There was little protest in the days that followed. That’s how people are. They want normalcy and they’ll pay for it. Even the television that Margo and I were watching came with a post-Apocalypse cost. In the months that followed the crash, my building had collected $500 from all the tenants to install a powerful antenna which picked up the old-fashioned broadcasts that the networks were now amping up, and fed them to the tenants. No one was sure if that was a fair price for this technological workaround, but no one questioned it too much. It was just nice to have reception. So now this was just one more cost. One more way to be nickeled and dimed, but hopefully for something everyone wanted.
I turned to Margo to see her take on the feasibility of this new Internet. She was in dark blue blouse and skirt, but seemed as comfortable as someone wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt as she sat with her feet under her, drinking a vodka soda.
“Whaddya think?” I asked.
“I think,” she said, downing her drink and reaching for her shoes, “that if Obama’s bringing back the Net, then we better get to that 4chan/Anonymous meetup, while they’re still having them.”
She was right. I’d read Gladstone’s book and interrogated enough suspects to know that the loose collective of hackers, anarchists, and activists known as Anonymous shared a certain overlap with the depraved, meme-generating site formerly known as 4chan, and I also knew they’d been meeting every Tuesday night during the Apocalypse. When the Net came back, I assumed they’d go back underground into their digital holes.
“Fuck, you’re right. Time to hit the Bowery.”
“Lucky that today’s Tuesday,” she said.
“Well, it was a one-in-seven chance.…”
“Were you just quoting Gladstone’s book?” she asked.
“Was I?”
“Maybe. Doesn’t matter. Y’know, you two are more alike than you know.”
I didn’t say anything. It took all my energy to understand she meant it as a compliment.
* * *
We walked the block from Penn Station to the B/D downtown on Sixth, but they didn’t come. Instead, we were greeted by a train far too wide and green. There was a laminate stuck to one of the car windows reading NEW YORK MUSEUM OF TRANSPORTATION. It seemed some sort of recommissioned R-6 train was running on the BDFM tracks, and just in case the car didn’t send enough of a message, there were already passengers aboard, either actors or happy participants, dressed in period clothes.
Margo and I stepped inside the car and saw the museum had also hired a four-piece to play swing jazz right there in the center of our military gray/green car. Bare lightbulbs hung every two or three feet and ceiling fans spun. I wanted to ask one of the period-dressed passengers if this novelty train was still making the normal stops, but there was too much risk that one of the drama-school extras would commit to character, saying something like, “The B train? Whatever do you mean? I’m not familiar with that subway line—what with this being 1946 and all!” I tried to look out the window for evidence of scheduled stops, but Margo grabbed my hand and pulled me a few steps to a less crowded space. Then she started doing what could only be called her best impersonation of a flapper-influenced freestyle jazz dance. Some tourists took pictures with their iPads, not just because of the attractive lady shaking it in the aisles, but because with Gladstone’s fedora and my sports jacket, they must have assumed I was part of the show.
“Holy shit, that was fun,” Margo said after we reached the Bowery.
“I’m glad something about this night will be. I’m not looking forward to spending time with these … what are they called again? /b/tards?”
“Yep, after the /b/ boards on 4chan, where Anonymous originated.”
“Right. And what were the /b/boards again?”
“Basically just a place to post filthy images, hatred, memes. Y’know, stupid shit.”
“I can’t tell you how happy I am Gladstone has us looking for brilliant tech collaborators in a den of meme-loving imbeciles.”
“Eh, geniuses, fools,” Margo said. “Everyone loves a good fart joke.”
Outside the Bowery Poetry Club, there was an attendant wearing a bag over his head with the eyes and mouth cut out, just like in Gladstone’s journal. And also like in the journal, the guy was a prick.
“Password?” he asked.
“I’m Special Agent Aaron N. Rowsdower of the NET Recovery Act,” I said, hoping to bluff my way in.
Even through the bag holes, I could see his surprise. “The dude from Gladstone’s book?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He paused. “What?” I asked.
“I dunno. Your teeth look normal to me,” he said, and Margo laughed.
“Oh tits,” he proclaimed, noticing Margo for the first time. “Come in!”
* * *
Inside, things were a little less predictable. Gladstone had written about juvenile meetups filled with boyish joy-buzzer pranks. A gathering brimming with desperate attempts to re-create real-life mischief in place of what they’d lost online. A waitress had brought him novelty ice cubes with bugs inside, and one of the clan stole his jacket and hat, but we were not greeted by an explosion of bad behavior and noise. Instead, most sat quietly at their white-linen tables for four, each with a tiny white candle. And even though they were masked, there was a familiarity in the crowd. They were anonymous, in name and identity, but they were the same anonymous to one another week after week, and that proximity had bred some manners that Groucho glasses and half masks couldn’t quite destroy.
A replay of Obama’s speech was playing on a loop as Margo and I found a table. I hung my tweed sports jacket on the back of my chair and placed Gladstone’s hat on the table. By the time my Johnnie Walker and Margo’s vodka soda arrived, a man in a red velvet robe and Guy Fawkes mask (one of the few masks so ceremonial in the audience) appeared onstage.
