by Mike Heppner
—Because this invasion of privacy represents even greater constitutional violations that the federal government commits every day? Because, in searching the apartment, the surveillance men may inflict irreparable damage to the property, resulting in a decreased value for the landowner?
—Because this invasion of privacy represents even greater constitutional violations that the federal government commits every day, and see other.
—End of list.
The man outside walks down the front lawn and looks up the street, toward town. He then turns around and looks in the other direction, away from town. He then looks across the street and stares directly at his vehicle. His expression is stony.
—Slink back into the woods? Don’t slink back into the woods?
—Slink back into the woods.
Olden hunkers down behind the stand of trees and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the palm of his left hand.
—Wipe sweat: onto pant leg? onto ground? onto other hand? onto side of face? back onto forehead? onto trunk of tree? onto invisible creature of the woodlands? onto front of shirt? onto seat of pants? onto neck? onto hair? onto imagined likeness of Chester Alan Arthur? onto shoe? onto medallion?
—Wipe sweat onto side of face.
Looking down at the frozen ground, Olden closes his eyes as a blustery wind sifts through the trees. Pine needles fall from the branches and filter down the neck of his shirt.
—Entertain half-baked notions of guilt and complicity? Don’t entertain half-baked notions of guilt and complicity?
—Entertain half-baked notions of guilt and complicity.
—Because by utilizing the current multi-communications network to satisfy your own thirst for destruction, you have taken advantage of the trust of the world community? Because by infecting the Information Superhighway with products of misinformation, you have created a greater harm than you ever first imagined, even in your most sordid, delusion-wracked fantasies?
—Because by infecting the Information Superhighway with products of misinformation, I have created a greater harm than I ever first imagined, even in my most sordid, delusion-wracked fantasies, and see other.
—Because by taking this action, you may have subtly altered the fabric of reality, thereby making the world a less secure place to live? Because you still harbor feelings of resentment and inadequacy stemming from your childhood as the son of two brilliant yet rather unapproachable mega-geniuses, parents whose love and attention you crave to such an unhealthy extent that you have resorted to this desperate gesture, a global version of look-ma-I-broke-my-new-toy-truck?
—Because I still harbor feelings of resentment and inadequacy stemming from my childhood as the son of two brilliant yet rather unapproachable mega-geniuses, parents whose love and attention I crave to such an unhealthy extent that I have resorted to this desperate gesture, a global version of look-ma-I-broke-my-new-toy-truck, and see other.
—End of list.
The surveillance man sneaks alongside the complex and disappears into the woods.
—Follow the surveillance man? Don’t follow the surveillance man?
—Follow the surveillance man.
Olden tiptoes across the street and follows the man into the woods. The ground is covered with roots. He walks with his head down, breathing on his shirt; this makes his face feel warm. Icicles cover the bare tree branches, which crinkle and crack in the distance. He reaches a frozen stream bed; giant icicles pierce it in spots like vaccination needles. The stream bed sags and folds like wet cardboard when he walks across it.
—Look back at footprints? Don’t look back at footprints?
—Look back at footprints.
Olden looks back at his own footprints. They are a single shade darker than the surrounding frost. He suddenly feels disoriented. He stops walking and cups his hands around his ears: seashells. The air is very cold. The tiny hairs inside his nostrils are frozen stiff. The other man is gone.
—Curse? Don’t curse?
—Curse.
—Fuck? Cunt? Shit? Damn? Bitch? Hell? Damnit to hell? Goddamn fucking shit? Motherfucking goddamn bullshit fucking damn goddamn motherfucker? Goddamn sonuvabitch fucking goddamn shit? Goddamnit? Fucking goddamn bullshit? Goddamn fucking damn shit? Fuck it, fuck it straight to hell?
—Fuck it, fuck it straight to hell.
Olden stands still, considering where he is in relation to the road, the lake, other key landmarks. All around, the same tree repeats itself, like a text file copied a thousand times.
—Concoct imaginary woodland sounds to avoid confronting the hopelessness of the situation? Don’t concoct imaginary woodland sounds to avoid confronting the hopelessness of the situation?
