blue link and clicked. The screen changed to a lengthy article dated 1998 from the business section of a community newspaper. It discussed various individuals in local businesses who had been hired or promoted. One such individual was an executive of a local company called Medilogicos, Inc., named Ben Jericho, age 42. It gave his address and listed the names of his wife and children. The information in the article was identical to that supplied in the letter. It appeared to the women that they had found their Ben Jericho.

  “It’s him!” said Marjorie.

  “Now what do we do?” asked Opal.

  “I wish we had a way to locate the original newspaper and get a copy of it. Here, I’ll write down the name of the newspaper. Maybe I can call them and see if they can send me a copy of this newspaper.”

  “It’s over ten years old!” said Marjorie. “They probably won’t be able to do that!”

  “Then, I’m going to have to write it all down. You two stand guard while I start copying.”

  “Essie, you can’t write down that entire article!” exclaimed Opal. “It must be thousands of words!”

  All the shouting woke Fay from her brief nap. She glanced over at her friends who were squabbling about recording the information on the screen. Fay reached out again for the mouse, and clicked an icon in the upper left-hand corner.

  “Oh, no, Fay!” screamed Marjorie. “Now it’s gone!”

  “I needed to write that information down,” said Essie.

  Fay ignored their pleas and clicked on a tiny drawing of a printer. When another screen popped up, Fay pressed “print” and instantaneously the small printer behind the monitor leaped into life and spewed out a beautiful copy of the Ben Jericho article. Essie grabbed the single sheet from the device and sat back down where she showed it to the women.

  “Oh, Moses and roses!” exclaimed Essie. “Thank you, Fay!”

  “Did Fay do that?” asked Marjorie.

  “She must have,” replied Opal.

  As the three women oohed and awwed over the newly printed copy of the newspaper article, Fay closed the print screen and clicked back into Google. Then she went back to sleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “It’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.”

  —Abraham Lincoln

  Before they left the computer station, the women (with Fay’s help) also discovered and printed information on the company where Ben Jericho worked—Medilogicos, Inc. A directory entry gave the address, phone number, and general information for the medical services provider. It appeared that Medilogicos employed over 300 individuals and that Ben Jericho was an executive director in charge of research and development. They were also able to find Jericho’s home telephone number and they discovered that his wife, Isabel, belonged to several local charitable organizations.

  Essie, Marjorie, and Opal went back to Essie’s apartment, leaving Fay to finish her nap in front of the computer. Opal whispered to Fay that she would pick her up for lunch on her way back. Fay didn’t complain. Fay was still asleep.

  In Essie’s living room, the three friends argued over their next step. Marjorie wanted to call Ben Jericho immediately and ask him directly what his intentions were towards Bob Weiderley. Opal thought a more discreet method might be to call Jericho’s wife and claim to be calling from some obscure charity and see what they could find out that way. Essie wasn’t sure. She worried that any attempt to contact Jericho or his wife might cause the scammer to speed up his plan (whatever that plan was) and poor Bob Weiderley might find himself penniless if and when he recovered from his coma.

  In the end, Opal’s plan won out, being the least disruptive, yet still somewhat productive, of their options.

  Essie made the call.

  “Hello,” she said in her cheeriest, most persuasive money-collecting voice. “Is this Mrs. Jericho?”

  “Yes,” replied a soft female voice. “I’m Isabel Jericho.”

  “Mrs. Jericho,” continued Essie. “This is Margaret—(she used a first name because that’s what most solicitors did when they called her to get money)—from the National Heart Disease and Cancer Research Association.” She figured she’d combine two awful diseases for greater emotional impact.

  Marjorie scowled and Opal’s chin dropped.

  “Our records indicate,” said Essie, knowing that the only records most of these places had was a list of phone numbers for suckers.

  “I’m sorry,” interrupted Isabel Jericho, “but I’m involved in so many causes right now that I simply can’t get involved in any more.” With that, she hung up, leaving Essie flabbergasted.

  “I can’t believe she hung up on me!” gasped Essie.

  “She obviously recognized a scam artist when she heard one,” sneered Opal.

  “Maybe because she’s married to one?” queried Marjorie.

  “I didn’t get a chance to ask her any questions about her husband,” wailed Essie.

  “Should we call hi
m at work?” asked Marjorie.

  “Let’s try,” said Essie, lifting her finger to dial Jericho’s business number.

  “Why don’t you let me try this time, Essie?” asked Opal.

  “What?” squeaked Essie. “Just because that woman hung up on me doesn’t mean that I can’t talk to people persuasively.”

  “Can I try?” asked Opal, sweetly.

  “Oh, all right! Here!” She handed the receiver to Opal and rose from her armchair, allowing Opal to sit beside the phone. Opal sat down and Essie placed the written phone number on the notepad in front of her face.

  “I’ve got it!” said Opal, pushing the paper away. She dialed the eleven digits and waited for several rings before the call was answered.

  “May I speak with Mr. Jericho?” she asked, using her best administrative assistant voice. Essie and Marjorie could hear talking on the other end of the line. “Oh? When do you expect him back? Oh. Not until then. Oh, I see. I really needed to get in touch with him.” More listening. “That’s too bad. I just missed him? Not for several days? My goodness. Oh, dear. I really need to contact him. It’s very important.” Opal pushed her case assertively and Essie and Marjorie listened intently.

  “No, actually, it’s not business,” continued Opal. Essie realized that this tactic was probably a good one. If Jericho wasn’t there and wasn’t due back, it wouldn’t really matter what excuse Opal gave the secretary as long as she could get some useful information. “Truthfully, it’s a personal situation. You see, Mr. Jericho is a relative of mine . . . . What?” There was a long pause as Opal listened, her eyes growing wide. “He is? Do you know when? Oh, yes. Well, yes. Thank you. No, no message.” Opal hung up.

  “What?” asked Essie. “What did she say?”

  “That was Jericho’s secretary. She said that he’d left town just today on . . . personal . . . business. He isn’t expected back for several days. She didn’t know where he’d gone but when I told her I was a relative, she became very flustered and tried to get me to leave my name. You heard it.”