Agents of the Internet Apocalypse

by Wayne Gladstone

  “Where we going?” Tobey asked.

  “Google,” I said.

  “Oh, cool. Romaya’s joining our investigation?”

  “No. She has an interview.”

  “What investigation?” Romaya asked.

  “The one I asked you to join,” I said. “All the stuff in the book.”

  Romaya looked stuck and incomplete, like an accidentally saved e-mail that sits in your drafts until deleted.

  “You didn’t read my book?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but we really have to go.”

  We hit the road pretty quickly and agreed Tobey, as the lifelong West Coaster, should drive. I’d be a menace, and Romaya wanted to review her résumé, portfolio, and library photocopies about Google. I offered her shotgun so she didn’t feel like luggage, and took the backseat.

  “So,” Tobey said, turning to Romaya after entering the 5. “We’re happy to take this little trip and all, but I’m a little confused about something.”

  Romaya put down her papers with too much effort.

  “Google’s like a big deal. If you got an interview, I’m surprised they didn’t just fly you out.”

  That was a good point. And if I had any doubt about my sanity or Tobey being real, that clinched it, because there’s no way in hell I would ever be practical enough to have such a thought on my own.

  “Yeah, except I lied,” Romaya said. “I told them I lived in Palo Alto to be a more attractive candidate. Y’know, so they wouldn’t have to worry about me moving.”

  “Smart,” Tobey said. He drove with his knees while he adjusted the radio and fixed his baseball cap.

  “Yeah, well, that’s why I’m screwed. Because they thought I was so close, they called me at the end of the day yesterday, thinking I could just pop in today for the two p.m. cancellation.”

  “You didn’t have to take it,” I said, but that was wrong, and Romaya didn’t answer. Not taking it would mean accepting failure. I shook it up. “So what’s wrong with your car?”

  “Flat tire.”

  “On the way?” Tobey asked.

  “No, I saw it when I went to leave this morning. I thought it looked low last week, but I didn’t check because I’ve been biking everywhere.”

  Romaya was thinner than I noticed before. Not thinner, but harder.

  “So yeah, I checked it out and there was a huge shard of glass in the tire.”

  “The wedding photo,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Should have had the picture laminated.”

  Tobey didn’t understand, but he knew enough to know he didn’t have to understand everything. He let us talk. Except we didn’t talk. Romaya returned to her lapful of information.

  “So you couldn’t change the tire?” he asked.

  “I can change a tire,” Romaya said, taking offense, “but I’m not going to drive three hundred miles on a donut, blow out again, and have to call Google to tell them I have a flat tire and I’m a liar who doesn’t actually live in Palo Alto.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We left the Valley, and the road stretched out into nothing, although that was the wrong word, because our journey contained none of the tension or release of a stretch. It just was. California is straight and barren. It lets you drive with your knees. And even though we started to pass some orchards, it seemed to me nothing was supposed to live here. That the planet had other plans for this stretch of land besides humans.

  “Wait a second,” I said, breaking the silence. “Why didn’t you rent a car?”

  “Look, I’m sorry if I’m putting you out,” Romaya said. “I wouldn’t have asked if it weren’t important.”

  “Not at all,” Tobey offered.

  “It’s not that,” I said, staring at the faux pearls my mother had bought her. “We were just wondering.”

  She closed her folder of papers. “For the same reason I didn’t buy a new tire. Garages and rental car places don’t even open until nine, and by the time I’d get out of there, I’d be late.”

  It made sense, but the weather changed by the time she finished her sentence. The sky grew dark and heavy, like we’d entered something more than a new zip code. Drops hit the window. Thicker than normal rain. Heavier. And when it landed, it radiated across the glass. Tobey’s wipers sucked, spreading the remains, and producing a window more translucent than transparent. And that was a problem, because light was in short supply.

