but familiar humming noise, trapped inside. He opened the door and was suddenly bathed in red light.
The sight of his computer brought a thin smile to his face, as if he were seeing an old friend. The closet had been completely remodeled into a computer workstation. Speakers rested on theshelf overhead, like bookends for a neat row of CDs. On the floor was a subwoofer, next to his tower and external zip drive. The twenty-one-inch monitor was in the screen-saver mode, which accounted for the colored lighting. The screen was aglow with one of those strange hues that only a computer could generate, somewhere between the pitch red of roses and the brownish red of blood.
He pulled up his computer chair and by merely touching the keyboard made the red disappear. An array of icons dotted the screen. The clock in the corner said 10:58. Just two minutes to spare. Just a mouse-click on his browser brought up his high-speed Internet connection. He skipped past the advertisements, news broadcasts, and other images that cluttered his home page. He clicked the icon marked “Instant Chat.”
He was a regular visitor to chat rooms on the Internet. The concept had long fascinated him, these so-called rooms in cyberspace that Web surfers could enter or leave as they wished. Once inside they could exchange typewritten messages with people they’d never met before or just read the messages others were sending to each other, like reading a transcript of a telephone conversation. The real beauty, of course, was the anonymity. People hid behind screen names like Cowgirl or Bad Ass. It reminded him of the CB-radio craze in the 1970s, when, from the backseat of his family’s station wagon he would listen to his dad chatting with other motorists who were on the lookout for smokies. They all had their own “handle,” and it seemed every other jerk was a Burt Reynolds wannabe named Bandit, no one really knowing who the dolt really was on the other end.
That was the lure of the modern-day chat room.
It was exactly 11:00 P.M. Rudy entered a chat room where, each night, a dozen or more fans of old movies gathered to chat online. Tonight they were debating whether it was the Americans who had pioneered moviemaking or the French Lumière brothers. Rudy had no interest. For him, this nightly chat room was just a meeting place, like hanging out at the corner of Fifth and Vinebecause you knew the woman of your dreams passed by this very spot at the same time each night. The small box on the right of his screen indicated that twenty-two people were in the room with him. He didn’t recognize her usual screen name among the list of participants, but that wasn’t conclusive. She could have created a new one—an alias traveling under an alias. He typed his message in typical chat-room style, all lowercase, letters or numbers substituting for words.
“r u there?”
The message appeared in the dialogue box, right after his screen name, RG. He waited for a response, but deep down he wasn’t all that hopeful. It was a one in a million chance that she would visit tonight, right after the accident. Strangely, not so long ago he would have bet his whole computer on her being there at precisely eleven o’clock. She was that dependable. But that was before their whole world had changed.
“is who there?”
The reply was from someone called Windjammer. Maybe that was her new name. Or maybe it was just a stranger eager to strike up a conversation. The problem with such large groups was that your message could be read by everyone in the chat room. Only after you linked up with the person you wanted could you break off into a private chat room, just the two of you.
“is that u, ladydoc?” That had been her screen name up until the accident.
A minute passed. The online debate over the Lumière brothers continued. Line after line of transcribed text appeared on the screen below his query. The diehards were ignoring him as irrelevant. He stared at the screen
The sight of his computer brought a thin smile to his face, as if he were seeing an old friend. The closet had been completely remodeled into a computer workstation. Speakers rested on theshelf overhead, like bookends for a neat row of CDs. On the floor was a subwoofer, next to his tower and external zip drive. The twenty-one-inch monitor was in the screen-saver mode, which accounted for the colored lighting. The screen was aglow with one of those strange hues that only a computer could generate, somewhere between the pitch red of roses and the brownish red of blood.
He pulled up his computer chair and by merely touching the keyboard made the red disappear. An array of icons dotted the screen. The clock in the corner said 10:58. Just two minutes to spare. Just a mouse-click on his browser brought up his high-speed Internet connection. He skipped past the advertisements, news broadcasts, and other images that cluttered his home page. He clicked the icon marked “Instant Chat.”
He was a regular visitor to chat rooms on the Internet. The concept had long fascinated him, these so-called rooms in cyberspace that Web surfers could enter or leave as they wished. Once inside they could exchange typewritten messages with people they’d never met before or just read the messages others were sending to each other, like reading a transcript of a telephone conversation. The real beauty, of course, was the anonymity. People hid behind screen names like Cowgirl or Bad Ass. It reminded him of the CB-radio craze in the 1970s, when, from the backseat of his family’s station wagon he would listen to his dad chatting with other motorists who were on the lookout for smokies. They all had their own “handle,” and it seemed every other jerk was a Burt Reynolds wannabe named Bandit, no one really knowing who the dolt really was on the other end.
That was the lure of the modern-day chat room.
It was exactly 11:00 P.M. Rudy entered a chat room where, each night, a dozen or more fans of old movies gathered to chat online. Tonight they were debating whether it was the Americans who had pioneered moviemaking or the French Lumière brothers. Rudy had no interest. For him, this nightly chat room was just a meeting place, like hanging out at the corner of Fifth and Vinebecause you knew the woman of your dreams passed by this very spot at the same time each night. The small box on the right of his screen indicated that twenty-two people were in the room with him. He didn’t recognize her usual screen name among the list of participants, but that wasn’t conclusive. She could have created a new one—an alias traveling under an alias. He typed his message in typical chat-room style, all lowercase, letters or numbers substituting for words.
“r u there?”
The message appeared in the dialogue box, right after his screen name, RG. He waited for a response, but deep down he wasn’t all that hopeful. It was a one in a million chance that she would visit tonight, right after the accident. Strangely, not so long ago he would have bet his whole computer on her being there at precisely eleven o’clock. She was that dependable. But that was before their whole world had changed.
“is who there?”
The reply was from someone called Windjammer. Maybe that was her new name. Or maybe it was just a stranger eager to strike up a conversation. The problem with such large groups was that your message could be read by everyone in the chat room. Only after you linked up with the person you wanted could you break off into a private chat room, just the two of you.
“is that u, ladydoc?” That had been her screen name up until the accident.
A minute passed. The online debate over the Lumière brothers continued. Line after line of transcribed text appeared on the screen below his query. The diehards were ignoring him as irrelevant. He stared at the screen
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