Mono wondered how delusional Majorie really was, whether she’d invented an illusory male or, worse, she actually regarded her desktop itself as her lover: wedging its switches between her lips and flicking.
On the Friday noon call, which Mono also instigated — Damn, you missed him again! Techie just stepped out for frogurt! — Majorie was saying these blogs had incredible security.
These blogs that were just default regular and free for anyone to setup and whose platforms required no training for operation and were entirely intuitive to maintain — their protections were just topnotch.
It’s amazing, she said, all my attacks are repelled (she’d already slipped into the singular).
Mono grunted.
No offense works, I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve followed all the instructions, took that extra class online, even signed up for the personalized tutorial.
Feels good I’m not the only one being scammed.
Which reminds me, Monday at the latest. Are you sending me my cash?
Monday I’m sending you a sympathy $100.
But there’s a program I need.
Your invoice said it was for a line of code.
I need both. Also have to pay the internet bill. Three months overdue. Not everyone’s a signal thief.
$100. No more payments after that.
Richard, we’re in this together, both our reputations are at stake. She posted my name! my real name!
Her name was Marjorie Feyner.
It was a Wednesday again, a new credit card had arrived, was activated by the ordering of Mexican muy picante, and Mono had begun to think about that name change. His computer booted to Word, the.doc scrolled boldly with his mother’s maiden name: White, Richard White, Rich White, R. White.
In search results for just the word monomian—unenriched by Richard — he was still the sixth or seventh, the first five or six being the man who’d named him.
But Richard White was limitless — it was a nothing name, a nothing being. There was a Dr. Richard White OB/GYN, a Richard White, Esq., “Rick” White the builder/general contractor, Richard White the accountant, the actor/voiceover artist, the character in multiplatform franchises, movies, and television shows (the internet tending to catalog other media and not differentiating between an actor’s name and a character’s), even a Catholic martyr or errant knight — Richard the White?
One self-declared as a pre-op transsexual.
Mono wondered had his father heard about this yet.
This was encouraging, this purity — reboot, restart.
But Mono didn’t know what the process was, what documents were needed to make such an alteration official, was about to search for the answer — after anyway replacing his appellation on his most current CV — when the phone rang.
Only one person called anymore, who said, Rich, I have another solution.
Try me.
I’ve had enough of this cracking crap — this password guess where you’re given ten attempts at access then the account’s frozen when you fail. Let’s get back to the proven methods.
Which methods would those be?
Mono got out of bed, determined he needed more room for his cynicism, opened the door and walked out to the hall. A dull clatter at his sneaks, he swerved to avoid the neighbors’ leaky trashbags, greasy bikes.
What’s that noise? she asked.
I’m going out for air.
He walked down the hall to the door to the staircase, down the two tottering flights to parking — entirely vacant at midday, it was a lot of lot.
The stairs and landing were also cluttered with bikes — inextricably engaged, their wheels, pedals, gears — locked to the railings. Mono maneuvered, steps following him, steps just behind him.
Suddenly he realized he’d ripped his phone from the wall with the charger still attached. He’d been dragging the cord behind him and turned to pick it up, stashed the scraping prongs and whatever length he could into his jeans’ pocket.
Rich, she said, I finally decided to forgo the protocols and searched around for variations on Em — any Emma, Emily, Emilia, or Embeth@princeton.edu. You’re not supposed to do that. Every resource says it’s better to abstract the adversary, best to keep them symbols: IP or an email. Person to person, face to face, that’s the nuclear option — no other way to go.
I searched that two weeks ago, Marj. You know how many Emmas and Emilys go to Princeton?
I found about 100 possibilities.
99 more than necessary. And before we go any further, tell me this, there was never any tech guy — it was all you just studying up.
Rich, forget Techie. He’s over. Moved out. I’ve moved on. The circumstances have become exponentially more dire. My name’s all over the net. Another blog even uploaded a pic of me fatass at the beach. From Richter, Richter, Calunnia, & Di’Famare’s summer Law Lounge back when I was still employed.
Mono had to restrain himself from running inside, finding the image himself.
You checked all 100? he asked.
I plugged all their names into the usual social sites, opening a few false accounts to lurk. I took pains, signed in strictly from public connections. One persona joined the Princeton Jell-O polo team, another a networking group committed to combating squirrel chlamydia on campus. Then I got inspired: I opened an account under the real name and title of a real person who didn’t have an account — an associate dean of academic affairs who taught undergrad humanities — who’d turn down a friend request from her? She asked to be friends with all the Ems, which gave me access to their profiles.
Impressive, Marj, but what did you find?
She’s an Emmanuelle. I’ve emailed you her profile pic. When you get home I want you to verify then delete.
I’ll be home in a second, Mono hurried back upstairs.
If you don’t respond I’ll know it’s her.
You can just stay on the phone with me for another minute and I’ll tell you right away.
Mono quickened through the hall.
First he googled images of “Marjorie Feyner,” uncovered that shorefront snap. She engulfed a bikini, held a plastic coconut, a fake hairy ball stuck with a straw. People were laughing in the waves — waves of surfboards and tubes — not laughing at her.
Everyone but her was tattooed.
Mono said, Bad strength of connection today. xxxprs laptop-BCrib, what a weakling.
In a new window a pic unfurled, Mono tugging its edge taut.
So? Marj asked.
It’s her.
Here Em was, but pixilated younger, with shorter blonder hair hanging in wiry bangs. Braces like microchips programming an exaggerated dentition.
She was deep jawed, Mono recovered the memory — a mouth of gluttonous proportions.
She’s a sophomore, major undeclared. I called the school, said I was her grandmother.
You should go easier on yourself.
I told school I wanted to send her a surprise package but lost her address — said I’d found her baby booties, stuffed them silly with favorite candy. The workstudy brat said it wasn’t their policy to relay that information. She suggested I call her parents — be in touch with your daughter, with your son-inlaw, she said.
How responsible.
So I searched her friends and identified her high school, searched the local phone listings and called who I thought was her mom.
You what?
Said I was a high school acquaintance of Em’s just transferring schools — I positively detested it at Georgetown — and did you have her address as I wanted to get together?
You know — for a drink, take some pills, go to a club, have some seat-down bathroom cunnilingus?