  I thought about the time Romaya and I had done a New England vacation planned around a friend’s Cape Cod wedding. We’d camped in Maine and then stayed at a Vermont bed and breakfast before hitting our destination. There are no streetlights in Vermont. Not where we were. And if you’re driving east to west, there are sometimes no roads either. But what did that matter to two young people without children or an overbearing knowledge of mortality? We were a team. We were in a rented Nissan Altima and nothing could break the seal of our power-windowed love. That’s how lovers think when they’re young and stupid. Maybe that’s just love. I don’t know yet.

  We took a Vermont drive into a darkness we’d never seen. And it wasn’t just the lack of streetlights. It was the lack of anything. There was none of New York City’s electric-light glow irradiating the night with a color less than pitch black. There was nothing but farms, and the darkness was so dark it looked wet. And the quiet was so quiet you knew you were pure. For now, you were in the control group of your life and all the things that would happen to you outside of this were the influences being tested. What would break you, strengthen you? What would make you the person you’d become? And how would that person be different if you had just stayed here in the quiet darkness with the person you loved?

  We pulled over to the side of the road and tried to stare into the night, feeling like our eyes were closed even wide open. It was one of the most beautiful and terrifying experiences of my life. And then it was broken. Rain hit the glass and the night gave way to flashes of lightning. Romaya wanted to stay, but for some reason I knew we had to go. I pulled back out into the road and headed straight, hands tight on the ten and two, and every time the lightning flashed we saw the world I’d had the audacity to travel in blindness. There were trees. There were wooden fence posts. There were grassy hills unknown to us, and as we reached the very top, a giant rush of lightning illuminated a cloud formation we saw for only an instant. And even though it was fleeting and impossible, Romaya and I both swore we saw the face of God.

  But there is no god on highway 5, and there’s no devil either, because there’s not enough trouble to get into on that patch of straight nothing. The wind picked up and when we hit certain bumps it actually felt like the car could get carried away. Romaya shut the radio off.

  “What’d you do that for?” Tobey asked, the rain drilling his windshield.

  “Because it’s getting scary out here. You need to concentrate.”

  “And someone told you I can’t concentrate when Firth of Fifth is playing?” He flipped the CD player back on, accelerating slightly.

  “Easy, Tobes,” I said, but I was actually getting less worried because the increased rain had washed his window clean, overcompensating for his smudging, shitty wipers. We could see.

  “One more question,” Tobey said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Why’d you come to Gladstone? You didn’t have any friends or closer neighbors you could ask?”

  “It was seven fifteen when I realized I had a flat,” Romaya said. “All my friends have jobs.”

  It was hard to know if that reproach was meant for Tobey or me, but it made a silence that lasted until the weather broke. Then the sun shined and the entire state of California went back to being a place where weather dictated happiness and happiness dictated the preservation of happiness.

  “Do you like it here?” I asked Romaya.

  “You know I do,” she said.

  “Well, no. I know you liked Eureka where you were born, but this is hardly that.”

  “Yeah, well, this is as clos
e as I could get to home without being a lumberjack. I like it, but in many ways, it’s not so different from New York.”

  “Seems to me,” I said, “the major difference between New York and L.A. is that when you fail in L.A., you still get to live somewhere with a barbecue.”

  Romaya didn’t laugh, but she nodded slowly. “That’s really funny,” she said with a slight sense of wonder. “You’re still really funny.”

  I smiled. Tobey was at the wheel and the newfound California sunshine was making things right, like the most insistent of Instagram filters. We pulled up to the parking lot, and went through a gate where Romaya was expected.

  As we pulled into a spot, Romaya said, “So I guess you guys can like drive around Palo Alto for a couple of hours and then wait for me in the parking lot? Would that be okay?”

  “Fuck that,” Tobey said, jumping out of the car and closing the door.

  Romaya fumbled for her handle. “Excuse me?” she said, stepping out and standing between the open door and car frame. Tobey spoke across the roof.

  “We’re going in. Or did you think the Internet Messiah and Tobey were gonna pass up an opportunity to get up close and personal with Google?”

  “Seriously?” Romaya asked, now looking at me beside her.

