Notes From the Internet Apocalypse (2 page)

“Check it out,” he said, showing her the phone. “When the Internet comes back, I’m gonna make this my profile pic.”

“Cool,” she said, or appeared to. It was hard to hear her clearly through her pursed duck lips.

I headed back to Donna, a drink in each hand, but as soon as I turned, I was confronted by a startlingly beautiful eye. I’m sure there was a body connected to it, but all I could see was a vibrant blue iris speckled with green. Perfectly maintained lashes framed the brilliance, and the colors radiated out along the curling black lines. I pulled back to adjust my perspective, allowing the second eye to come into view, and when I took a further step I saw those brilliant eyes belonged to a face that contained no other attributes nearly as appealing. Not unattractive, but clearly she was accentuating the positive. Of course, I can’t really be sure because just at the moment I got enough distance to let the lines of her face form a picture, she darted up to me again—lids ablazin’—going eyeball to eyeball.

“Hi,” she said, “I’m Samantha,” and took another step until my back was firmly against the bar.

“I’d shake your hand, Sam,” I said, “but mine are a little full.”

She was too close for me to drink comfortably, which was too bad because, if my memory of early ’90s beer-goggling t-shirts and baseball hats was correct, it would have really helped her chances.

“Well, it was a pleasure, Samantha, but I have a friend waiting for me,” I said, holding up the Ultra, and heading back to Donna who, I noticed, had swapped out her height-appropriate stool for a chair that barely put her head above the table.

“Um, you sure you want to sit in that chair?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s much more comfortable,” Donna said. “Thank you.”

“Well, maybe I could join you and sit in—”

“No!” she barked before recovering. “I mean, please, just sit down. I didn’t get your name.”

After years online, I’d gotten used to not giving strangers my real name. Even my Facebook profile had been created under just my last name to avoid the spying eyes of nosey employers. And without even thinking, I gave that as my identity.

“Gladstone,” I said.

“Oh … is that your first name or last name?”

“Last.”

“What’s your first?”

“I’ll tell you when I know you better,” I said. “After all, maybe you’re just some frustrated spammer running a phishing scheme in bars.”

She laughed. Then she didn’t. And then there was nothing.

“So … pretty crazy with the Internet, huh?” I offered.

“Yeah, totally.”

We attended to our drinks. Occasionally, she’d adjust her breasts and look up at me in a still way.

“I hope it comes back, I have so many pics to upload. Wanna see?” she asked, offering her phone.

I flipped through about a dozen pics, all with her face at three-quarters and shot from above. She had it down to such a science that if you printed them out and put them in a flip book, it would create only the illusion of a pretty-faced, moderately overweight woman standing still.

“So, did you come here alone?” she asked.

I thought of Tobey. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone a week without speaking to him, and I missed his stupid IMs. What started as a mutual admiration over five years ago had blossomed into a beautiful friendship, or at least a beautiful acquaintanceship that lasted years while my real-life friends seemed to fall away over time. I was a faithful reader of his horribly inappropriate celebrity news blog, and he was a big fan of those three lists I once wrote for
McSweeney’s
. We messaged nearly daily, but had almost never spoken, even on the phone. Still, I was confident he’d be a good wingman and wished he were here instead of L.A.

“My friend’s meeting me,” I said. “He’s late.”

I continued to scan the bar. Some people were fine, but we weren’t the only ones having trouble talking. I noticed what appeared to be a couple at the bar. Or at least a man and woman standing somewhat near each other in silence. After some deliberation, he leaned over and overtly “poked” her. To my surprise, she blushed for a moment, giggled something to her girlfriend, and then firmly pressed one 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 other week. I’ve seen the bands of shuffling Internet junkies aimlessly roaming the streets from my window. Wide, sad eyes seeking out any trace of what they have lost. They devour anything they think can provide the fix they crave. The media calls them zombies because zombies are aimless and hungry and because the media is bad at its job.

But I’ve seen enough to know I’m better off inside. It’s all over TV. After years of getting entertainment and information online, television feels strange. The commercials. The lack of interaction. It’s big and bright, and even the more somber and sophisticated programming carries the brash 1980s taint of neon and synth. Like trading your iPod in for a jukebox. It’s only good for destroying the silence.

