“So, no reason, then?” plugs concluded, and the room seemed to feel that was a fair conclusion. It was the shitty statement that would change the entire tenor of the comment thread. There would be piling on unless someone changed the flow again.
“Yeah, why you?” someone else called out. It was happening.
“Because he helped me,” a woman said.
It was the long-lashed girl. She was standing now, and holding a blue copy of Notes under her arm like a Bible. I could see the black Cleopatra eye makeup creating the illusion of larger eyes. She might have dabbed some white in the corner, extending the sclera. That trick usually makes you look a little cross-eyed, but because her eyes were already set slightly further apart, it seemed to work out. Regardless, it wasn’t the makeup that made her eyes look so huge. It was because she could hold all of me in her sight. She was seeing the man I’d hoped to be and wouldn’t explain. The room went quiet, and I looked at her along with everyone else.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“You helped me,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Do I know you?”
“We were Facebook friends.”
That didn’t help. I had become Facebook friends with lots of people I didn’t actually know. Mostly with people I didn’t know. It’s much better that way when you have no good news to post.
“I’m Alana,” she said. “And I don’t usually look like this. I’m dressed as Oz for tonight…”
She smiled, and I could see her now, even if I couldn’t remember her last name. She saw me scanning drunken late-night memories for more.
“We met online like two years ago,” she said. “Anyway, I was pretty depressed. I don’t want to get into it, but you helped me, and I wanted to thank you. Although I guess I would like the Internet back, too.”
If you’re a functional alcoholic, it’s easy to find the start of a lost weekend. It’s usually Friday night. But e-addiction is more subtle. They used to call BlackBerrys crackberrys because of how often we’d check them, but by the time the iPhone rolled around there was no cute name for this affliction. Now, it was just something we did. And it was like that for me. A way to unwind devolved into a way to see the world. I don’t know when it went from a hobby to a way of life, but if you could somehow quantify the mess of my dropout, virtual life, Alana probably existed somewhere toward the start. The period shortly after Romaya left, when I was no longer going to work but not quite yet the near shut-in I’d become. She was a voice looking for help at the moment I threw my Scotch-laced self into comment threads and social media.
“I’m not sure how I helped you,” I said. “But I’m glad.”
“You listened,” she said. “And you heard me when no one else would. When even my friends wouldn’t listen.”
I wondered if I were really that wonderful or if her friends were that awful. Probably neither was true. The Internet deserved the credit because in real life, the hardest part about being there for someone is knowing once you extend the effort to make something right, once you take someone from sad to happy, from suicidal to safe, they might ask you to do it again. And again. And surely you run that risk online, but it’s easier to say good-bye. People get blocked. They have their chat privileges removed. There are more buffers between you and a real connection, making it easier to say hello and good-bye. Distance makes it easier to answer cries for help, knowing the Internet will never let your good deeds trap you into a pattern of selflessness.
Another man stood up. He was about my age, but had a much kinder face than I do. “You helped me too,” he said. Standing there in his cargo shorts and T-shirt, ten pounds too small, he didn’t look familiar at all.
“I posted an adoption profile on Facebook when my wife and I were almost out of hope, and you shared it and even linked it on your Twitter.”
I was not (as truly sad people call themselves) “Twitter Famous” but my steady stream of puns and off-color tweets mocking dead celebrities had amassed me a following of about seven thousand. Compared to someone with an actual life, that meant a lot more exposure, so I understood why he was grateful, even if I didn’t remember the posting.
“Did that lead you to a baby?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “The baby came about six months later, totally unrelated, but you have no idea how much it meant to my wife and me. Sometimes a kindness from someone you don’t even know can mean the most.”
“I’m glad.…” I lingered for his name.
“Ed.”
“I’m glad, Ed. Will you help me bring back the Net?”
“Yes.”
“Alana, will you help me bring back the Net?”
“Yes.”
I addressed the whole room. “Do we have people here tonight who will help me find the Net?”
It wasn’t a unanimous response by any means, but there was enough of a communal “yes” to be encouraged. I looked at Tobey, and he smiled back at me.
“Okay,” I said. “Here’s what’s going to happen. As you might have guessed, and as my friend with the hideous body scarification earrings mentioned, Tobey and I are a couple of fuckups. Nevertheless, we’ve learned more than you’d think possible. We’ve obtained information we believe narrows the field of possible suspects. As you can understand, that’s not something we’re going to share freely to a room full of unknown drunken Californian assholes like you. We want to know you better, so if you came to help, I’d like to ask you line up over here toward the left wall.”
People started to gather their drinks
“If, however, I dunno, you came to be part of some book club/cosplay fun and possibly have sex with Tobey, then hang to the right.”
“Thank you!” Tobey said earnestly, like I’d finally remembered the key point of tonight’s gathering.
“Not at all, sir,” I replied. “So, I’m gonna leave it to you guys to police the lines, but Tobes and I are gonna sit at that bar there and drink and get to know you. You can come take a stool beside us one by one while we get your contact info and skill set. Cool?”
I didn’t wait for a response. Spools and the smart lady had already thrown me enough with their questions. Now it was time to make executive decisions and hope others followed.
I took a step off the riser and as I headed to the bar made sure to pass by Alana’s table. When she stood up I gestured, and she followed me to the bar, sitting beside me. So did Tobey.
“Be cool, man,” I said, nodding to empty seats further down the bar, and he slid a few down, proud that he was being empowered as an equal to do the canvassing of new talent. The spools guy was the first person to sit next to him.
“Thank you for saving me out there,” I said to Alana.
“That’s what I should be saying to you,” she said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Well, let’s see what they have,” I said scanning the shelves.
“Well, I was gonna buy you a Macallan,” she said.
“Oh yeah?” I asked. “Even though I drank Jameson all through the book?”
“Well, yeah, but you explain that.” She flagged down the bartender. “That was just, y’know, to keep expenses down. You were drinking Macallan at the start of the book and when we met on Facebook. You used to post about it.”
It was hard not to be flattered by the attention to detail.
“Yeah, but here’s the thing,” I said. “A couple of weeks ago, I decided to treat myself to Macallan. And I didn’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“I dunno. I guess I just got used to the taste of the cheaper stuff.”
Just then the bartender came up to us. “What can I get you folks?” he asked, and before I could speak, Alana put down her card and said, “Two Macallans, please.”
Suddenly, I didn’t feel flattered. I felt ignored, or at least misunderstood. But that happens sometimes when someone understands you better than you do.
Alana smiled at me and said, “Don’t get used to the taste, Gladstone.”
<
br /> I felt the kind of warmth inside me that had recently only come from good Scotch. I would have held the moment, basked in it, but Alana’s face suddenly turned from compassion to fear, her eyes growing as wide as her makeup’s illusion. I turned around to see something I couldn’t believe was real. It was Rowsdower, but now he wasn’t all gussied up for some TV appearance. He was in action, wearing a tan suit and skinny tie with an immaculate knot. Perhaps most noticeable was his fedora right out of G-man central casting.
“Rowsdower,” I said, unaware I was even speaking.
“Special Agent Rowsdower,” he corrected, and flashed his badge inches from my face.
“Wayne Gladstone?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You have been declared a person of interest under the NET Recovery act. As such, I am empowered by the United States government to request you follow me for questioning. Will you be coming voluntarily or shall I place you formally under arrest?”
I didn’t respond, and Rowsdower repeated himself.
“Will you be coming voluntarily or shall I place you formally under arrest?” he insisted.
“I thought I had a right to remain silent,” I protested.
“You have no such right under the NET Recovery Act,” he said, and in one fluid motion cuffed my hands behind my back before I could even think of a witty rejoinder.
Tobey jumped off his stool. “What the fuck, man?” he asked. “I thought this was America.”
Rowsdower kept one hand tight on my cuffs and placed the other on Tobey’s shoulder.
“The NET Recovery Act passed four months ago, son, and you’re still talking about what was America. Please get out of my way. I have a job to do.”
7.
My father retired just three weeks after I started working at the New York Workers’ Compensation Bureau. It was as if Manhattan couldn’t hold more than one working Gladstone at a time. He didn’t mention that phenomenon during the one chance we had to meet for lunch. He just sat across from me eating his turkey club. No list of unfulfilled ambitions or impressive achievements was passed across the table. But for me it was still a changing of the guard, and I made a list for him, built from my memories and observations, and put it inside my coat pocket.
“That suit looks good on you,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s from Syms.”
“Two for one?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He smiled. “That’s always good.”
Growing up, my father never shared a beer with me or taught me how to fire a gun. He barely drank, and hadn’t touched a weapon since the Korean War. But I never felt deprived because I grew up in a house headed by a man who was always home unless he was working in the real world of New York City. He seemed the master of all the grown-up details that appeared far too numerous to be comprehended. My father could tell you where to park at the train station; where to stand on the platform for the doors to open; and which subway to take. He found his way home even when his train was canceled, and I would stare up in wonder, sure that if I were a grown-up, I’d stand in the middle of Penn Station crying in panic until I could give my name and address to a policeman.
He shaved every day—even on Saturday mornings—and I would scurry in and sit on the closed toilet seat beside him, waiting to be handed his electric Norelco razor and a tiny brush. He watched my fingers push back the tiny black tab that released the cover and offered encouragement as I worked the brush through the rollers and screens. I did a thorough job sweeping away yesterday’s stubble and powder. It should have taken six seconds but I stretched the job out for a minute and furrowed my brow like a little Swiss watchmaker working delicate parts. He smiled while applying a thin film of powder from a squat round stick with a tiny plastic cover, and never rushed me.
