outstretched finger into his shoulder. They stared at each other for a moment, and then left the bar in unison. Whether it was to have sex or just say dirty things to each other from across the room while mutually masturbating is difficult to say.
“So, how ya doin’ on that drink?” I asked. “Can I get you another?” Her beer had hardly been touched, but I noticed I’d apparently killed my Jameson.
“No, I’m okay,” she said, “but if you need another … what was that you were drinking?”
“Oh, I guess it was Scotch.”
“Really,” she said. “Seemed like Jameson.”
“Yeah.”
“But that’s Irish whiskey.”
“Yeah.”
But this wasn’t the Internet. Her eyes required more of an explanation than an empty chat box.
“I guess I call it Scotch,” I said, “because that’s what I want it to be. Sure I can’t get you another beer?”
She just shook her head without speaking.
“Okay. BRB. I mean, be right back, heh.”
I got up and headed to the bar, hoping more alcohol would lubricate my way through this awkward dance, but as I got farther from our table I realized I was also getter closer to the door. Two more steps and I would be through it, and then I’d be headed home where the Scotch was already paid for, and I didn’t have to remember to smile for fear the natural curve of my mouth would be mistaken for anger.
I made it through and kept walking at a steady clip. I felt bad for Donna, but I wasn’t worried about running into her again. That was my last time at the Crazy Monk Saloon. Nothing about the night felt right, and even the streets were strange to me. Like one of the rusty wires in a bundle of threads holding Brooklyn together had given way, adding an unseen tension to the rest. More fractures were coming. I needed to get back inside before it reached critical mass and snapped with the fury of a dragon’s tail, knocking down buildings and severing limbs with its flailing.
I kept my gaze fixed on the front entrance of my building and walked as fast as I could. And even though my focus was directed home, I couldn’t help noticing something wrong about the way a group of guys were forming a circle around something across the street. I shut the lobby door behind me, almost silencing the sounds of a cat being made to do things it didn’t want to do.
2.
DAY 21. ACCEPTANCE, ZOMBIES, AND TOBEY
Three weeks now. We know it’s not coming back. Clergymen, sociologists, and other really boring people take to the airwaves to talk about the return of a simpler time. A time of truer human connection. They think losing the Internet is like leaving your favorite sweater on a train. It’s not. And while it might be overdramatic to compare it to the removal of an internal organ, it’s certainly fair to say the Internet had fused with our body chemistry. Information and instant messages came and went with a rhythm as constant and involuntary as breathing.
Dr. Gracchus had told me that losing a spouse could cause a period of extreme disorientation. That two people’s minds join after a time, each handling certain tasks for mutual benefit. And I guess it’s a bit like that. But the point is, the talking heads are wrong. The loss won’t bring back a simpler time. Only a search for something new to fill the void.
Romaya used to look for reminders of Northern California in Central Park. Especially if it were a wet day when the rain hung in the air instead of falling. She’d stare up at the leaves and branches, remembering the redwoods where she searched for Ewoks as a girl. Then she’d scratch at my scruff and tell me I smelled like a teddy bear. I was the home she had found. If I knew she were coming, I once told her, I never would have wasted all that time with people who weren’t her.
“Me too,” she said, running her hands around me. “It would have been nice to know I had a friend waiting in New York.”
* * *
I know what was going on in that circle the
“So, how ya doin’ on that drink?” I asked. “Can I get you another?” Her beer had hardly been touched, but I noticed I’d apparently killed my Jameson.
“No, I’m okay,” she said, “but if you need another … what was that you were drinking?”
“Oh, I guess it was Scotch.”
“Really,” she said. “Seemed like Jameson.”
“Yeah.”
“But that’s Irish whiskey.”
“Yeah.”
But this wasn’t the Internet. Her eyes required more of an explanation than an empty chat box.
“I guess I call it Scotch,” I said, “because that’s what I want it to be. Sure I can’t get you another beer?”
She just shook her head without speaking.
“Okay. BRB. I mean, be right back, heh.”
I got up and headed to the bar, hoping more alcohol would lubricate my way through this awkward dance, but as I got farther from our table I realized I was also getter closer to the door. Two more steps and I would be through it, and then I’d be headed home where the Scotch was already paid for, and I didn’t have to remember to smile for fear the natural curve of my mouth would be mistaken for anger.
I made it through and kept walking at a steady clip. I felt bad for Donna, but I wasn’t worried about running into her again. That was my last time at the Crazy Monk Saloon. Nothing about the night felt right, and even the streets were strange to me. Like one of the rusty wires in a bundle of threads holding Brooklyn together had given way, adding an unseen tension to the rest. More fractures were coming. I needed to get back inside before it reached critical mass and snapped with the fury of a dragon’s tail, knocking down buildings and severing limbs with its flailing.
I kept my gaze fixed on the front entrance of my building and walked as fast as I could. And even though my focus was directed home, I couldn’t help noticing something wrong about the way a group of guys were forming a circle around something across the street. I shut the lobby door behind me, almost silencing the sounds of a cat being made to do things it didn’t want to do.
2.
DAY 21. ACCEPTANCE, ZOMBIES, AND TOBEY
Three weeks now. We know it’s not coming back. Clergymen, sociologists, and other really boring people take to the airwaves to talk about the return of a simpler time. A time of truer human connection. They think losing the Internet is like leaving your favorite sweater on a train. It’s not. And while it might be overdramatic to compare it to the removal of an internal organ, it’s certainly fair to say the Internet had fused with our body chemistry. Information and instant messages came and went with a rhythm as constant and involuntary as breathing.
Dr. Gracchus had told me that losing a spouse could cause a period of extreme disorientation. That two people’s minds join after a time, each handling certain tasks for mutual benefit. And I guess it’s a bit like that. But the point is, the talking heads are wrong. The loss won’t bring back a simpler time. Only a search for something new to fill the void.
Romaya used to look for reminders of Northern California in Central Park. Especially if it were a wet day when the rain hung in the air instead of falling. She’d stare up at the leaves and branches, remembering the redwoods where she searched for Ewoks as a girl. Then she’d scratch at my scruff and tell me I smelled like a teddy bear. I was the home she had found. If I knew she were coming, I once told her, I never would have wasted all that time with people who weren’t her.
“Me too,” she said, running her hands around me. “It would have been nice to know I had a friend waiting in New York.”
* * *
I know what was going on in that circle the
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