nonsense. And certainly not about refinancing.
Google says the other e-mail is from Ambrose Bierce’s Fantastic Fables. Again, no connection to refinancing.
I stare at my computer screen as the cursor flickers provocatively. Go on, it’s telling me. But to what?
Two strange unconnected quotes. Obscure and seemingly meaningless. Who’s sending these e-mails? And why? Okay, mystery boys. I have another idea.
First, I copy the entire next speech of Cromwell fromGoogle and paste it into the reply screen of the spam that sent it. I hit Send. Then I copy the entire next paragraph of the Ambrose Bierce piece, paste it into the other reply screen and zap it right back to wherever it came from.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms, considering my now-blank monitor. I’ve definitely hit the ball back through cyberspace. Question is, who’s catching?
By the time Franklin and I make it through the line at Soup ‘N’ Salad, I’ve related the highlights of the Angela meeting, then, with more enthusiasm, described the whole spam mystery. Now, we’re deep into theorizing what it could mean. As cheap-necktied pols head back to the gold-domed State House across the street, we snag a booth by the window, and I wait, balancing my tray, as Franklin wipes off the table with a pile of napkins.
Turns out, my salad is a disaster. “I told the guy, no croutons,” I mutter, shaking my head in annoyance. “And no carrots. Can you believe this? This salad is a carbohydrate minefield.”
Franklin is already chomping on his cheeseburger, ketchup spurting out the side of the seeded bun. “Ever worry about your food issues?” he asks. “You’re not one bit overweight, and—”
“I’m not having the carb conversation again,” I insist. “TV adds ten pounds and ten years. I’m not going to help it.” I stab an olive with my fork and gesture at Franklin with it for emphasis. “Back to the e-mail. What about those quotes? Someone had to put them there on purpose, didn’t they?”
Franklin’s cleaning his hands with an antibacterial wipe. “Well,” he says slowly, tossing the used wipe toward a trash container and hitting it with an effortless swish. “Itcould be your computer settings. Newer systems click you instantly into graphics and pictures. Does yours?”
I frown, picking through my lettuce to avoid the brown pieces. “Graphics? I never see graphics and pictures in my e-mail.”
“Really?” Franklin purses his lips, considering. “Then it’s your e-mail setup—it’s probably on ‘plain text.’ That’s why you’re seeing those quotes. Most likely, some low-level spam prole is amusing himself by using gibberish to fill up a screen that hardly anyone will ever see—like a private e-mail joke. When we get back to the office I’ll check your settings and see if they need to be corrected.”
The light goes on. I understand it now. Those quotes were only revealed because my computer setup is so antiquated. Like that’s my fault. But I still don’t know what the quotes mean. If they mean anything. Maybe Franklin’s right, they’re a joke.
Yet I can’t shake the feeling that it’s more complicated than that. Why would someone take the time to insert obscure quotes and dialogue? And I can’t be the only one with a prehistoric e-mail system, so it makes sense that someone would see it. Maybe—is even supposed to see it.
Whatever. We won’t find any answers in Soup ‘N’ Salad. I’ve got to go back to work. Like they say, just do it. And instantly I see what to just do. The message light on my cell phone is flashing, so I punch in the code to get my messages. I hear the beep and then the voice.
Melanie.
“Hello, Melanie,” I say, voice on a tightrope, attempting to keep the worry out of my tone. To be safe, I decided to come back to the office to call her. My cell-phone batteryhates me, and I refuse to give it the satisfaction of dying in the middle of my conversation.
Google says the other e-mail is from Ambrose Bierce’s Fantastic Fables. Again, no connection to refinancing.
I stare at my computer screen as the cursor flickers provocatively. Go on, it’s telling me. But to what?
Two strange unconnected quotes. Obscure and seemingly meaningless. Who’s sending these e-mails? And why? Okay, mystery boys. I have another idea.
First, I copy the entire next speech of Cromwell fromGoogle and paste it into the reply screen of the spam that sent it. I hit Send. Then I copy the entire next paragraph of the Ambrose Bierce piece, paste it into the other reply screen and zap it right back to wherever it came from.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms, considering my now-blank monitor. I’ve definitely hit the ball back through cyberspace. Question is, who’s catching?
By the time Franklin and I make it through the line at Soup ‘N’ Salad, I’ve related the highlights of the Angela meeting, then, with more enthusiasm, described the whole spam mystery. Now, we’re deep into theorizing what it could mean. As cheap-necktied pols head back to the gold-domed State House across the street, we snag a booth by the window, and I wait, balancing my tray, as Franklin wipes off the table with a pile of napkins.
Turns out, my salad is a disaster. “I told the guy, no croutons,” I mutter, shaking my head in annoyance. “And no carrots. Can you believe this? This salad is a carbohydrate minefield.”
Franklin is already chomping on his cheeseburger, ketchup spurting out the side of the seeded bun. “Ever worry about your food issues?” he asks. “You’re not one bit overweight, and—”
“I’m not having the carb conversation again,” I insist. “TV adds ten pounds and ten years. I’m not going to help it.” I stab an olive with my fork and gesture at Franklin with it for emphasis. “Back to the e-mail. What about those quotes? Someone had to put them there on purpose, didn’t they?”
Franklin’s cleaning his hands with an antibacterial wipe. “Well,” he says slowly, tossing the used wipe toward a trash container and hitting it with an effortless swish. “Itcould be your computer settings. Newer systems click you instantly into graphics and pictures. Does yours?”
I frown, picking through my lettuce to avoid the brown pieces. “Graphics? I never see graphics and pictures in my e-mail.”
“Really?” Franklin purses his lips, considering. “Then it’s your e-mail setup—it’s probably on ‘plain text.’ That’s why you’re seeing those quotes. Most likely, some low-level spam prole is amusing himself by using gibberish to fill up a screen that hardly anyone will ever see—like a private e-mail joke. When we get back to the office I’ll check your settings and see if they need to be corrected.”
The light goes on. I understand it now. Those quotes were only revealed because my computer setup is so antiquated. Like that’s my fault. But I still don’t know what the quotes mean. If they mean anything. Maybe Franklin’s right, they’re a joke.
Yet I can’t shake the feeling that it’s more complicated than that. Why would someone take the time to insert obscure quotes and dialogue? And I can’t be the only one with a prehistoric e-mail system, so it makes sense that someone would see it. Maybe—is even supposed to see it.
Whatever. We won’t find any answers in Soup ‘N’ Salad. I’ve got to go back to work. Like they say, just do it. And instantly I see what to just do. The message light on my cell phone is flashing, so I punch in the code to get my messages. I hear the beep and then the voice.
Melanie.
“Hello, Melanie,” I say, voice on a tightrope, attempting to keep the worry out of my tone. To be safe, I decided to come back to the office to call her. My cell-phone batteryhates me, and I refuse to give it the satisfaction of dying in the middle of my conversation.
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