When I was six, he showed me how to tie a tie. He taught me the full Windsor knot and gave me one of his ties to practice. You’d be surprised how many grown men can only tie a half Windsor. Half Windsors are quick and easy, but they’re always crooked, even when tied correctly. I can tie a full Windsor, with no mirror, while waiting on a subway platform, and still get a dimple in the middle, just below the knot. My dad gave that to me, even though he ties half Windsors. And when I turned thirteen, he offered his electric razor, but taught me how to shave with an old-fashioned blade. I am not like my dad. I tie full Windsors, and buy disposable razors. But I am the choices he gave me. Some fathers can only teach you to be the man they are.
“Wake up, Gladstone,” Rowsdower said and entered my cell. In one hand was a tiny stack table, in the other, a folding chair he’d brought before. He passed me the table and set the chair beside my cot. Then he took the table back and opened it between us.
“Ready,” he called out over his shoulder, and a disgruntled guard came in with my lunch on a serving tray, dropping it on the table to destroy all the dignity Rowsdower was apparently trying to create.
That was prison in the Apocalypse. The NET Recovery Act allowed its enforcers a lot of freedom which was good and bad. It was a freedom that allowed Rowsdower the power to let me keep my real clothes, although the state was good enough to give me a couple of government-issue outfits. It was a freedom that let Rowsdower bring in unofficial furniture so he could sit down to watch me eat in my cell. And then there was my cell, which looked not at all like a cell. It was a room with a wooden door, and a wired glass window. It reminded me of high school. But the freedom was bad too, because without rules, a government is only as good as its people.
Rowsdower wasn’t wearing his sports jacket today. Just a crisp white shirt with perfectly rolled up sleeves and a straight, navy blue tie.
“I wasn’t sleeping, Rowsdower.”
He paused. “Would it kill you to say my whole name: Special Agent Rowsdower?”
I shrugged.
“So, Mr. Gladstone,” he said. “Let’s go over it again.”
It wasn’t the first time we’d been through this. On the first day, Rowsdower was all business the way I’d remembered him in New York. I sat on my cot and he stood tall and thin in his gray suit and fedora, like some 1950s throwback. His anachronistic wardrobe seemed to be the one indulgence in his button-down life, and I had to laugh because even his tiny act of rebellion embraced the fashion of a more rigid time.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Gladstone,” he had said, staring at me in a way that revealed disbelief.
“Is this a social visit, Rowsdower? Because, y’know, we could hang out without you actually arresting me. How about bowling?”
“See, at this point, Gladstone, people are usually asking what their crime is. You’ve been here ten minutes and your first instinct is to be a dick. Why is that?”
I wanted to give a noble reason, but the truth was my wrists still hurt from the cuffs and it seemed defiance would ease that pain, but I wouldn’t admit that. Not when there was a fight to be had.
“Why would I ask my crime?” I exclaimed. “You’ve already told me all about your NET Recovery Act. You can hold anyone indefinitely without counsel provided it’s in furtherance of your investigation. You only need to tell me once.”
“Oh good,” he said. “I was afraid the message didn’t sink in after all that Jameson and jerking off.”
He threw one of Tobey’s blue photocopies of my journal on the cot.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not doing any signings today.”
Rowsdower paced the cell for a moment before moving his fedora to the back of his head to open his face for conversation.
“Y’know, for the record,” he said, “I may not be the best looking guy on the job, but I still don’t think my head looks like a ‘yellow laminated skull.’”
He gestured to my book. I forgot I’d written that and I felt bad. Rowsdower was thin, and there was something about his teeth that attracted more attention than normal, but he was not the emaciated attack dog I’d seen before.
“Sorry. Unreliable narrator,” I shrugged.
“Also, it’s not my NET Recovery Act. I didn’t draft it, I didn’t vote for it. Did you?”
“I didn’t vote in the last election.…”
“Of course not. Why would the messiah of all e-humanity take an interest in politics?”
“Hey, look I—”
“Save it, Gladstone,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. This was passing in anyone’s administration. The people want their Net. But as long as we’re talking about it, do you understand what I’m empowered to do?”
I didn’t speak. I had no lawyer. There was no charge. There was no process. Only the authority to find results.
“You out of jokes?” he said, walking over to my cot and standing over me. I stood up too, feeling too defenseless, but that only made it worse because Rowsdower had a good four inches on me even when I was standing.
“Why don’t you tell me what you know about the Net?” he said.
And that’s how it went. Just like that for weeks. The constant intimation of danger, but no torture. Rowsdower would ask me questions about the disappearance of the Net, what role I played, who my associates were, and what information I had gathered. And I told him everything except my association with Quiffmonster and his gift of the Internet phone book. Not only had I made a secret of the only valuable thing I knew, but I was suppressing the only evidence I had that I was a man capable of accomplishing anything. Without that phone book, I had no clues. I had nothing to show for my efforts. Nothing cemented my mission as real except the faith of a growing number of strangers.
“So that’s it?” he asked. “You got nothing? You stood in front of that room of fans to tell them nothing? To give them nothing? Why the fuck do you write everything down if you have nothing to say? You’re as bad as the millennials. Do you think the world will stop spinning if you don’t record your every fucking thought?”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “I saw you on the news. I thought you knew I didn’t know anything.”
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