“Think that’s Quiffmonster42?” I asked Margo.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “He’s wearing a mask.”
“Greetings, Anonymous,” he said in a voice that was far too nasal for the solemnity of this presentation. “The president says the Internet is returning to us. What do we make of this?”
There was applause. A few woots. Enough general approval to show appreciation, but tempered with a distrust that came second-nature to this group.
“I’ve watched this speech many times,” the man said, “and it occurs to me, Obama never says who actually took the Internet, who disabled it, just that we need the government to bring it back. For a fee. And I’d like you to consider what that means while we scroll through this week’s board submissions.”
And as is the way of 4chan, talk turned quickly from conspiracy to cocks. A slide show started on the screen behind Fawkes’s head. First, there was a picture of Obama from the recent speech with a penis Photoshopped into one of his raised hands and a vagina in the other, and the phrase CONNECTIVITY PROBLEMS? in thick, drop-shadow Impact font below. That got a minimal response, and Fawkes clicked to the next one. A picture of the newly announced Republican presidential candidate, Sen. Melissa Bramson with an ejaculating penis Photoshopped next to her face. That got slightly more of a reaction, particularly from one guy to our right, who was snorting through the nose holes of his mask. When I looked closer, I saw his disguise was a cheap plastic fedora, covered in felt with a nondescript attached face plate that hung down, covering only the eyes and nose.
“What kind of mask is that?” I asked Margo.
She got really excited. “Oh, good!” she said.
“What?”
“It’s a Gladstone mask,” she said. “I had them commissioned after I bought the rights. Did a first soft launch in New York two weeks ago, but this is the first one I’ve seen out in the world.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“Whaddya mean, why? I’m building buzz, getting a mark established. I’ve also printed up thousands of those blank Gladstone memes with the Wi-Fi symbol for people to put in
their windows and cars.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I told you I used to be in ‘branding.’ I’m protecting my investment. Just makes sense.”
I widened my eyes and smirked.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Apparently, the revolution will be monetized.”
Just then the crowd groaned because Fawkes had flipped to the next slide, which was an extreme close-up of a medical textbook picture of an untreated syphilitic penis. Margo turned from the screen and looked at me in wonder. “Do you know Gladstone made that exact same revolution pun when I told him my plan?”
I got angrier than I expected. “Hey, if you’d like, maybe I could borrow that dude’s Gladstone mask and you can just pretend he’s sitting right here with you?”
That’s when the Hamilton Burke pic went up, and wouldn’t you know it, there was a cock Photoshopped into his hand, a lot like the others, along with the phrase below, reading “WORKING IT” PARTY. That got the fewest laughs, and Fawkes stopped the display.
“Jesus, guys,” he said. “Is that all we’ve got this week? Shit’s getting old.”
Clearly the fifty to a hundred and fifty regulars at the Bowery Poetry Club were no match for the old content creation that drew upon the cock-based talents of millions from all over the world. It was an interesting consideration. An infinite number of monkeys at typewriters could eventually come up with Hamlet, but a hundred guys in the tri-state area were mostly limited to dicks. In any event, I’d seen enough penises for one night.
“Attention, /b/tards!” I said. “I’m Special Agent Rowsdower, and I have some questions for you.”
A silence fell over the crowd, and I was impressed with the amount of respect I could command with even a false title, but just at that moment, one of the collective charged from my right, and grabbed my jacket and hat.
“Look at me,” he said, placing the hat on his head. “Identity theft! I’m Special Agent Rowsdower!” Or at least that’s what he would have said, if I’d let him finish his sentence instead of punching him right in the teeth, the moment he got to “Special.” He fell straight down and I reclaimed my hat from his head before he even hit the floor. Another man, wearing a Gladstone mask no less, charged me from the left and probably would have gotten the jump on me, except that Margo subtly extended her elegant and very long right leg, tripping up my would-be assailant and sending him headfirst into the adjacent table.
“Gentlemen!” Fawkes shouted. “Enough!”
That upset the guy I’d punched in the teeth, who started to protest. “But he punched—”
“But nothing, Sergeant Turd. You had it coming. You’ve been doing that same identity-theft joke to every noob who’s stepped in here for over a year. Now, please. Let’s allow our guest to make his statement. What was that name again, sir?”
“Special Agent Rowsdower.”
“Why don’t you try again?”
“Why?”
“Well, because there was a Special Agent Rowsdower. And in fact, he’s fairly well known round these parts, what with Gladstone’s journal and all. But the thing is, that Special Agent Rowsdower went off to work in L.A., where he was relieved of his duties several months ago. So, if you please sir, your name again?”
“How do you know that?”
“We know lots of things. We are Anonymous. Your name, sir?”
“You’re right,” I said. “I was fired, but I really am Rowsdower. Aaron N. Rowsdower.”
“Really?” Fawkes asked leaning forward slightly.
“Yes, really.”
“Huh. The fuck was Gladstone going on about with your teeth?”
Everyone, including me, laughed, and suddenly there was a peace about the room that had been lacking. 4chan was proud of itself for being funny again.
“It’s actually Gladstone that has brought me here,” I said. “May I ask … I know this is Anonymous and all, but are you Quiffmonster42?”
