by A. C. Fuller
"So, what's our plan while we're here?" he asked.
James finished tapping at his keyboard. "I've been searching online and e-mailing with everyone I know, and so far, I've got nothing on Bice. Nothing on him getting involved in any media companies. And no mention of him on the conference schedule. I was just reading it online and—"
"Wait a second," Alex interrupted. "They handed you a printed copy of the schedule at the front desk, and you're reading it online? What's the world coming to?"
James rolled his eyes. "Get over it. The point is, Bice isn't here in any official capacity."
"Are we even sure he's here at all?" Alex asked, leaning toward the desk and grabbing the hotel phone.
He dialed the front desk and put on his most friendly, confident voice. "Hello, can you connect me with the room of Denver Bice? . . . Hmm, weird . . . You know what? He might be listed under the Standard Media block of rooms . . . No? . . . Can you tell me if you have a reservation under that name? Probably checking in today or tomorrow . . . No. Yeah. Okay, thanks."
He hung up and turned to James. "Nothing. They won't say if he's coming or not, but did say that if he'd checked in under 'Bice,' he'd show up in the system. Of course, he could have checked in under another name. What's our plan if we find him?"
"We have to try to interview him. Ask about the Santiago case, Downton, John Martin. Show him the texts. Everything. Maybe he feels like he's weathered the storm and is currently on a 'Repair My Image' tour. Of course, he'll lie his ass off, but we have to try."
"Maybe we should just wander around and see if we spot him at the vending machines," Alex said.
"I do think we should play it cool for the first day. See if we hear from our sources again."
"The whole thing is so damn frustrating. I want to do something, but instead I'm just waiting around for something to happen."
James pointed at the screen. "You didn't mention Camila was going to be here."
Alex froze. He was usually able to recover from surprise quickly, well enough to fake his way through a conversation, anyway. But now, he just stared at James, heart in his stomach. "I didn't . . . wait . . . what?"
"You didn't know?"
"No."
James leaned in and read. "Camila Gray. Her talk is called Digital Soul: How to Embrace Technology While Staying Sane. It's at six today."
Alex stared down at his shoes.
James cleared his throat awkwardly. "How long has it been since you—"
"A year. A year and a half." He was trying to sound casual, but he knew for sure that it had been exactly fourteen months.
Camila had left New York City on July 13, 2003, less than a year after News Scoop published the story that got Denver Bice fired from Standard Media. After the story broke, they'd dated for another month before she'd started to pull away. Alex could never figure out why she hadn't gotten serious about him, but he'd been serious about her. At first, when she'd grown distant, he'd taken it in stride. But when she'd grown even more distant, he'd become clingy and jealous, behavior he loathed. He'd been devastated when she'd finally told him she was ending it and moving back to Des Moines. At first, he'd found mild solace in the fact that her mother had Alzhiemer's, figuring maybe Camila had just been preoccupied with that. For a few weeks, he'd told himself that things might change, while cursing himself for his selfishness, but she'd never returned to New York.
He and Greta had reconnected soon after. He had been honest with her about Camila, and Greta herself had just gotten out of a relationship, so they'd bonded over their heartache and moved in together just two months later. He was happy with Greta. He loved her. But Camila was the first woman he'd fallen in love with, and he wasn't certain he'd ever fallen out of love with her. Last he'd heard, she was teaching communications at a community college.
"Alex? Oh Al-ex." James tapped on the table to get his attention. "So, are you gonna see her?"
"I don't know. I'm guessing she doesn't know I'm here."
"We have to see her. I mean, she's awesome. Her talk sounds great."
"Yeah and a real humble title she chose. She's like you—thinks we're all going to be swept into a magical world of free information online where everyone is liberated and dancing around with little unicorns under a sky of digital rainbows. Each of us with our very own pot of gold."
James chuckled. "Says in her bio she's working on a book, too."
"Oooohhhh. Good for her."
"I've never seen you this jealous, Alex. I know she broke your heart and all, but it's been more than a year, and you seem to have moved on successfully."
Alex stared out the window at the ferry, which was now heading out across the water toward Bainbridge Island. "Yeah, I'll probably see her."
"You nervous?"
"Yeah. I mean, no." He was lying his ass off, and he knew James knew it. "Okay, fine. You know when you whack a spider with a book and you know it must be dead, but as you slowly lift the book to check, part of you fears that it might crawl out and spring at your face the second it has some breathing room?"
James chuckled. "And you're afraid your feelings for Camila will spring out from under the book as soon as you see her?"
Alex didn't feel the need to answer the question. "What time are you gonna head down there?"
"The big stuff doesn't get started until after dinner. You want to wander around the conference center for a bit? Look for Bice. Check in on Camila's talk?"
All Alex wanted was to go back to his room and get in bed, but he said, "Sure."
10
They took the elevator down to the fourth floor, where most of the conference halls and breakout rooms were located. The conference wouldn't be in full swing until later that evening, but the hallways were already growing crowded with a mix of young hipsters, corporate types in nice suits, and a smattering of techies who reminded Alex of the comic book guy from The Simpsons.