—Concoct imaginary woodland sounds to avoid confronting the hopelessness of the situation.
—Creaking branches? Chittering squirrels? Ice breaking? Cocktail making? Birds squawking? Children talking? Rodents spitting? Bamboo splitting?
—Creaking branches. Chittering squirrels. Ice breaking. Birds squawking.
Something flashes just to the left of his head. Through the trees, he can see his little one-room shack. The tower looms above the forest, its windward side covered with snow. The lake is frozen, of course; he could walk to the center from here. Coming closer, he notices two additional surveillance men, Mr. Tall and Mr. Short, poking around the house. No vehicle present. They must have come on foot.
—Consider other alternatives? Don’t consider other alternatives?
—Consider other alternatives.
—Bicycle? Go-cart? Solar-powered terra-glider?
—See other.
—Dromedary? Vintage car? Helicopter? Hand-driven rail cart?
—See other.
—Stallion? A fantastic bird of some sort? The hand of Zeus? A supernatural carpet? A pogo stick? A beverage tray?
—They must have come on foot.
Olden runs toward his house, but the men grab him by the shoulders to prevent him from going inside. They say things like “Hey, man” and “Whoa there” and “Not this time.” Both of them wear nice watches, loops of stretchy steel. The design in the center of the timepiece is something familiar to Olden. The tree with four trunks.
Backing away, he peers into the shack. The room is dark except for the blue glow of the monitor. The two men—tall and short—ask a few barking questions about the Egg Code. Yeah, officers, I’m clean. Talk to my loi-yer. Olden realizes he can’t be too cavalier. Just another concerned citizen. We all want to get to the bottom of this. He tries to look sheepish. It’s hard to do. The sheepish look. If you don’t really mean it.
—Select another facial expression? Don’t select another facial expression?
—Select another facial expression.
—Proud? Irate? Indignant? Indifferent?
—See other.
—Mercurial? Outlandish? Duplicitous? Doubtful?
—Stick with sheepish.
Mr. Tall reasserts himself, hefting his belt. When we say Mr. Tall and Mr. Short, we’re exaggerating a little. Mr. Tall looks about six-two, six-three. Mr. Short, five-ten, five-eleven. These men have real names, real lives, real families. Olden envisions Mr. Short relaxing on the weekends. Walking the dog. He’s got a golden retriever, they’re running down the beach. Hair all over the place. Hip shades, the kind JFK used to wear. The golden retriever is gazing up at Mr. Short in adoration, tongue lolling. It’s thinking, When is he going to throw the Frisbee?
—Imagine real names for Mr. Tall and Mr. Short? Don’t imagine real names for Mr. Tall and Mr. Short?
—Imagine real names for Mr. Tall and Mr. Short.
—Buck Wilde? Dan Daniels? Ricki Fontaine? Rex Rock? Ford Brik? Billy Cougar? Dent Savage? Leif Hitler? John Boy? Clint Foxtrot? Dirk Miller? Jack Diamond? Luke Shoetree? Tarzan Laine? Zak Deal? Ted Gripp? Smash Dagger? Ben Clapp? Rob Glass? Lance Dance? Harvey Bugle? Alvin Meen? Dave Plant? Octavio—
—Cancel.
Mr. Short tells his partner t
o go back inside. Alone now, he warns Olden not to hinder their investigation. Ever since the Living Arrangements debacle first went public, Olden’s “Egg Code” Web site has cost online retailers untold thousands of dollars. No one seems to trust the Internet anymore. The Gloria Corporation, he says, has a right to protect its own property. Hearing this, Olden tries not to smile: Real property, he wonders, or cyber property? When he asks this question, Mr. Short moves in closer and puts his hand on his shoulder. The grandfather thing. The wise old man. Look, son. Now you’re making me do something I don’t want to do . . .
—Recollect the dead face of one James Field (1910–1978)?
Don’t recollect the dead face of one James Field (1910–1978)?
—Recollect the dead face of one James Field (1910–1978).
—How he looked weird without his glasses.
—The little groove running across the bridge of his nose.
