Agents of the Internet Apocalypse (10 page)

“I don't understand where you're going with this,” I said. “Also, you missed a spot on your right lens.”

He took his glasses off and dropped them in the chest pocket of his lab coat.

“When you're talented and unrecognized, that starts to feel a lot like persecution. And if you're particularly talented—well, that might start to feel like persecution on a biblical level.”

I didn't say anything. Kreigsman came closer and placed his hands on my shoulders. “You're a very bright guy,” he said. “But you don't need to be the Messiah.”

Just then Tobey opened his door and slapped on the lights in one drunken motion. “Holy shit,” he said, finding me instantly revealed in the fluorescent glow. “You have
got
to be the Messiah.”

“Why?”

“That girl practically devoured me. She had a friend too. And all because I'm in your book. This shit is blowing up.”

“Mazel tov, Tobes. You've really made a compelling case for me assuming the mantle of savior against unknown agents of the Apocalypse.”

“Did I mention there was butt stuff?” he said.

I flipped Tobey the phone book Quiff had given me.

“What's this?” he asked.

“A clue.”

I explained to Tobey everything there was to know about the Internet phone book. About how Quiff had given us a starting place—a way to find who stole the Internet by understanding who
could
steal it. He did an excellent job of feigning interest while presumably fantasizing about cruising the West Coast and tagging groupies who would continue to spread his legend. We agreed we would be a team. We would take that New York panic attack masquerading as an investigation and make it real on the West Coast. We would assume a job title we didn't understand. Not systems analyst or subrogation claims manager, but Internet Messiah. And assistant.

“Assistant?” Tobey asked.

“You'd prefer disciple?”

“Fuck that,” Tobey said. “I want to be co-Messiah.”

“Yeah, sorry, I'm the anointed one, but since all you care about is getting laid, may I offer that you don't need to be the Messiah? You don't have to be the lead singer. The drummer gets all the chicks.”

“Good point,” Tobey agreed. “I'll just be the Tobey.”

“There you go.”

“So I don't work Wednesdays. We can start this shit tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow's Tuesday?”

“Yeah, I know, I'll call in sick so I can have a two-day midweek weekend, duh.”

We would have slept ‘til noon, but the 7:45 knocking wouldn't allow it, and I opened Tobey's door more concerned with removing one half of the percussion equation than seeing who was on the other side. It was Romaya. Her hair was tied back, and she was wearing a blouse and business suit, but something was wrong. She had been crying, or almost crying. She had that tiny shake in her voice.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“I have an interview at Google at two o'clock today.”

“Wow, that's great, Babe. Congrats.”

“No it's not,” she said. “Google's in Palo Alto, five, six hours away.”

“Oh … so?”

“Do you think you could drive me?”

“Drive your car?”

“No. My car's out of commission. Does Tobey have a car? He must, right? Everyone has a car here.”

“Yeah, but…”

Romaya looked over my shoulder in vague alarm, but before I could turn around I heard, “Yes, you can borrow my car, strange MILF-y lady.” Tobey was wearing a T-shirt and boxers.

“She's not a MILF,” I said. “She's my wife. My ex-wife.” I took a breath and held up one finger. Then I started again. “Tobey, this is Romaya.”

“Oh, shit,” Tobey said. “Hi.”

“Romaya,” I said, “Tobey.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, but her eyes lost focus before finishing. She was remembering her disdain for Tobey and what she thought was his frat fuck site. She never believed there was more to him, which bothered me, considering I had shared her dislike for frat fucks. My belief should have counted for something.

“Where we going?” Tobey asked.

“Google,” I said.

“Oh, cool. Romaya's joining our investigation?”

“No. She has an interview.”

“What investigation?” Romaya asked.

“The one I asked you to join,” I said. “All the stuff in the book.”

Romaya looked stuck and incomplete, like an accidentally saved e-mail that sits in your drafts until deleted.

“You didn't read my book?” I asked.

“Not yet, but we really have to go.”

We hit the road pretty quickly and agreed Tobey, as the lifelong West Coaster, should drive. I'd be a menace, and Romaya wanted to review her r
é
sum
é
, portfolio, and library photocopies about Google. I offered her shotgun so she didn't feel like luggage, and took the backseat.

“So,” Tobey said, turning to Romaya after entering the 5. “We're happy to take this little trip and all, but I'm a little confused about something.”

Romaya put down her papers with too much effort.

“Google's like a big deal. If you got an interview, I'm surprised they didn't just fly you out.”

That was a good point. And if I had any doubt about my sanity or Tobey being real, that clinched it, because there's no way in hell I would ever be practical enough to have such a thought on my own.

“Yeah, except I lied,” Romaya said. “I told them I lived in Palo Alto to be a more attractive candidate. Y'know, so they wouldn't have to worry about me moving.”

“Smart,” Tobey said. He drove with his knees while he adjusted the radio and fixed his baseball cap.

“Yeah, well, that's why I'm screwed. Because they thought I was so close, they called me at the end of the day yesterday, thinking I could just pop in today for the two p.m. cancellation.”

“You didn't have to take it,” I said, but that was wrong, and Romaya didn't answer. Not taking it would mean accepting failure. I shook it up. “So what's wrong with your car?”

“Flat tire.”

“On the way?” Tobey asked.

“No, I saw it when I went to leave this morning. I thought it looked low last week, but I didn't check because I've been biking everywhere.”

Romaya was thinner than I noticed before. Not thinner, but harder.

“So yeah, I checked it out and there was a huge shard of glass in the tire.”

“The wedding photo,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“Should have had the picture laminated.”

Tobey didn't understand, but he knew enough to know he didn't have to understand everything. He let us talk. Except we didn't talk. Romaya returned to her lapful of information.

“So you couldn't change the tire?” he asked.