Not everyone has fallen into zombiehood, of course. The world goes on. People find a way. But enough. Enough former members of society who will just never be right. After a time, the like-minded form circles. Different Internet rings meant to re-create the experiences of their favorite lost websites. Sexually frustrated libertarians meet up with one another, and soon they are entwined in a Digg circle. Each participant takes a turn in the center, sharing the latest news he has heard. Sometimes, it’s something about a government conspiracy. Other times it’s just some terrible cartoon they’ve found. The data is scrutinized instantly by the group who, if sufficiently displeased, will bury the bearer. There are conflicting reports about what that means. Most say it’s just an expression, but some disagree, and the bands do keep seeking new locations in a ravenous search for more news and members.

The zombies I saw last week were part of a YouTube circle. Without a replay button or a link to similar entertainment, they demand hours and hours of mindless joy from whatever is unfortunate enough to be trapped inside their view. So many innocent cats have been worked to death, forced to do tricks for zombie-amusement without food, water, or chance of escape.

Although I hadn’t heard any reports about Internet zombies breaking into people’s apartments (or even looking at people who didn’t remind them of the Internet), I decided to board up my windows. Just felt right. I didn’t get very far, because at no time in the last ten years did it occur to me to stock my apartment with stacks of plywood. I contemplated the seemingly bizarre availability of substantial amounts of finished lumber in zombie movies and wondered if I could order some by phone. I’d need to go downstairs and ask the super.

The dead bolt snapped back with a force that echoed on the other side of my fire-prevention door. The door chain came next, but I didn’t turn the handle, which struck me as odd because I was positive I wanted to. That’s when I heard a knock.

It was Tobey. Bloody, sweating, and out of breath, but still Tobey. You could tell by his N
O
O
NE
I
S
U
GLY
A
FTER
S
IX
B
EERS
baseball hat—worn ironically, of course.

“Can I come in?” he asked after entering.

“Tobey? What happened … and why aren’t you in L.A.?”

This was only the second time I’d spoken to Tobey in person. The other time was on a business trip to a Risk Management seminar in L.A. I’d crashed at his apartment and we stayed up until 3:00
A.M.
, drinking and playing Six Degrees of Stanley Tucci. (Bacon was too easy.) But other than that inexplicably entertaining night, ours had remained an online relationship. And more specifically, an instant message relationship. Even those IM exchanges were punctuated by long unexplained pauses, which I assumed were caused by the responsibilities of his online job. But apparently that had nothing to do with it because even in real life, Tobey left my question about what he was doing here unanswered, and headed off to the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” I said, trailing behind.

“The Internet, Gladstone. Haven’t you heard?”

“Yeah, of course I’ve heard, but why are you in my apartment?”

“Because,” he said, holding the nearly empty bottle of Yuengling against his bruised cheek, “someone still has it.”

“What?”

“It’s true. I heard it in a Reddit circle just outside your apartment. How do you think I got these bruises? Man, those dudes did not like my defense of Corporate America.”

I was slow to respond, and not just because Tobey was now eating from my jar of peanut butter, assisted only by his finger, but because nothing about this made sense. Online, Tobey was a name. A green dot. A series of sarcastic, meta-humorous messages that broke the monotony of my day. But in my kitchen, he was a twenty-nine-year-old man-child who blinked a little too often and moved with more energy than was required to accomplish any task.

“Tobey, seriously. Sit the fuck down. You’re getting me nuts.”

Tobey pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. I handed him a napkin and another beer.

“Are you hurt?” I asked, but then I got distracted by another question. “What do zombies do in a Reddit circle anyway?”

“Mostly talk about how much Digg circles suck,” Tobey said. “But occasionally, you hear a good rumor. Even zombified Redditors know their conspiracies.”

“And you heard someone in New York still has the Internet? How?”

“How do you think, G-Sauce? They stole it.”

“What does that even mean? It’s not the Pink Panther diamond, it’s, I don’t know, it’s the Internet.”

“Hey, I’m just telling you what I heard. You don’t like it, take it up with the zombie Redditors, but I don’t know. It just feels right.”

“It does?”

Tobey moved with the ease of a man without a job. His limbs conserved no energy for reports to be written. His mind eagerly soaked up anything in the ether without fear of losing more important details. It was a freedom that made him so light he couldn’t even sit still in his chair. He went over to the sink, washing his bruises and stains before drying off on the towel hanging from my stove. Then he put his hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. Even as a grown-up, he still had a few freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose.