“You were gonna say ‘crikey,’ weren’t you?” I asked.
Oz denied it with a defiant three syllable “No-o-o.”
“You were totally gonna say crikey,” Tobey agreed, spitting out the remains of what I imagined was lunch. “And may I also offer, I don’t think we should head north anymore. Or south.”
I turned around to see nearly fifty Internet zombies closing in from all directions. I pulled on the main door to the cottage, but it was locked.
“Quick. Give me a bobby pin,” I said to Oz.
“It’s 2014. Who the fuck has a bobby pin? You think I keep it with my emery boards and curlers?”
They were getting closer. I took the pen from the pages of my journal and popped the clip off to make a tension wrench.
“I need something like a bobby pin. A paper clip. Anything.”
Oz started feeling around in her backpack and scavenging the ground.
“Will a paper clip work?” Tobey asked, pulling that and some change from his pocket.
I had no time to hate him. And not just because zombies were approaching from thirty feet, but because of the jolt of déjà vu as I took the clip. Suddenly, I was with Romaya and Martin in my law school dorm, working another window. The one on the twentieth floor in the hallway that led to the roof. I stood on top of a radiator to pick the window’s top lock as Martin worked the bottom. Romaya kept watch, just like Oz was doing now, except she was looking for RAs coming around the corner instead of approaching Internet zombies. Martin popped his lock first and passed his superior paper clip pick up to me.
A moment later, I popped mine, too, and we had access to the roof. I took a step out of the dorm and into the air, completely aware that I had lived my very short life in such a rule-based way that this simple act of rebellion was clearly the worst thing I’d ever done. The night welcomed me, wet and black like a Morphine song, and I offered Romaya my hand as she slipped out as happy as I’d ever seen her, somehow collecting all the darkness in the flow of her hair.
“Look! The stories,” she said, pointing to the apartment building across the way.
Martin didn’t understand, but I knew Romaya was just trying to get closer. Closer to those storybook lives we’d watched from my window. And now, on the edge, there was nothing between us besides New York City air and time. They were closer then ever.
“For fuck’s sake, Gladstone,” Oz screamed. “They’re closer than ever.”
I dragged my pick across the lock’s teeth, hoping they would catch. A ripple of metal and then nothing. I did it again. Harder, but slower, while focusing on my former law school grace until I heard a click.
“Get in here,” I screamed, opening the door.
Oz and Tobey ran into the Swedish Cottage, and I locked the door behind us. I’d done it. We were inside. There was a stage and some benches. There were also lots of windows. Zombie hands slapped at the panes while hungry fingers scratched at the doors.
“Secure the entrances!”
“With what?” Tobey asked.
“I don’t know. Plywood!” I barked.
“Um, yeah. I’m pretty sure most puppet theaters don’t keep stacks of plywood and nails in case of zombie attack,” Tobey said.
“Well, this place used to be a toolshed. Surely, there’s something?”
“Surely?” Oz asked. “You don’t think they managed to relocate the axes and Evil Dead chain saws when they converted this to a puppet theater?”
“Fuck off,” I said. “I picked the lock. You do something.”
That’s when a rock came through the window. Then another. Then some more. In fact, the rocks kept coming even after every piece of glass was shattered. That’s the thing with zombies. Total herd mentality.
In the few minutes that followed the first broken window, the three of us did our best to arm ourselves, but managed to gather little more than rocks and puppets. And then they were in. About fifty, all approaching.
“Will you bring us Facebook?” a sixteen-year-old girl asked.
“Twitter first!” her friend demanded. “I have no idea what Justin Bieber’s been doing.”
“No, I’m sorry, but no. I can’t do any of that,” I said, backing up to the stage.
“When can I stream Netflix again?”
“Can you bring back World of Warcraft right where I left off? I was just about to hit the level cap!”
“Please, I’d love to have the Internet too, and I’m looking for it, but I don’t know any more than you.”
“Why are you even here?” one teenage boy asked. “Shouldn’t you be getting the Internet? It’s been weeks, and you’re the Messiah.”