“I can change a tire,” Romaya said, taking offense, “but I'm not going to drive three hundred miles on a donut, blow out again, and have to call Google to tell them I have a flat tire and I'm a liar who doesn't actually live in Palo Alto.”

“Fair enough.”

We left the Valley, and the road stretched out into nothing, although that was the wrong word, because our journey contained none of the tension or release of a stretch. It just was. California is straight and barren. It lets you drive with your knees. And even though we started to pass some orchards, it seemed to me nothing was supposed to live here. That the planet had other plans for this stretch of land besides humans.

“Wait a second,” I said, breaking the silence. “Why didn't you rent a car?”

“Look, I'm sorry if I'm putting you out,” Romaya said. “I wouldn't have asked if it weren't important.”

“Not at all,” Tobey offered.

“It's not that,” I said, staring at the faux pearls my mother had bought her. “We were just wondering.”

She closed her folder of papers. “For the same reason I didn't buy a new tire. Garages and rental car places don't even open until nine, and by the time I'd get out of there, I'd be late.”

It made sense, but the weather changed by the time she finished her sentence. The sky grew dark and heavy, like we'd entered something more than a new zip code. Drops hit the window. Thicker than normal rain. Heavier. And when it landed, it radiated across the glass. Tobey's wipers sucked, spreading the remains, and producing a window more translucent than transparent. And that was a problem, because light was in short supply.

I thought about the time Romaya and I had done a New England vacation planned around a friend's Cape Cod wedding. We'd camped in Maine and then stayed at a Vermont bed and breakfast before hitting our destination. There are no streetlights in Vermont. Not where we were. And if you're driving east to west, there are sometimes no roads either. But what did that matter to two young people without children or an overbearing knowledge of mortality? We were a team. We were in a rented Nissan Altima and nothing could break the seal of our power-windowed love. That's how lovers think when they're young and stupid. Maybe that's just love. I don't know yet.

We took a Vermont drive into a darkness we'd never seen. And it wasn't just the lack of streetlights. It was the lack of anything. There was none of New York City's electric-light glow irradiating the night with a color less than pitch black. There was nothing but farms, and the darkness was so dark it looked wet. And the quiet was so quiet you knew you were pure. For now, you were in the control group of your life and all the things that would happen to you outside of this were the influences being tested. What would break you, strengthen you? What would make you the person you'd become? And how would that person be different if you had just stayed here in the quiet darkness with the person you loved?

We pulled over to the side of the road and tried to stare into the night, feeling like our eyes were closed even wide open. It was one of the most beautiful and terrifying experiences of my life. And then it was broken. Rain hit the glass and the night gave way to flashes of lightning. Romaya wanted to stay, but for some reason I knew we had to go. I pulled back out into the road and headed straight, hands tight on the ten and two, and every time the lightning flashed we saw the world I'd had the audacity to travel in blindness. There were trees. There were wooden fence posts. There were grassy hills unknown to us, and as we reached the very top, a giant rush of lightning illuminated a cloud formation we saw for only an instant. And even though it was fleeting and impossible, Romaya and I both swore we saw the face of God.

But there is no god on highway 5, and there's no devil either, because there's not enough trouble to get into on that patch of straight nothing. The wind picked up and when we hit certain bumps it actually felt like the car could get carried away. Romaya shut the radio off.

“What'd you do that for?” Tobey asked, the rain drilling his windshield.

“Because it's getting scary out here. You need to concentrate.”

“And someone told you I can't concentrate when
Firth of Fifth
is playing?” He flipped the CD player back on, accelerating slightly.

“Easy, Tobes,” I said, but I was actually getting less worried because the increased rain had washed his window clean, overcompensating for his smudging, shitty wipers. We could see.

“One more question,” Tobey said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Why'd you come to Gladstone? You didn't have any friends or closer neighbors you could ask?”

“It was seven fifteen when I realized I had a flat,” Romaya said. “All my friends have jobs.”

It was hard to know if that reproach was meant for Tobey or me, but it made a silence that lasted until the weather broke. Then the sun shined and the entire state of California went back to being a place where weather dictated happiness and happiness dictated the preservation of happiness.

“Do you like it here?” I asked Romaya.

“You know I do,” she said.

“Well, no. I know you liked Eureka where you were born, but this is hardly that.”

“Yeah, well, this is as close as I could get to home without being a lumberjack. I like it, but in many ways, it's not so different from New York.”

“Seems to me,” I said, “the major difference between New York and L.A. is that when you fail in L.A., you still get to live somewhere with a barbecue.”

Romaya didn't laugh, but she nodded slowly. “That's really funny,” she said with a slight sense of wonder. “You're still really funny.”

I smiled. Tobey was at the wheel and the newfound California sunshine was making things right, like the most insistent of Instagram filters. We pulled up to the parking lot, and went through a gate where Romaya was expected.

As we pulled into a spot, Romaya said, “So I guess you guys can like drive around Palo Alto for a couple of hours and then wait for me in the parking lot? Would that be okay?”

“Fuck that,” Tobey said, jumping out of the car and closing the door.

Romaya fumbled for her handle. “Excuse me?” she said, stepping out and standing between the open door and car frame. Tobey spoke across the roof.

“We're going in. Or did you think the Internet Messiah and Tobey were gonna pass up an opportunity to get up close and personal with Google?”

“Seriously?” Romaya asked, now looking at me beside her.

“It's no joke,” I said. “I know you didn't read the book, but others have. Lots of people now. It's taking off.”

“I know,” she said. “Even the fucking barista at Starbucks had it splayed open with a binder clip yesterday as she made my skinny latte.”

“Yeah, well, we're on the job. It's not like I didn't ask you to be part of this.”

“Part of what? You guys can't mess up my Google interview. I'm out of work. Do you not get that this is a big deal for me?”