—The slack jowls. The thick makeup. Trying to make him look natural.
—What if he sits up? What if he sits up right now?
—Aaahh! His head comes off. Pigeons fly out.
—People screaming. The race to the parking lot.
—His eyes are red. He vomits flames.
—You’re the one he wants.
Olden twists away from Mr. Short’s hand. The two men are roughly the same age. Olden could have had his job, easy. He could’ve worked for the Gloria Corporation. The possibilities present themselves, and he imagines another world, the comfortable life he might’ve led had things worked out differently. In this other place, he envisions a woman—Scarlet, perhaps—coming into the living room, carrying a tray of freshly baked cookies. The phone rings; Olden is taking a shower. The world outside is no different.
Mr. Tall emerges from the shack, clutching a fistful of evidence. A toothpick juts out between his lips. The toothpick matters; it reveals something about his personality, how he points with it as the two men stride across the driveway and slip back into the forest. Strange, Olden thinks, there’s nothing in those woods. Puzzled, he turns and goes inside. He has a lot to worry about.
Dizzy and distracted, he feels his way across the dark room. Dust clings to the computer screen, wispy motes of something. He can’t believe he’s been breathing this stuff for years. In one corner of the room, he can see his windsurfer propped against the wall, the sail unraveled and spread across the floor. What a dump. He needs to move back to the city. Get a normal job. Never mind these intellectual pursuits. It would be nice to have some real friends for a change. Guys named Phil. Beers after work. Yeah, I’ll have the nachos and . . . you got Milluh Lite? Ice hockey on the large-screen TV. Working gals and their turquoise margaritas. Men waving across the bar. Hi, ladies! The one on the left’s nice, but lose the tie. Phil, I think she digs you. What do you do? I’m in management . . .
Too late for that. The feds are on his trail. In their eyes, he’s already guilty of something. Leaning over the keyboard, he jettisons the Windows interface and the screen goes dark. Suddenly the monitor flashes; bright numbers flock in streams of zeros and ones. He prunes the data, then reboots and logs on to the Egg Code. Closing his eyes, he listens for the characteristic chatter of the CPU negotiating with its host—the handshake, the exchange of packets, the confirmation, the efficient farewell. TCP/IP in action.
—Recollect a vision of Martin Field working on the TCP/IP protocol in the late 1970s? Don’t recollect a vision of Martin Field working on the TCP/IP protocol in the late 1970s?
—Recollect a vision of Martin Field working on the TCP/IP protocol in the late 1970s.
—The dining-room table covered with graph paper.
—Dad on the phone. Everyone else is eating breakfast. The smell of burnt Pop-Tarts.
—Mom lacing up her construction boots. Well, I’m off.
—Moses waiting outside, his hockey stick raised like a staff. Blade up. Wants to play.
—Where’s the dog? There he is.
—Stretches its paws. Yawns. Yeeooowwwl.
Olden forces himself to look at the screen. An unfamiliar pattern grows toward the center; blue lines meet and then cross. Expecting the Egg Code, he discovers a jumble of images in its place, his original Web page scrambled beyond recognition. He rechecks the address. Nothing wrong with the URL. Words assemble, building from the top down. Blocks connect—now letters. He reads the message three times, then covers the screen with his hand.
WELCOME TO THE HOME PAGE
FOR THE GLORIA CORPORATION
OF ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN
SERVING THE NETWORKING COMMUNITY SINCE 1966
They hacked him, the bastards.
Back outside, he lingers in front of his house and considers where to go next. A crisp leaf blows against his cheek and he takes it by the stem.
—Reduce the leaf to its veiny skeleton? Don’t reduce the leaf to its veiny skeleton?
—Reduce the leaf to its veiny skeleton.
Olden picks at the leaf until all that remains is a flimsy network of connecting tendons. Dry shards the color of mulled cider stick to his thumb and forefinger.
—Make the leaf go flap-flap like a miniature hang glider? Don’t make the leaf go flap-flap like a miniature hang glider?
—Do not make the leaf go flap-flap like a miniature hang glider.
