Agents of the Internet Apocalypse (6 page)

“What part of psychic don't you understand?” I asked.

“Well, no,” Jeeves said. “I was already in L.A. for a comic convention. I was supposed to leave today, but then I saw your Facebook posting this morning.”

“We're not Facebook friends,” I said. “We met during the Apocalypse.”

“Yes, but I followed you when it came back, and your statuses are public because you're a dirty attention whore.”

“What status?” Tobey asked.

“I took a picture of you sleeping like an asshole this morning,” I said.

“Right,” Jeeves continued. “And he tagged you in it. So then I went to your page, and I found out your employer, and then found you at the store, and you know the rest.”

“So, it was just a simple online investigation that any preteen could do that helped you find me?” Tobey asked. “Not special powers?”

Jeeves smiled. “Yes, but, y'know, that's still pretty special, right?” Then he looked to me. “We need you, Gladstone.”

“We!” I laughed. “Who? It's great to see you, really, but seriously.”

“It's not just me. Anonymous was asking about you too.”

“Get the fuck out,” Tobey said.

“I'm serious,” Jeeves insisted. “He had a mask and everything.”

“Did he call himself, what was that name from the book again?” Toby asked. “Quiffmonster42?”

“Uh, no,” Jeeves said. “I just told you he was from
Anonymous
…”

“Well, in Tobey's defense,” I said, “I went to a 4Chan meet up, and trust me, in real life you have to call a room full of twats
something
.”

“Isn't that a gaggle?” Toby offered. “A gaggle of twats?”

Jeeves wasn't amused. “No, he didn't give a name. And I had nothing to tell him anyway. I hadn't seen you. I couldn't get to you.”

“Fair enough,” I said, hoping to end the discussion, and failing.

“And now that I've found you, I don't know what you're doing.”

“I'm enjoying freedom,” I said. “Seeing old friends. And trying to get my wife back.”

“She's not your wife anymore, dude,” Tobey said.

“I know. I'm working on it.”

Jeeves had a mission, but he wasn't impractical or unkind so he let it drop for the moment. “So lads,” he said. “I changed my flight and it's not ‘til tomorrow. What would you like to do? My treat.”

Tobey was quick with a suggestion. “Let's go to The Hash Tag. We can catch the early show.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“Just a place down on Main Street. They play hashtag games.”

Jeeves and I looked at each other.

“You know,” Tobey continued, “like on Twitter. They come up with funny hashtag topics posted up on a screen and then you write funny responses. There are prizes.”

“You mean like #FirstWorldProblems and things like that?” Jeeves asked.

“Yeah, but not old and lame,” Tobey replied. “I love it.”

It seemed innocuous enough, and Jeeves was happy to oblige, so we took Tobey's Matrix. I let Jeeves ride shotgun, and I packed myself into the backseat.

From the outside, The Hash Tag was like any other dingy bar, but the sign was new and bright neon pink. Inside, it was dark, but I could make out a series of small tables, each replete with a hookah and bong. The air hung thick with what I assumed was official California-issue medical marijuana.

“This is a drug den!” I said.

“Duh,” Tobey replied. “Why do you think they call it The
Hash
Tag?”

“Because they play hashtag games you said.”

Tobey considered that for a moment. “Well, yeah, but why do you think I said I loved it?”

We found a table about halfway back and to the side, and a waitress with several face piercings came over a minute later with clean mouthpieces for our hookah.

“Welcome to The Hash Tag,” she said. “Have you been here befo—oh hi, Tobey!”

“Hi Jynx,” he said. “These are my friends Jeeves and Gladstone. Jeeves is a psychic and Gladstone jumped into the Hudson River to find the Internet.”

Even a girl with blue hair, safety pins in her face, and a “backless” ripped T-shirt thought Tobey was a weirdo.

“Okay … well, here's your paper and pencils. We're gonna start up the first show in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Could I get a Jameson on the rocks?”

“Oooh, sorry,” she said. “Our liquor license got temporarily suspended. We just have beer. Can I get you anything else?”

“Three PBRs,” Tobey said.

“Uh, actually,” Jeeves interrupted, “We'll take three Anchor Steams.”