James paused at the doorway of a breakout room.
"What?" Alex asked, looking over his partner's shoulder at table after table of computers, phones, and other devices he didn't even recognize. Twenty-somethings who made Alex feel old stood behind each table, demonstrating devices and explaining their benefits.
"Gadgets," James said with obvious excitement. "I must meet all of these shiny new gadgets."
After another minute of gawking, they turned away and continued walking down the wide hallway. Around a corner, they entered into an open hall filled with booths, small stages, and dozens of newly-printed signs advertising companies of all sorts. They passed row upon row of tables and booths, but didn't stop at any of them.
"I thought all the dot coms went out of business," Alex said.
James laughed. "For someone who's smart as hell, you're unbelievably stupid about current culture. A lot of companies failed because they were trying to put brick-and-mortar business models on the Web. Trying to sell pet food online, that type of stuff. But we're in the second wave now. See them?" He pointed to a large, covered booth with a white sign bearing the Google logo.
Alex nodded. "Even I've heard of them."
"They're already huge and just announced their IPO. While everyone was saying dot coms were over, they were inventing something people would actually want to use." They kept moving. "Have you heard of The Facebook?"
"No."
"It's a thing out of Harvard. There's a bunch like it, but things out of Harvard always seem to find financing. It's social media."
"What the hell is social media?"
"You really don't know anything, do you?"
They finished a full lap around the hall and made their way back toward the elevator. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex noticed two men behind them reflected in the shiny gold doors of the elevator. Both were husky and tall, although still slightly shorter than Alex. He was pretty sure he and James had passed them while doing their lap.
"So, what's going on with you and Greta?" James asked.
Alex didn't respond. He glance
d at the digital numbers, flashing above the elevator, then casually brought his eyes back to the spot where he could see the reflection of the two men. The one on the left was bald and seemed to be speaking quietly to the one on the right, who had a mullet of reddish-orange hair and a mole on his cheek large enough for Alex to notice it in the skewed reflection. They both wore black leather jackets.
"We . . . uhh . . . we live together," he said absentmindedly. His eyes were still on the men, who remained far enough back in the crowd that he couldn't hear what they were saying. Unless there was a Hell's Angels reunion in the same hotel, Alex thought they were extremely out of place.
The elevator dinged and a crowd poured out. Alex patted James on the back as casually as he could. "Let's . . . I want to check out that gadget room."
James followed him away from the elevators. "What's going on? Did you see Bice?"
Alex reached for his Blackberry, tapped on it for a few seconds, then dropped it casually onto his own foot. When he knelt to pick it up, he turned slightly to scan the hallway. The men weren't behind them. Looking back toward the elevator, he watched the wide back of the bald man disappear behind the gold doors.
"No." Alex stood, shaking his head. "I just thought . . . there were two guys behind us . . . I'm just being paranoid. Let's do another lap, okay?"
"No," James said, glancing down at his watch. "It's 6:30. Let's go see Camila."
11
Camila's speech was half over when they arrived in the conference room, and when Alex spotted her at the podium, he felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach. She looked younger, fresher, and more vibrant than he remembered her. Alex didn't believe in auras, so he figured it was the florescent lights that made her seem to glow. Her hair was still curly and bushy, but shorter and trimmed in front to keep it out of her eyes. She wore dark blue jeans and a wine-colored sweater that Alex thought made her look like a grad student.
If she'd been looking for him, she could have seen him, but Alex felt strange watching her—like he was somewhere he shouldn't be, like he was spying on her.
After studying her for a minute, he tuned into her words.
"Five-hundred years ago," she said, "most of the world was illiterate. Books were copied by hand, mostly by members of the Church. Then the printing press came along, and literacy increased exponentially for a few centuries. Then newspapers came along. Then modern cities, science, industrialization. And we grew up thinking that these developments were good, right?"
She paused and scanned the crowd with a wry smile. "And maybe they were. But I'm more interested in how they changed our relationships with ourselves.
"Before we get into that, a little more history. In the last hundred and fifty years, we got photography, radio, television, then cable TV. And each new technology promised to be the greatest help to journalists, to the flow of information, to democracy.
"Imagine you were a reporter covering the US Civil War, and, for the first time, you got to have someone with a camera by your side. Or imagine you were a reporter covering the air raids in London in World War II, and you got to transmit sounds of the bombings, live—or almost live—back to the States.
"And it was the same with television. When CNN first came onto the scene, many of us bought in again. A worldwide television station that was going to provide international news, US news, real reporters—twenty-four-seven and with a good budget. Well, we've all seen how it's worked out. Cable news is just infotainment—some of it with a left lean and some with a right lean. It's not what we were promised. Not what we hoped for. Right?
"We hear it over and over. Every new medium holds great promise for journalism, which also means the greatest promise for the free flow of information. For the ability of humans to live freely, to self-actualize. And each turns out to be a major letdown. After each new technology disappoints, we have to play that loser game-show sound: wah wah wah wahhhhh. Fooled again. And with the Internet, we're all Charlie Brown, hoping that this is the time the football won't be yanked away."