Discarding the leaf, he climbs the hill and waits by the side of the road. The men from the Gloria Corporation are long gone. Over the hush of the countryside, an engine changes gears—a rush, then a crescendo as a car rounds the corner, fanning debris across the double yellow line. The driver of the vehicle is a woman with short, stiff hair, and she drives with her hands high on the wheel. The car shoots around a curve, taking all sound with it.
Olden crosses the street and follows his enemy into the forest.
Get Down! Get Down!
Simon rose out of his seat and stared over the headrest. He saw a man in the road, and then the car went around a curve and the man was gone. He tried to remember the man’s face as he sank back into his seat, but all he could recall was a mane of long hair, and how it looked like dancing black snakes from a distance.
“Simon, I’m going to ask you to sit properly in your seat.”
“Okay.”
“I would very much prefer it if you did not sit like that.”
“Mmm.”
“As long as you know what you’re doing. As long as you understand the consequences. Of sitting like that.”
“Okay.”
“All right. Then I won’t worry about it.”
They continued like this for some time, speeding past long stretches of woods and mailboxes that leaned on splintered posts where gravel driveways split and forked into darkness. As she drove, Lydia considered the wisdom of her decision—a decision that seemed brilliant three days ago, less so at four this morning. Simon really deserved the kind of attention only a private school could provide. Besides, both she and the boy had made too many promises to too many people, empty promises to the school board, to the head of the PTA. Watch out for my son. He’s going to be a star someday. At a new place, at a quiet, caring institution, Simon would get another chance, a crack at normalcy. She would see to it. No more high-flown ambitions. From now on, Simon would be just another average boy. But he would be the best goddamn average boy that ever set foot in Crane City. He would study every night. This was part of the new resolution. They would study together, in the kitchen. She would buy expensive cookies and bottled milk from an actual dairy, and they would sit at the table and eat the cookies and drink the milk, and they would study, whatever, algebra , or the one where you draw the squares. He would excel at his schoolwork. His teachers would reward him with gold stars and lapel pins in the shapes of diplomas and graduation caps, and if they didn’t, she would threaten them with legal action until they finally gave in. This was the new way. It was not too late for Simon to start behaving like an intellectual.
“Mom? What would you do if I farted right now?”
“Simon!”
“What? Fart’s not a swear!”
“Don’t use that language!”
“But what would you do?”
“I would be . . . very angry. And disgusted.”
“Okay! I just asked!”
The car crossed the expressway and continued past a row of farm-houses with dilapidated barns the color of old skin. At the foot of one driveway, an elderly man dressed in tan slacks and a golf shirt hurled a steel rake at a small boy, forcing him to catch it. Down the road, someone’s trash bag had blown open, and a stomped-flat carton of Nestlé’s Quik chocolate milk struck the car’s windshield, the frayed corner getting stuck on a wiper blade. The carton fluttered against the glass; the tiny image of the cartoon rabbit was folded so that the ears seemed to be growing directly out of its neck.
“Mom?”
“Simon, what?”
“Can I say just one swear word?”
“Simon.”
“Not even a bad one.”
“Why are you being so silly?”
“And then I’ll never say it again.”
“If you promise to wear your hair the way I said.”
“And you won’t get mad?”
“Simon, please.”
“Okay, okay . . . Damn.”
“Good. Very nice. Now help me look.”
Lydia made a right onto a dirt road, where a wood-burnt sign welcomed all visitors to the school’s main campus. Broome Town—that was the name of the place, but there was no slogan, no clever quotations from Dr. Spock or the Beatles. Lydia was disappointed. She wanted a slogan, something like Where Children Go to Grow. Through the windows, she could see students hunched over their various activities. Trim little trees guarded the front door; thin cords forced the branches to bend into weird shapes.
Lydia parked the car and dug her purse out of the backseat. They’d probably ask for a personal check, maybe even some proof of identification. This was not a place where one minded the extra scrutiny. It added to the appeal, somehow. Not just anyone could get in.
“Now, Simon, you’re going to have to take a test.” She reached over the passenger seat and pushed open the door. “They’re going to ask you some questions.”