“Okay, great.” Jynx wrote the order down, seeming to know she wouldn't remember. “And can I offer you any flavored tobaccos?

“We're good,” Tobey said, patting the backpack he'd brought with him.

“Okay, I'll be back with those beers.” She turned to go.

“And some water,” I said, glimpsing her back tattoo of the dragon dog from
The NeverEnding Story,
intersected by a maroon bra. “She's totally not bringing that water,” I grumbled to Tobey.

“Don't be so pessimistic,” he said, taking his box of Altoids from his backpack. “Jynx is great.”

“Hey,” Jeeves asked, “how did you know I wouldn't have preferred some flavored tobacco?”

“How did you know I didn't prefer PBR? Besides,” Tobey said, opening up the box to reveal a full stash, “this
is
flavored. Curiously strongly flavored.”

Tobey packed his weed into the hookah before fitting three of the tubes with mouthpieces. Then Jynx came back with the beers and a pitcher of water.

“See?” Tobey was gloating.

“Here are your Anchor Steams.”

“Thanks Jynx,” Tobey said.

“And here's your water.”

“Thank you,” I said, before watching Jynx fill the bong and head back to the bar.

“Hmm … technically, I still won that bet,” Tobey said.

The night went pretty much the way you'd expect. They'd announce a game, some stupid hashtag like #WorstThingAboutFirstTimeSex (Eve is selfish in bed) or #FilmPrequels (
Honey, I Think We Should Have Kids
), and they'd give prizes for the best one in each round, usually in the form of free food or beer or tobacco. We had a good enough time, but it was starting to bother me that we hadn't won yet.

“Well, if you want to win,” Tobey said, “you have to know how to play the room. You published at
McSweeney's
, you get it,” he said.

“Okay,” Jynx said, stepping on the six-inch-high pallet that served as a stage. She was now wearing a T-shirt based on Magritte's
Son of Man
, but instead of an apple in front of his face, there was a WiFi symbol. “This is the final hashtag of the early show,” she said. “The winner gets one free beer and this T-shirt.” Jynx proceeded to take off the shirt, revealing that ornate, maroon bra underneath and enough tattoos to never be naked. The crowd cheered and wolf-whistled, but in the way friends and gay men do at burlesque shows where you're sure it's safe and no one's getting raped.

“Okay, your final category is #21stCenturyYoMommaJokes. Go!”

Tobey hookah'd it up while Jeeves sat back pondering and scratching at his stubble. I looked at Jynx and, remembering Oz, had the scary thought that maybe she wasn't real. Tobey scribbled “Yo' Momma so dumb, she consults WebMD for a computer virus.” Tight. Jeeves took a little too much pride in his submission as he slid his paper across the table for view: “Yo' Momma so boring, the NSA didn't even read her e-mail.” That wouldn't win. This was a crowd that liked LOL funny and would always give wry second place unless it was wry mixed with the absurd.

“Times almost up, Gladdy,” Tobey said. Jynx was already collecting the slips.

“I got it,” I said, handing my paper directly to Jynx while doing a sensational job of maintaining eye contact.

“Cool hat,” she said, and headed for the stage.

Somehow, I knew I'd won it, just like I knew back in college that I was going to win a complimentary copy of
Speed
at my college-town video store when I dropped my name in a box. It was only the second time in my life I'd felt something so strongly. I had a superpower, but only for things of no consequence. Tobey's and Jeeves' submissions got laughs, but mine did better: “Yo' Momma so gay she can get married in an increasing number of states.”

“It's Gladstone, right?” Jynx asked the crowd, but didn't wait. Instead, she came over to me with the cheers at her back and took off my hat before placing it on her head. “Time to claim your prize,” she said. I took off my
Miami Vice
jacket, revealing the scrubs underneath. “Here you go, Doctor,” she said, pulling the T-shirt over my head before returning my hat. “Perfect.” I couldn't remember the last time I'd been dressed by a woman. Then she hurried back to the stage.

“Tobey, help me out here,” I said. “Is she…”

“Real?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Of course she is. Don't be so surprised. Not every Suicide Girl is all doom and gloom.”