  “It’s no joke,” I said. “I know you didn’t read the book, but others have. Lots of people now. It’s taking off.”

  “I know,” she said. “Even the fucking barista at Starbucks had it splayed open with a binder clip yesterday as she made my skinny latte.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re on the job. It’s not like I didn’t ask you to be part of this.”

  “Part of what? You guys can’t mess up my Google interview. I’m out of work. Do you not get that this is a big deal for me?”

  Just then a criminally happy young woman called to us from curbside. She was standing on a Segway. “Hello! Ms. Petralia?” she asked. Maiden name. Romaya kept her back to the curb for a second to retrieve a new expression. Then she turned, all smiles.

  “Yes, hello,” she said. “Just getting my things.”

  She took a step from the car to pull down on her skirt, and I grabbed her folder of materials from the front seat.

  I stood between her and Suzie Segway so she could gather herself as she adjusted her blouse.

  “Hey,” I said, and put my finger gently under her chin, like I did on our first date. She looked up slowly. “I promise we’ll behave, Babe,” I whispered. “And you’ll do great. You got this.”

  She looked at me, and I nodded, forcing as much confidence into a smile as I could manage. Then I offered her the folder, but she was distracted by Tobey.

  “No one’s gonna mess anything up for you,” he said, trying to echo my sentiment. “Besides, we have no choice. I doubt they’d let us back into the lot without you.”

  And as Romaya stared at Tobey and tried to divine his intent, I did a terrible thing. I took the love letter from my pocket and slipped it into her folder. Not terrible because it would fuck her up during the interview—there was no chance of that. I buried it deep in the very back of her papers. But terrible because it was cheating. A desperate attempt to get it home, based only on the hope that she’d realize it was a good thing once she noticed it living where it belonged.

  “Look, just stick to the truth,” Tobey said. “Say you had car trouble this morning and asked some friends for a ride. Just don’t tell them we drove hundreds of miles. Trust me. That is an excellent lie.”

  And despite my best efforts, I had to admit that Tobey’s scheming brought her more comfort than my support.

  “Okay, but please behave,” Romaya said. Then she took the folder from me and we closed up the car.

  “Could you lose the hat?” Romaya asked me. “You look like a vacationing dentist.”

  I laughed and said, “Good. Jokes are good. They’ll like you more if you look like you’re too happy to care about Google.”

  Suzie led us into Google headquarters and I couldn’t help humming World of Imagination to myself from Willy Wonka as we were greeted by the high ceilings of red and yellow and blue. We got our superspecial Google badges, which we affixed to our T-shirts with a red plastic clip, and then we headed into a larger room. Suzie scooted ahead and did a quick U-turn. She opened her arms and said, “Would you care for anything to eat? We have everything.”

  I hadn’t realized we were in an employee kitchen—probably because it was the size of half a football field. There were five or so glass-doored, industrial-sized refrigerators filled with juices, yogurt, and prepared sushi. All the counters had rows of drawers stuffed with Sun Chips and all manner of organic snackery. It was like being in a supermarket for insufferable twats, and I looked around for a cashier. There was none. My hesitation was visible.

  “Yes, anything you want,” Suzie said for my benefit.

  Tobey didn’t need further prodding. He was already opening and closing the pantry drawers with wild abandon. I wasn’t really in the mood for prepackaged sushi, but how do you turn down free Google sushi? I thought about calling it “Gooshi” as I pulled a pack from the fridge, but I’d promised Romaya I’d be as boring as possible. She was also playing it safe, opting only for a bottled water. Tobey, however, kept pulling the drawers until Suzie spun around.

  “Can I help you find something?” she asked. “We have fruit, yogurt, sushi, even some organic turkey jerky. Y’know, practically everything.”

  Tobey stopped on a dime. “Ah there it is,” he said with a slight grin, freezing the drawer at half pull. “Practically everything. That explains why I can’t find any Funyuns.”

  Suzie shrugged apologetically.

