and the mental functions follow.
When I looked up again, Erin had put a laptop on the table. She turned the screen in my direction. On it was a single word, “ping,” typed thousands of times.
“One night when he was feeling sick, I came over to watch a movie, and wound up spending the night on the couch. I found Andy on the front stairs, typing away. He was typing the word ‘ping’ over and over. He said he’d been at it for hours, just passing time.”
I noticed that the laptop’s space bar was indented and cracked.
“I asked Andy about that, and he said that he must have been pressing too hard on it,” she said.
I wondered if Andy had written any diary entries that might explain his frame of mind.
“That’s what I want to know,” Erin said, suddenly animated. “There’s a diary file, but I don’t know the password to get in.”
That’s what Erin really wanted from me—to get some help looking at Andy’s private thoughts. I was always struck by people’s carelessness around technology. We e-mail off-color jokes and naked political views across a medium that records every conversation forever. Even when we try to erase what we’ve done, we leave traces and footprints. Or, in public settings, we talk on our cell phones about the most intimate matters. Maybe we really don’t care. Or maybe we all secretly just want to get caught—at being ourselves.
I fiddled around with the computer for a moment, trying to open the file. The guy was dead, so I wasn’t infringing upon his privacy. As it turned out, I couldn’t have infringed upon it if I’d wanted to; I lacked the expertise to open the file.
I couldn’t really imagine what Andy, or his laptop for that matter, had to do with the explosion at the café, but I also could understand Erin’s desperate curiosity—and I wasn’t much above grasping at straws myself.
“Mind if I borrow it for a day or two?” I said. “I have someone I can show it to. A wiz at technology.”
I told her about the story I was working on—about the impact of cell phone radiation and the brain. I’d been consulting Mike Thompson at Stanford Technology Research Center. He could speak to that topic and just about any other thing having to do with technology.
“Is there anything else you think I should know?” I asked.
Erin seemed so sure something had gone wrong. Was there something else driving her instincts? Something she was purposefully holding back?
Erin had a faraway look. She shook her head no.
“My husband was an alcoholic.”
“Your husband?” I asked, trying to make sense of her apparent non sequitur.
“Ex,” she said. “When he was on the bottle, he became a different person. Like night and day. It was the same thing with Andy.”
“Like he was drunk?”
“No. That’s not what I mean. I just mean that Andy turned into a different person over the last six weeks of his life. I knew him. Even if he was getting sick, he wasn’t the same person. He was . . . hijacked.”
“I don’t mean to dismiss your instincts, Erin, but I do know that tumors can really impact mood. So can changes in brain chemistry. That’s the essence of depression.”
I asked her for the name of Andy’s neurologist. She handed me a business card for Murray Bard, MD, and said he’d been recommended to Andy by Simon Anderson. Andy had become good friends with Simon at the café, and sometimes would babysit Simon’s kids over in West Portal.
“Simon could get anyone to do whatever he wanted,” Erin said. There was a quickening in her voice, like the way I’d sound when making an excuse to an editor.
“And Simon was friends with a neurologist?”
“Simon knew everyone.”
I offered to take a cab back to my car, but Erin insisted on driving me back to the cemetery. I grabbed the Dell laptop, and we headed out the door. Just two paces out, I nearly tripped on my face. A workman was fixing the lights in the apartment hallway, and I was so distracted and tired
When I looked up again, Erin had put a laptop on the table. She turned the screen in my direction. On it was a single word, “ping,” typed thousands of times.
“One night when he was feeling sick, I came over to watch a movie, and wound up spending the night on the couch. I found Andy on the front stairs, typing away. He was typing the word ‘ping’ over and over. He said he’d been at it for hours, just passing time.”
I noticed that the laptop’s space bar was indented and cracked.
“I asked Andy about that, and he said that he must have been pressing too hard on it,” she said.
I wondered if Andy had written any diary entries that might explain his frame of mind.
“That’s what I want to know,” Erin said, suddenly animated. “There’s a diary file, but I don’t know the password to get in.”
That’s what Erin really wanted from me—to get some help looking at Andy’s private thoughts. I was always struck by people’s carelessness around technology. We e-mail off-color jokes and naked political views across a medium that records every conversation forever. Even when we try to erase what we’ve done, we leave traces and footprints. Or, in public settings, we talk on our cell phones about the most intimate matters. Maybe we really don’t care. Or maybe we all secretly just want to get caught—at being ourselves.
I fiddled around with the computer for a moment, trying to open the file. The guy was dead, so I wasn’t infringing upon his privacy. As it turned out, I couldn’t have infringed upon it if I’d wanted to; I lacked the expertise to open the file.
I couldn’t really imagine what Andy, or his laptop for that matter, had to do with the explosion at the café, but I also could understand Erin’s desperate curiosity—and I wasn’t much above grasping at straws myself.
“Mind if I borrow it for a day or two?” I said. “I have someone I can show it to. A wiz at technology.”
I told her about the story I was working on—about the impact of cell phone radiation and the brain. I’d been consulting Mike Thompson at Stanford Technology Research Center. He could speak to that topic and just about any other thing having to do with technology.
“Is there anything else you think I should know?” I asked.
Erin seemed so sure something had gone wrong. Was there something else driving her instincts? Something she was purposefully holding back?
Erin had a faraway look. She shook her head no.
“My husband was an alcoholic.”
“Your husband?” I asked, trying to make sense of her apparent non sequitur.
“Ex,” she said. “When he was on the bottle, he became a different person. Like night and day. It was the same thing with Andy.”
“Like he was drunk?”
“No. That’s not what I mean. I just mean that Andy turned into a different person over the last six weeks of his life. I knew him. Even if he was getting sick, he wasn’t the same person. He was . . . hijacked.”
“I don’t mean to dismiss your instincts, Erin, but I do know that tumors can really impact mood. So can changes in brain chemistry. That’s the essence of depression.”
I asked her for the name of Andy’s neurologist. She handed me a business card for Murray Bard, MD, and said he’d been recommended to Andy by Simon Anderson. Andy had become good friends with Simon at the café, and sometimes would babysit Simon’s kids over in West Portal.
“Simon could get anyone to do whatever he wanted,” Erin said. There was a quickening in her voice, like the way I’d sound when making an excuse to an editor.
“And Simon was friends with a neurologist?”
“Simon knew everyone.”
I offered to take a cab back to my car, but Erin insisted on driving me back to the cemetery. I grabbed the Dell laptop, and we headed out the door. Just two paces out, I nearly tripped on my face. A workman was fixing the lights in the apartment hallway, and I was so distracted and tired
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