“Brilliant minds crave stimulation,” Jones replied, as he triggered his modem to connect. “Sherlock Holmes had cocaine. I have the Internet.”
There was a short succession of beeps, then a growling mechanical hiss that told him he had connected with his Internet carrier. He clicked on his desktop icon for Netscape and started browsing the Web, but it didn’t hold his attention for long.
There had to be something more stimulating.
He glanced over his shoulder. Loving was back in his magazine; he didn’t appear to be paying any attention.
Quietly Jones closed his web browser and clicked the icon to open his IRC client software. He chose the University of Oklahoma’s undernet site and logged on.
A moment later, a blue-bordered window told him he was connected. A click after that, the program began scanning and automatically listing the names of all the chat rooms.
Once again, Jones marveled at the vast array of chat rooms—over three thousand, according to the toolbar at the top of the screen. And for some perverse reason, the program always loaded the ones whose names began with exclamation points first. Exclamation points were a tip-off that this was a chat room your mother wouldn’t want you to be visiting, like !nastytalk or !!!perversex or !!!!!!!!!barnyardfun.
Well, it was a little early for that sort of thing. Jones drummed his fingers and waited patiently while the rest of the channels loaded.
He knew many of the rooms would be empty this early (before midnight), but there were some exceptions. There were a few chat rooms in which participants played quiz games, but he wasn’t in the mood to display his superior intellect. There were always stacks of people in the rooms to discuss sci-fi shows like Star Trek or Babylon 5. But he needed something more challenging to liven up his dull existence.
Like music. After all, the Boss (sadly enough, he still thought of Ben that way) wasn’t the only music lover around. The Net was full of them. He clicked on the Music subheading, then MusicLovers. A long list of subtopics filled the scroll bar on the right side of the screen. Scanning the channels, he saw rooms devoted to the life and works of Patti Smith, four for Elvis, a couple for John Lennon.
His computer screen blipped and the picture momentarily disappeared. This happened sometimes; the Internet was far from infallible. One random surge of electricity, and you could be anywhere.
He scrolled down the channel listings, trying to figure out where he was. Something caught his eye—a room labeled THE WILD SIDE. Good, he must still be in the music subsection; that was obviously a reference to the works of Lou Reed. “Walk on the Wild Side” had always been his favorite Reed tune.
Jones clicked the Join button, which allowed him to enter the room using his online moniker Fingers. A second later, he was in. He was pleased to see there were more than a half-dozen people “chatting.” Their “conversation” began to appear on the text portion of his screen:
COBBLEPOT>Welcome, Fingers.
Jones smiled and sent his fingers into action.
FINGERS>Welcome back at you. And a bluesy good evening to one and all.
He smiled. A clever inside Lou Reed reference these aficionados would be sure to pick up on.
MADMAX>Glad you could be with us.
PAUL89>Ditto.
PILOTBOB>I’m Bob. Fly me!
Well, this seemed like a friendly bunch. Jones felt better already.
FINGERS>So, what are you folks talking about?
PAUL89>Well, now that you’ve arrived—you.
This was typical chat-room behavior. Even in cyberspace, folks wanted to get to know you a bit before they included you in the conversation.
FINGERS>How flattering. What would you like to know?
PILOTBOB>Well, for starters, I’d like to know if your fingers are girl fingers or boy fingers.
Jones stopped typing. Now that was a bit unusual.
FINGERS>And may I ask why you want to know?
PILOTBOB>(snicker) Well, if they’re girl fingers, I might invite you to let your fingers do the walking over to my cockpit.
Jones pushed himself away from the computer. Yuck! Who was this pervert? And what was he doing in a perfectly respectable music chat room?
PILOTBOB>Still no answer? C’mon, baby. I’ll let you play with my stick shift.
FINGERS>(indignantly) For your information, they’re boy fingers. So back off.
COBBLEPOT>LOL. Way to put that horny devil in his place, Fingers.
MADMAX>Cut the guy some slack. We’ve been in here for half an hour waiting for a woman to show up. But so far, it’s just us guys.
Jones frowned at the screen. He was beginning to get the impression he had made an error regarding the subject matter of the Wild Side chat room.
PILOTBOB>Are you sure you’re a boy, Fingers?
FINGERS>Absolutely positive. Have been all my life. Wanna see some ID?
COBBLEPOT>Bob is just being thorough. Sometimes when women log on, they pretend to be men. At least until they get the feel of the crowd.
And Jones could see why, too.
PILOTBOB>Sorry, Fingers, but for some reason, you make me suspicious. People do log on as the opposite sex. I’ve seen it many times.
FINGERS>Well, the longer one goes, the less one knows.
PILOTBOB>No offense intended, Fingers. What brings you to our room tonight?
FINGERS>I was hoping to find a discussion of music.
PILOTBOB>Music! (Explosive noises) Are you trying to show your sensitive side? Despite your protestations to the contrary, I think you are a she-male. Wanna go to a private room and let me look up your dress?
Jones drummed his fingers on the keyboard. He’d had just about enough.
FINGERS>Well, it’s been fun, all. But I’m out of here. So we’ll go no more a-rovin’ …
PAUL89>Wait! Don’t go!
Jones stopped just before his mouse clicked on the Exit button.
PAUL89>Please don’t go. I’d like to talk with you some more. I mean … if you don’t mind.
FINGERS>Sorry, Paul, but this room is not what I expected. I thought we’d be discussing music.
PAUL89>Really? So did I! Please stay!
FINGERS>Sorry, no. I’m outta here.
PAUL89>Please don’t go.
Jones paused. And a few seconds later, he read:
PAUL89>I have a confession to make. I’m a lurker. (Breathless pause) Truth is—I’m actually a woman.
PILOTBOB>Whoa-ho-ho! The femme unmasked!
COBBLEPOT>Paul! Who’da thought it!
PAUL89>Actually … my name is Paula.
Jones let go of the mouse. He couldn’t resist exploring this turn of events. His curiosity was definitely piqued.
FINGERS>Why were you pretending to be a Paul?
PAUL89>Need you ask? You saw how these lugs came on to you.
FINGERS>Then why log on at all?
PAUL89>I don’t know. I just wanted … someone to talk to.
Jones stared at the words at the bottom of the screen. He could have written them himself.
FINGERS>I can understand that.
PAUL89>Please don’t leave me to these heathens.
PILOTBOB>Who are you calling a heathen?
FINGERS>I should probably go back to work.
PAUL89>Later then. I’d really appreciate it. Maybe I’m crazy, but—you seem … different somehow.
Jones’s lips parted. Had someone finally recognized and appreciated his innate superiority?
PAUL89>I just wanted someone I could talk to. About music, I mean.
PILOTBOB>Hey, baby, I’ve got lots of music for you. I’ll play you like a violin. You’ll hear the angels singing.
PAUL89>(shivering with disgust) Fingers, will you join me tonight in a private room? So we can talk? Alone.