“I’ve just explained—”
My attempt to make myself understood was interrupted by a fat man in sweatpants. “Please!” he screamed, grabbing my lapels and driving me against the hard wood of the stage. Then he fell to his knees and whispered, “… I can’t afford the Rule 34 Club.”
“I can’t help you. I’m sorry. I’m not this Internet Messiah. I’m just some guy.”
“He’s lying!” a Digg zombie called out. “He wants it for himself. It’s a conspiracy!”
“Yeah, himself and Corporate America!” a Reddit zombie agreed.
“Give it to us!”
The group closed in as if I could produce the Internet from my inside coat pocket if they just pressed hard enough. This would end badly. Especially since no matter how hard they beat me, I would never be able to give them what they needed. I simply didn’t have it to give, and more than the fear of being torn apart by a crowd, I couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in their eyes. Another promise broken. I had to find a way out.
I climbed up on the stage, raising a unicorn puppet I’d grabbed, above my head. “Wait! All of you. You don’t need to walk around endlessly waiting for the world to come online. We can entertain ourselves.”
“How?” Twitter girl asked.
“I don’t know. Plays, theater, music?”
“Are you seriously gonna put on some sort of gay puppet show?”
Seeing my desperation, Tobey got up on the stage with a lion puppet.
“Look at me,” he exclaimed. “I’m Farty McPooPoo, the gassy lion!”
That played well with the kids, but some of the crowd frowned, seeming to exhibit more discriminating taste. Oz got on stage with a princess puppet.
“And I’m Princess Scat-lover! Mmmm, come here, Farty McPoo-Poo.”
Farts and deviant sex. Now we were on to something. The crowd closed in, gathering tight around the stage. There was no way out, and I couldn’t imagine the adventures of the Dirty Princess and Her Farty Lion would last forever.
“Z’oh, my God,” Tobey cried, and pointed off in the distance. “Look!”
I couldn’t believe Tobey was trying to fool an angry mob with the oldest trick in the book. It was probably because he didn’t really read books. But then I saw fifty faces turn, and what’s more, it wasn’t a trick at all. As if proof of some higher power, there, in the middle of Central Park, was a kitten dressed as a Daft Punk robot trained to dance to “Get Lucky” while its owner, a shapely burlesque dancer in a leopard-print bikini, Bettie Page wig, and heels danced along behind. It was the ultimate living Internet meme and the masses drew to it like moths to a flame or Web reporters to secret gay sex.
Oz and I stared in disbelief as the crowd thinned, leaving us alone. Then we noticed Tobey leaving too.
“Tobey!” I hissed.
“Dude,” he said. “Do you not see this shit? Look at it.”
“Yeah, it’s great. Do you mind if we run away now? Because getting consumed by zombies sounds like a drag.”
Oz and I slowly edged toward the door and Tobey reluctantly followed. Just as we broke into a run, I could have sworn I saw Agent Rowsdower peek from behind a tree, but I wasn’t turning to make sure. I needed to get away to some place where no one needed anything from me.
* * *
We broke free of the park and hop
ped a subway to some miserable Upper West Side bar I knew from my Fordham law orientation bar crawl. Tobey was looking decidedly less green after some beers and nachos, and with nearly no cannabis in his system for twelve hours, he was finding purpose.
“So,” he said, picking the best nacho to systematically snag every other cheese-connected chip, “where to, Mr. Messiah?”
I guess it was a normal question, but it caught me by surprise.
“We just escaped a park full of zombies,” I said. “I thought we might, y’know, chill for a bit.”
“Yeah, that was pretty crazy. You have more followers now than you ever did on Twitter.”
“Yeah, I never really got Twitter,” I confessed.
“Well, reading Twitter’s a lot like staring at an ant farm,” Tobey explained while wiping some cheese from his mouth. “Except without all the productivity.”
“And the ants hate themselves,” Oz added.
“So anyway,” Tobey continued when the laugh died down. “Get your drink on and all that, but then, after that. Where’s next on our journey?”