Mumbling and gossip spread around me like ticket scalpers working a crowd outside MSG.
“Silence!” Fawkes commanded, even if his voice was a little too high to sell such a directive. “No, we have not seen Quiffmonster around these parts for quite some time. He has been distant. There have been rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“I’m sorry. We can’t share that with an outsider.”
Margo stood up. “Who are you?” she asked. “And why are you talking that way? ‘Outsider’? Any 4chan member I’ve met in the past would have called Rowsdower a ‘newfag’ and then chided him for getting all ‘butthurt’ if he took offense. I mean, wasn’t that the case when Gladstone came in here?”
“I’m sorry,” Fawkes said. “Would you be more comfortable if we all shouted, ‘TGTFO’?”
I looked at Margo, confused, and she whispered, “Tits or get the fuck out.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Margo said.
“Hey, baby,” Fawkes continued, “you should smile more. And/or don’t.”
“What’s that?” Margo asked, and the whole crowd replied in unison: “Schrödinger’s catcall!” then burst into laughter. Without question, this was the most fun 4chan had had in months. They were delighted by the fresh meat to tool on.
“Ma’am,” Fawkes continued as the room settled down, “we are not just one thing. We have no real leader, and though I’m standing onstage, I have no real power. But yes, I have the mic tonight and I don’t care so much for racier jokes and language. Maybe that’s the difference.
“Or maybe it’s because I happen to know those two guys over in the corner, dressed as Doctor Who number seven and Doctor Who number nine? They’ve been here every Tuesday night for the last year. They’re in love and totally fucking each other.”
“He’s just called ‘The Doctor’!” one of them shouted. “Not Doctor Who!”
“Whatever,” Fawkes said with a laugh. “You get my point, gaylord”
“Timelord!” the other corrected with a laugh, and Fawkes chuckled too, before pointing to the opposite corner. “And that woman over there in the giant peacock glasses is a regular too. I don’t know. Maybe that makes it a little harder to be an asshole when you almost see the same person every week, but I will say this: You’re the one who came into our home and started barking orders with no authority recognized by this organization or any organization, so I’m pretty sure if anyone’s been rude, it’s you two.”
“You’re right,” Margo said. “I apologize, but as you say, Anonymous is not any one thing, and we’ve been told some of you are not to be trusted.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” he said. “You trust everyone in the government? The Vatican? The police? There are always people who can’t be trusted.”
“It’s worse in the dark,” I said.
“Is it?” he asked. “Even in broad daylight, everything you can see hides something you cannot.”
Like Leonards back in L.A. I’d been given another gift that made nothing more clear. But there wasn’t much time to ponder, because he spoke again. “How is Gladstone?” he asked.
Margo took over as she did with Neville. “What do you want to know?” she asked.
“Friend or foe?” he asked.
“I guess that depends what side you’re on,” she said. “His mission statement might be different from yours. He’s not doing it for the lulz.”
Margo explained later that that was the mantra for many of the /b/tards, something far too trivial for our work. Fawkes did not engage the dig. He just waited a beat to reply, “Tell me anything you think will help, however you define help.”
“Well,” Margo said, “I can tell you Gladstone believes in pure things.” She then set out the dollar-store narrative about the poor, young father and his three small girls. A story she could not tell without getting personally affected. But this was the second time I’d heard the story, so I was thinking more about my father. And my pure things.
When I was thirteen, he ren
ted a cabin in Kinderhook, New York, where we’d stayed ten years before. We were still a family then and I was little more than a baby. In some ways, I remember the earlier trip better. I remember the green lake and gas lanterns. I remember the wooden floorboards of the five and ten in town, where my mother found a flotation device that was little more than rounded Styrofoam with a hole and a tiny fabric seat for baby legs to dangle through. No one would sell such a floating lawsuit today, but in 1973 it wasn’t a problem.
I floated out into the lake alone, my mother and father arguing in the rowboat they were trying to get off the pier. I’m sure I was only yards away, but it was the farthest I’d ever been from safety. The water was dark and so dense with algae that I couldn’t see what was brushing against my legs. I floated farther and farther from my parents, among hidden things that could only be felt. I would have been afraid, but I had no precedent for that. Nothing in my baby mind believed my mother would let me come to harm. I kicked my chubby legs and twisted, spinning my floaty to all sides of the lake. I got better at it. With a little work, I could get it to face any way I wanted, but I couldn’t stop myself from drifting farther away. Right there, in my baby hat and sunglasses, I got my first taste of growing up, learning some things could not be controlled. But before the panic of living alone on the other side of the lake set in, my father brought the boat close enough for my mother to scoop me up and into her arms. I remember sitting in her lap. She squeezed me tight from behind as I dripped all over her jeans and watched my father’s strong forearms tame the lake.
The second trip was different. My mom was home in Queens because my dad, who hadn’t lived with us for two years, wanted to spend some more time with me. He never got the hang of divorce. Coming from a time that didn’t believe in it, he didn’t know how to worry about my homework and meals every other weekend. He just wanted to be my father. That meant the big stuff. Life lessons. So he rented the cabin for the weekend to teach me to fish.
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