A chiming message alert on Tobit’s laptop wakes our hero from his sleep. From his bed he can see his laptop resting next to the television with the new mail indicator flashing. He is suddenly not tired anymore.
“What is it?” Aphrodite says gently, tugging on his arm when Tobit sits up.
“I have new email.”
“Can’t it wait until morning?” Aphrodite turns onto her side and falls asleep before our hero can answer.
“I won’t be able to go back to sleep if I don’t read it.”
Tobit leaves the bed and reads the email while sitting on the toilet. Our hero has had a long-standing theory (which I, for one, agree with) regarding toilets that I suppose I should quickly explain. He believes that using the computer while on a toilet seat improves posture and reduces the chances of carpal tunnel syndrome. He replaced his executive leather chair in his home office with a toilet seat last spring, and though his hands have frequently been numb since he started using the toilet seat, he swears it has done more good than harm. He is hoping to publish some of his research on toilet seats and carpal tunnel syndrome sometime after he dies.
Back to the email: it’s a newsletter from a file-sharing site Tobit belongs to. There are two dozen graphics and pictures in the body of the message with a short note in the middle explaining that the site is sending out a mass email to all subscribers to make them aware of a mass email they will be sending out within the month. Tobit reads the letter twice, then forwards it to his other email address, where he reads it again and finally deletes it.
In a daze, Tobit leaves the bathroom and walks out onto the balcony. It’s just past three, but the streets are busy. He hears a siren and shuts his eyes peacefully, trying to hear how far it goes before it fades away. While watching passing cars and picked-over whores, our hero imagines that all the world revolves around him. He creates a kingdom on the balcony where the world survives because he lives—the cars, the whores, the bums, the doormen—all life that goes about, Tobit playfully imagines, does so because he breathes light into darkness. He raises his arms above his head and says quietly, “People of Fortran—hear my words—for the world revolves around me.” And for a second (it is probably closer to two seconds, possibly three), our hero believes he has silenced them, but then he realizes they’re still moving and he’s too high up to hear what they’re saying.
Our hero leaves his fantasy after a Volkswagen runs a red light and almost hits a dead dog (our hero has a soft spot for dogs but hides it well) that is lying in the crosswalk. He feels suddenly bored with his world.
He goes to the suite’s kitchen and gets water. Leaving against the counter, he sees a dim light coming from Pascal’s room. He begins making out red, blue, yellow, and green as his eyes focus on the door crack. Occasionally he hears a faint echoing sound—a digitally altered dog bark…a flute playing in the key of G…a splash…a bouncing rubber ball…a baby’s cry.
Tobit becomes curious and gently taps, then opens Pascal’s door, peeking his head inside. “Everything okay in there, sweetie?”
There is no answer. Tobit looks around and sees that the different colors and occasional soft sounds are coming from Pascal’s laptop screen, which is balanced on top of a book (likely the new HTML book Tobit bought him as a gift before they left). A chat room takes up half the screen with a file downloading in the foreground. Pascal is sleeping in his bed next to the laptop. He’s on his side and is snuggly hugging his palmtop against his chest. The Education of Henry Adams, which Aphrodite bought him at a used bookstore that afternoon, is next to him (he loves chapter XXV, “The Dynamo and the Virgin,” and has always wanted an old copy).
Tobit walks slowly into the room, watching the screen carefully. He tries to read it, but the words move too quickly too be seen at his distance. He goes further and further into the room until he is finally in front of the laptop. The chat room is different from the ones he is comfortable with. The letters appear faster, and the words come out brighter. The chat is strange to our hero but equally fresh, and he feels that if he leaves the room without reading at least some of the chat, he will forever regret it (our hero, you see, lives with very few regrets). And so it is that he sits down and begins to read with an uncomfortable fascination the sentences that are appearing almost too quickly for Tobit to read:
4sAleonline: im reading ‘the double’….i think i finally understand heteroglossia
TMPnch: anyone want to cyber? IM me
JoeCmbell has entered the chat
DkyIky27: get out of this room
MODR7a: your kinds not welcome hear
TMPnch has left the chat
Xman: i love that book :~)
DntWnnbe has entered the chat
IMpssN: what sup dntwnbe
DntWnnbe: what are we talking aobut?
4sAleonline: heteroglossia
DntWnnbe: does anyone know where i can get a divx version of ‘wild strawberries’ dubbed in spanish?
DkyIky27: i’ll email you a link but there will be iranian subtitles
DntWnnbe: cool
DntWnnbe has left the chat
Xman: who has a good definition for modern myth?
JoeCmbell: your reading it
IMPssN: ;-)
4sAleonline: gotta go…later
DkyIky27: til tomorrow
4sAleonline has left the chat
Xman: bye
MODR7a: !!!
Kill1984: witty dick…ha, ha, ha…hee, hee, hee
Xman: anyone with a more defined definition?
Killl1984: has anyone heard about the new dvd encryption software in development?
dvdRipper: new subject
ADsalngr: i just finished an article on apocatastasis
DkyIky27: check a dictionary of modern thought
Bartman: we should change the name of our religion to that
DkyIky27: we are the immoral who will be immortal
Xman: is that online
ADsalngr: !!!