Oz touched me under the table.
“I’m not sure, Tobes,” I said, biting the Scotch out of my ice. “So … what about tonight? You sleeping at Stand Up NY?”
“Well, I was, but…”
Tobey’s eyes scanned back and forth between Oz and me. “Holy fuck,” he yelled. “You fuckers are fucking, aren’t you?”
Bits of spewed chips littered the table.
“Aren’t you?” he insisted.
“Sorry, Tobes,” I said. “There were a lot of fucks in there, I’m still working out the syntax.”
“What if we are?” Oz said.
“But Gladstone’s old enough to be your dad!”
“I really wasn’t getting any at thirteen, Tobey.”
“That’s not the point. Bros before hos, G-Stone!” Then Tobey turned meekly to Oz. “No offense.”
“Don’t be silly,” Oz said, spearing the lime in her vodka tonic. “Why would I be offended?”
“I just mean…” Tobey took a second to swallow his food. “We’re on a journey here.”
“No one’s forgetting the journey, Tobes. It’s just, I don’t know, maybe it’s time to regroup. If we split up for a few days and then pool resources…”
“Oh, fuck off. Just hang a tie on the door and spare me this bullshit.”
He got up from the table.
“Tobey, it’s not like that—”
“Well, I’m still looking,” he said. “I’ll be sure to report back with my findings.”
And then he was gone.
“He’ll be back,” Oz said. “And at least this time we know where to find him.”
“Just don’t talk for a second, Yoko.”
“Excuse me,“Oz said. “What incredibly dated reference are you making?”
“Y’know, The Beatles broke up before I was born, too, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” Oz said. “My musical knowledge doesn’t start with Midnight Oil.”
* * *
In the early days, Romaya used to wake around 7:00 A.M. and whisper, “Hello, in there,” directly into my ear, over and over, until she had a playmate. Oz seemed more the sleep-in type, and she didn’t start to stir until I did. My half-dreamed attempts at snuggle sex succeeded only in turning on the TV. One of us must have rolled on the remote.
It was that Fox News morning news show with the Stepford wife, the lanky homophobic gay guy, and the third dude of unknown, swarthier origin playing clips from Bill O’Reilly’s broadcast the night before.
“Isn’t that a picture of Jeeves?” Oz asked, pointing.
It was. Apparently, O’Reilly had interviewed Jeeves about his Internet Messiah prophesies. I sat up, hoping not to be national news.
Jeeves had cleaned up only slightly. A short-sleeved button-down shirt, khakis with frayed hems, and Birkenstocks. Not the best look, but I’d never seen a man with less to prove, so I’m sure it didn’t matter.
“My vision is very clear, Mr. O’Reilly. And this is not something I’m trying to profit from, but, yes, to answer your question, for the lack of a better word, I do believe there is an ’Internet Messiah’ and he will return the Net to us.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Who is he?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But you’re sure this Internet Messiah exists?”
“Yes, I have seen him.”
O’Reilly didn’t try to hide his disdain. “You’re a Columbia University librarian, aren’t you?”
“I was.”
“Oh, that’s right. Was. You went into this Ask Jeeves business when the Net died.”
“I did.”
“Your real name’s Dan McCall.”
“That is also true, but these days I prefer Jeeves.”
O’Reilly had had enough. “Um, Mr. Jeeves, if I have to call you that, why should I believe any of this?”
Jeeves sat forward in his chair. “Well, Bill, I guess it doesn’t really matter if you believe me or not, but for everybody else—who won’t be dead within three days—I am telling the truth.”
Fox then cut back to the morning anchors.
“What did that mean?!” the hostess asked.
“Please,” said the tall guy. “Did you see the state of his khakis? New York apparently has no shortage of crazy.”
“Well, you caught a break there, old man,” Oz said, nuzzling into my chest. “No one’s taking Jeeves seriously.”
Not that there was much to take seriously, but Oz was right. These were desperate days, and it wouldn’t be the first time people believed a thirty-something Jew could lead them to salvation.
“Where do you feel like going today, lady?” I asked.
“I’m not leaving this bed.”
“Okay,” I said. “But tomorrow, we look for the Net. I told Tobey we would, and I wasn’t lying. I don’t want to lie to Tobey.”
“Tomorrow.”
DAY 53. THE MUSEUM
I’ve been lying to Tobey. For the second time in a month, I’ve spent days in this hotel. Not out of fear or withdrawal, but just because I could. The booze was flowing, Oz was sensational, and best of all, I slept. I slept the way I hadn’t slept since Romaya—where you’re completely dead to the world, but not oblivious. You can’t be oblivious. It’s the knowing that someone is right next to you that lets you fall so far away.
But when I woke, I knew I’d hate myself if I spent one more day doing nothing.
“Pack your Vegemite,” I said. “We’re going to the Museum of Natural History.”
“You think stuffed animals stole the Internet?” Oz replied.
“First off, they’re not stuffed, they’re real animal skins pulled taut over carved wood, and second, I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’m not the Internet Messiah. I have no idea where the Internet is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not in your vag.”
I’ve always loved the Museum of Natural History. With the exception of the giant whale room, it hasn’t changed since I was a kid. Or even for fifty years before that. And it doesn’t need to. Neither television nor Atari nor World of Warcraft has tarnished its ability to captivate. And I don’t really know why. Something about the architecture, the lighting, and the layout transforms these animal-quins behind century-old glass into something otherworldly. Magic is a cliché, but what do you call it when you enter a place and you can pretend you’re anywhere and everywhere from the Mesozoic era to present day, provided you haven’t killed every bit of childhood wonder with cynicism? It is magic. The kind that exists.
Or maybe it’s knowing you’re seeing what your grandfather saw, the way he saw it. The same stimuli are firing your synapses in the same way they worked some little boy’s brain in 1912. It’s a rock of consistency in the fastest-changing city in the world. But the best part is that you can spend all day there without learning a damn thing. Staring at the dinosaurs and statues, feeling the flow of t
he space, and ignoring the explanatory cards and postings. It’s like surfing the Net at 2:00 A.M. without the capacity for thought. But the difference is, by the time you leave the museum, you know that knowledge exists and that it deserves to be showcased and exalted. So the real magic is that even walking the museum passively informs your priorities—a philosophical education if not a factual one.
I showed Oz the giant spider crab that terrorized my childhood dreams. We lingered over the Peter Stuyvesant mannequin my mother had shown me on a parent-chaperoned school field trip, just as it had been shown to her when she was a schoolgirl. The history was kind of lost on Oz.
“Oh, I guess in your country, it would be a lot more mannequins getting prison raped, huh?”
“Seriously,” she said. “Do you know anything about Australia?”
“Of course not. Facts would only ruin my jokes.”
We spent nearly the whole day there. Oz was taken by the section with the dinosaur bones, which, for reasons that have never been clear to me, also contained a bear skeleton. She started laughing when we reached that part.
“What?”
“It reminds me of you.”
“Y’know, I can’t help it that I don’t have any shins. You think I like putting my shoes on my kneecaps?”
“Aww, bears are cute.”
We continued on to the evolution section, and I couldn’t pretend I was on anything other than a date, but I also felt this was more than a pleasure trip. That I could honestly report to Tobey that I’d learned something on this part of the journey. Something for the journal, even if I still had no idea what that was.
“I’m getting hungry,” Oz said. “I could eat the arse out of a dead ’roo.”
“Did you really just say that?”
“What? It’s an expression.”
“Christ, you people are ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous and hungry.”
We made our way to the exit, ending a beautiful day, but still waiting to learn whatever it was that I felt was coming. I hoped Tobey was just fucking off and getting high, because I was feeling increasingly guilty about taking three days off from our mission, but I felt he wasn’t. That diner exchange was the closest I’d ever come to fighting with Tobey. I’d never seen him with that level of determination. Eventually, he’d come find me or I’d find him, and I wanted to have something to report when that happened.
Notes From the Internet Apocalypse Page 9