“Yeah, but I think she … likes me.”

Jynx returned to the stage and said, “Thank you all for playing, and remember, you can buy that T-shirt and others at my boyfriend's site. ThisFuckinShirt.com. I mean, when the Net comes back.”

“Don't worry about it,” Tobey said. “She was too tall for you anyway.”

“Tall chicks dig me,” I said. “They're looking down from above. It's a slimming perspective.”

Our strong finish and Tobey's winning personality had brought people (some of them women) to our table, but I wasn't looking for company. Neither Jynx nor any of these Californians were my type, or the woman I'd crossed the country and feigned sanity to see. I also wasn't in a position to be the wingman Tobey wanted. My thoughts were on Romaya, so Tobey used me in book form, pulling copy after copy of my journal out of his backpack and giving them away.

After about thirty minutes of downing Anchor Steams on Jeeves' tab, someone made a plan to go the movies, specifically, the ELO-scored Olivia Newton-John vehicle
Xanadu
. Tobey and Jeeves argued first about whether it was a good bad movie or a bad good movie, but I couldn't really follow. Winning that shirt made me feel special, and I let myself think about all the things Jeeves had told me back at the apartment. And maybe because I was in no shape to, I started putting together the pieces of a new reality. One that had more parts than I'd been accepting. Back in college, Romaya had a poetry professor who would cut up students' poems without mercy, chopping away all the pretense and bombast and leaving only those phrases that worked. I could see the value in that, but she hated it. Why not teach us to write the bigger poem we're failing at, she asked. Build a better home instead of trapping us into one tiny, immaculate room?

I realized that Dr. Kreigsman had done that to my life—reduced it to a simple story that worked and made sense, but could never capture all the moving parts and ill-fitting corners of a real existence. There was more. But even harder than figuring out what was real was deciding if certain memories were worth the risk of reclaiming. After all, there are worse things than an immaculate room.

Tobey and Jeeves ultimately agreed
Xanadu
was a good bad movie, but there was no meeting of the minds as to whether the soundtrack could be called progressive rock. Jeeves had solid points against such a classification: no odd time signatures, no extended solos, and of course, the presence of Olivia Newton-John. Wisely, Tobey countered with, “Yeah, but robot voices and laser sounds!” I tried not to fill my head with too much of it. I couldn't even comprehend what theatre would be showing a 1980 film today, but apparently, it was Hollywood Forever—a graveyard that projected films upon a mausoleum wall while spectators watched picnic style. And although it sounded like it, this was no apocalyptic creation. Hollywood Forever predated the Internet, and it sounded great, but I declined because proximity to Jeeves would only invite further conversation I wasn't ready for.

I pulled Jeeves away from the crowd. “Bring it in here, big guy,” I said, and wrapped my arms around him. And when he grabbed me too hard and placed his chin over my shoulder there was some part of me that wanted to cry.

“Thank you, Daniel,” I said. “I'll friend you on Facebook when the Net comes back, and let you know when I'm back in New York.”

He pulled back from the embrace and held me close at the elbows. I noticed for the first time that he had really long eyelashes that actually made contact with his glasses. “First, it's Dan, never Daniel, and second, I don't see it coming back without you, Gladstone.”

“I'm a mess, Dan.”

“I know, but you'll get stronger.”

“Oh, did you have a vision of that?”

He smiled. “You don't have to be psychic. Everyone who keeps going gets stronger.” He took a piece of paper out of his pocket, put it in my hand and kept it there. “This is my number. A landline.”

“I'll miss you.”

“You'll see me again, Gladstone. Just, y'know, keep going.”

I made no promises. I just watched him join Tobey and the gang as they headed off to a cemetery to see a movie about roller skating muses. I stopped Tobey long enough to tell him I'd see him later and score one of the copies of my journal for myself. Then I called a cab to take me back to that sports bar in Santa Monica, the only bar I knew. I was hoping to read the journal's words again, this time as if they weren't mine. To use my newly formed mind to separate facts from disease.

“You're back,” the bartender said, as I reclaimed my stool from the afternoon.

“Maybe,” I said, and asked for two fingers of The Macallan.