  “Don’t mind my friend,” I said. “He still uses Yahoo because it has all his porn bookmarks.”

  “Okay…” Romaya said. “Maybe we should get me to my interview and let my companions continue this discussion without us.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” Suzie said, looking at me. “Also, Google Chrome can import all your bookmarks from your previous search engine. Once the Internet comes back that is.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Make a note, Tobey.”

  Suzie smiled and leaned into her Segway, a hair short of movement. “Well, now that you have snacks, let’s get you situated so I can get Ms. Petralia to her meetings.”

  We followed Suzie down a corridor past a room of cubicles separated by some sort of appealingly obnoxious grass planters until we reached a room more suited to my interests: foosball tables, darts, old-time video games, new-time video games, and, just because they could, a giant kids’ ball pit filled with Google-colored balls. The room was sparsely populated with employees so relaxed in their workplace environment that even I, out of work for two years on psychiatric disability, wanted to slap them for being damn millennial slackers.

  Suzie raised her arms to the red, blue, green, and yellow ductwork and announced, “Have at it, boys.” By the time she completed her phrase, there was only one boy. Tobey had run headfirst into the ball pit.

  Suzie giggled in nervous surprise.

  “Yahoo, am I right?” I said with a shrug.

  Romaya was almost too annoyed to turn her nervous quiver into a smile for Suzie, but she managed. I straightened myself up like a professional and warmly offered my hand. “Thank you for your hospitality,” I said. “Please don’t let us keep you.”

  “Not at all,” Suzie said. “Ready to go, Ms. Petralia?”

  “Sure am.”

  I tried to wish Romaya good luck, but she was already following Suzie down the hallway to a future, unaware that my letter was tagging along.

  “Gladstone!” Tobey called, bursting from the pit. “Get in here.”

  I put my sushi down on a ledge and walked over. “Y’know, you did promise Romaya you’d behave, jackass.”

  “I’m behaving. Get in here. I have to talk to you…” he whispered.

  I stepped into the pit as gracefully as I could, which was not at all.

  “I
wanted to get off the camera,” Tobey said, his head only slightly emerged from the colored balls.

  “Why? We’re not doing anything wrong,” I said.

  “Not yet. But are you seriously telling me the Internet Messiah and Tobey are going to go to Google and not investigate the Apocalypse?”

  “Aside from promising Romaya we’d behave, what do you think we could possibly get away with before security booted us?”

  “Why do you think I’m in the ball pit?” Tobey asked.

  “Because you’re functionally retarded?”

  “Boo,” Tobey said with only half his face emerging. “That’s a fratty joke.”

  “No, a fratty joke would be because you like having balls on your chin.”

  “Homophobic.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s making fun of a frat boy’s homophobia. Jesus, now even you don’t get how satire works?”

  “I know, jackass,” Tobey said. “I’m satirizing people who don’t understand satire.”

  Just then, a disproportionately loud CNN news banner graphic reading, “Internet Apocalypse” blasted across the huge TVs before dissolving into an insanely handsome anchor sitting beside my old friend Senator Melissa Bramson. Dr. Kreigsman had confirmed my memories of her and Christians Against the Messiah as true, but believed their protest pertained to some other e-messiah. It was disconcerting to see her from a sober point of view. And from a ball pit. That was weird too.

  “Yesterday, standing beside the Liberty Bell, Pennsylvania’s junior senator and founder of Christians Against the Messiah, Melissa Bramson, held a rally of more than two thousand supporters,” the anchor read. “There, she lobbed criticisms at the Obama White House for not finding the so-called Internet Messiah, and she joins us in our studio now. Senator Bramson, welcome.”

  Bramson sat stiffly in a red blazer straight out of the Nancy Reagan collection. “Nice to see you again, Chris.”

  “Senator, we haven’t heard anything about the Internet Messiah for a couple of months, and, frankly, it wasn’t the largest story in the first place. Why all the fuss?”

  “Well, because he’s building an army.” She dropped a copy of what I assumed was my journal on the counter.