Much of the audience laughed and Camila laughed with them. She was clearly enjoying herself. Alex fingered a piece of lint in his pocket. He'd been oscillating between genuine interest in what she was saying and discomfort about what he was feeling. It wasn't as though he'd convinced himself that he no longer had feelings for her. But she'd left. To him, feelings were only worth examining in a context where they would be useful.
Now, with Camila standing in front of him, bright and intelligent—looking both wise like a sage old woman and curious like a little kid—all the feelings he'd been ignoring came rushing back in a jumble. Anger, frustration, heartbreak, and disappointment all struck him simultaneously, along with the mental recognition that they'd been with him since the day she left.
But that wasn't the worst of it. There was another feeling, and as it struck him, he forced his face into a smile in an attempt to keep it hidden.
The feeling was longing. And it was a feeling he wanted nothing to do with.
He refocused on her speech.
"We are living in times more revolutionary than any in history. We are the guys in Europe, five years after Gutenberg invented the printing press, saying, 'Hmmm, what should we print?'
"We are the guys sitting in New York City in the winter of 1926 with a brand-new network called NBC, staring up at a radio transmission tower we barely understand and saying, 'Hmm, we now have twenty-four hours of airtime to fill, what should we do?'
"We have these extraordinary tools at our fingertips . . ." She paused to hold up a cell phone. "Literally at our fingertips, and we don't know how we will use them. How they will change us.
"The difference is that now everyone gets to make that decision for themselves. We are Charlie Brown, but we're also Lucy, holding our own footballs. Now it's you, at home, staring at a blank blog entry, saying, 'What should I write?' If the trends continue—and they will, faster than you can imagine—soon it will be every man, woman, and child in the US, looking at their screens and wondering what to write, what to upload. Which photo or video to send around the world. Everyone is now a journalist, telling his or her own story.
"The real question is: what will we create with the unprecedented power we hold? In the next five years, a thousand people will write the story of how all the new technologies are tearing us apart, bringing us farther away from each other, shredding the social fabric.
"And they'll be right.
"Another thousand will write the story of how the new technologies are connecting us in ways we never thought possible, bringing people closer, democratizing the world. And they'll be right, too."
Alex was growing more and more uncomfortable. He looked over at James, who appeared to be transfixed. Camila was a wonderful speaker, there was no doubt about that. But Alex didn't like to think too hard about the philosophical side of the media. His job was to break stories, and he only knew two modes: Storybreaker On and Storybreaker Off. The longer she talked, the more he wanted to do something. Maybe he should walk around the lobby and look for Denver Bice. Maybe he should hang out at the bar, making sure he was visible to any source who might want to find him. He couldn't just wait around for another text to arrive.
He was about to get up and head for the door when he heard Camila shift into her wrapping-it-up tone.
"I'm torn. I really am. What I care about is whether or not all this brings us closer to ourselves, or farther away. Half the days, I want to crawl under my blankets and hide from the world, to guard myself against the onslaught of technology.
"But the other half, I want to spring head first into it, embrace it. Because, while I feel like it's taking away our humanity, it may also be making us something more than human, which—not coincidentally—is the working title of the book I'm writing."
She smiled broadly, then winked at the crowd. A conference organizer at the front of the room got Camila's attention and held up one finger.
"Okay, I'm being told I have just a minute le
ft, so let me leave you with this. In the next ten or twenty years, technology will turn us into a new species—whether we like it or not, whether we recognize it or not. Whether I embrace it or not, it's going to happen. You in the audience will choose how it happens. We are in control of whether or not we retain any portion of our humanity as it happens. Please choose wisely."
After the speech, Alex and James waited in the back of the hall as Camila greeted a few members of the audience who had approached her. As she began speaking with the last person, she glanced up and caught Alex's eye in a way that told him she had known he was there the whole time.
"Should we go talk to her?" James asked.
Alex nodded and followed James to the front of the hall. Once she'd wrapped up the conversation and the audience member had turned to leave, Camila hopped down from the stage, smiling. "I thought that was you two."
"It's us," Alex said, not sure whether or not to hug her.
The longing was back, but worse than when he'd just been watching her from across the hall. It came from his toes this time, but lasted only a moment. When he became aware of it, he dug his thumbs into his thighs in his pocket, straightened his back, and thought of Greta.
Finally, James leaned in and hugged Camila. "It's good to see you," he said. "Loved your talk."
"You look great," she said to James.
"Thanks."
Camila stepped toward Alex, who leaned back without realizing what he was doing. She laughed and held out her hand to shake. "And Mr. Vane, you look . . . as tall as ever."
Alex shook her hand, then she leaned in to hug him. He hugged back from too far away, which made the whole thing awkward and uncomfortable.
As she stepped back, he tried to recover, saying, "You look younger. How did you manage that?"
She smiled but didn't respond.