DkyIky27 yes
Xman: we need a new name
Kill1984: we’ve been the cyber monks for too long
MODR7a: how about the cock suckers
IMPssN: cyber suck my cock
JmyWhck6: you’re both cyber faggot cock suckers…ha, ha, ha
Bartman: :0~~~~!!!
DkyIky27: i think both those domain names are taken
MODR7a: nafta’s going to kill us all
DkyIky27: something has to be done with chapter eleven
ADsalngr: maybe we could sue them for something
IMPssN: let’s sue for letting so many companies sue
JoeCmbell: maybe we could create a polluting substance, then sue when they tell us to stop making it
Kill1984 has left the chat
Bartman: im watching cartoons
IMPssN: cartoons are cool
Bartman: who wants some nudity cartoons!!!!!
Xman: ??
JmyWhck6: your such a perv
hasydaisy: why don’t people und4erstand me
Xman: ??
IMPssN: so did we decide on a new name or what?
DkyIky27: we understand you
dvdRipper: death to postmodernism
Xman: yeah, yeah, yeah
Xman: !!!!
MODR7a: hail to the web
Pascal’s hand stretches in front of Tobit’s face, breaking him away from the chat, which he has formed an unconscious attachment to. “What are you doing on my laptop?” the palmtop reads.
“Nothing.” Tobit stands, backing away from the computer. “Just couldn’t sleep, so I came in here to check on you.”
“You were reading the chat room?” Pascal minimizes the screen and looks intently at the percentage of the download in the foreground of the desktop that is just about to finish.
“A little,” Tobit admits.
Our hero is nervous. He wants to spend his last days together with Pascal with no conflict, and he believes that he has disappointed his son and fears the outcome. Tobit has always been bitter about his final days with his own father; all that he remembers about those days is the way his father would tell him to leave him alone.
But Pascal is excited and quickly writes, “What do you think of my friends? Aren’t they great?”
Tobit nods. “Are they all your age?” He does not know what to think of them. The conversation went too fast for him to keep up and he understood only some of what he read.
Pascal shrugs, then writes, “We never give out our age, real name or any personal information.”
“That’s very smart.”
Smart indeed. I gave out my name once. To make a long story short, I had to change my email address, use less popular chat rooms, and start wearing silk boxers. It was a very painful period and I don’t like to talk about it—so will you please just drop it? It doesn’t mean I fantasize about running across the freeway naked. Um—moving on…
“If we did, we’d end up lying about it, so what’s the point?”
Tobit nods, feeling suddenly proud of his son. He discovered a year ago that Pascal is much brighter than both he and Aphrodite combined. Tobit had Pascal take an IQ test on the Web. Pascal manipulated it so it would say he was a genius, and Tobit knew he was smart after that, because no one short of a genius could do that much manipulation.
Pascal’s eyes get big with an idea. “Do you think you’d ever come into the room and chat?”
Tobit does not immediately reply, and Pascal writes further, “You’d be awesome, Dad. I know you would be. You’re the coolest dad in the world!”
“We’ll see.” He’s careful about the chat rooms he selects; he knows of some that delve into the truth and character of the chatters mind, which he tries desperately to avoid, since he doesn’t want to be portrayed as something he’s not.
Pascal hugs him, and then sits at the computer and begins typing. He is swallowed up in the chat and is not aware of anything that is happening in the other, real world. Tobit watches him for several minutes and realizes that Pascal’s cyberspace is different—the people he talks with, the sites he visits, even his reason for logging on—they are all different from his own.
He reflects on how great it is that they each log onto the same browser but for different reasons, and with this joyful reflection, Tobit starts to leave, whistling and with a bit of a skip. He wishes Aphrodite were there to share it with him.
Tobit is half way out of the room when he abruptly stops and turns. He watches Pascal carefully, then asks, “Say Pascal—what do your online friends think of my cyber death?” Pascal has been shy about telling his dad what he thinks of everything that is going to happen, and Tobit frequently resolves to obtain such insights by finding out the viewpoints of Pascal’s online friends. He was happy when he first found out, but has said little of it sense then.
Pascal does not answer. He hasn’t heard the question. He has entered his other world. His eyes are fixed to the screen and his fingers connect him aesthetically to the computer. There is a rhythm to his one-finger typing, and the way he touches the keyboard is gentle, as if he fears he might harm it if he touches it roughly. He has mastered the skill of one-handed typing. Not too long ago, Tobit remembers, Pascal had told him that chatting for him was a form of meditation. This appears to be true. Even his breathing patterns have changed.
He goes back to his own room and pulls a picture of Pascal from his wallet, then goes to the bathroom where his encounter with the late night began. He stares tenderly at the small wallet-sized shot of Pascal that was taken before the advent of the digital camera. Pascal was only two and did not even have his own computer. The pose is innocent; though his innocence remains, he has his palmtop now. For a moment, our hero wonders what it would have been like if he had raised Pascal in a cave where there were no computers or World Wide Web. “Boring,” he concludes out loud.
Pascal’s a normal boy raised on computers. Despite the mischief he has gotten into with his computer over the years, he’s still a sweet kid. I’ll end by letting you reflect for yourselves on his sweetness…
Yours truly,
The Narrator