Matt Richtel - The Cloud

I pause. “What do you mean ‘bugs’? You said you’ll eat bugs other people won’t. What does that have to do with your new gig?”

“I see what you’re doing.”

I don’t say anything, hoping she’ll explain. She doesn’t. Her light blue eyes wander aimlessly at the sky behind me. A blast of wind hits the patio. Sandy locks eyes with me and seems to have transformed into a worthier adversary. She reminds me of addicts and alcoholics I’ve known, drug seekers who come to a hospital under the auspices of needing a prescription for severe back pain. They are plain in their needs but savvier and more manipulative than they get credit for.

“I need a full picture, Sandy. Your life didn’t end when you left the show. That’s the whole point I’m getting at. You’re the ultimate survivor, right?”

“What are you asking me?”

“Nothing intrusive. I just want to paint a picture of what you’re doing now.”

No response.

“Sandy, you mentioned when we met at the jail that this might be a good time for an article about you. What did you mean?”

“Off the record.”

Jesus. I nod.

“All cards on the table. I might be looking for a new gig soon and it’s good to have the clip. You make your own luck, see.”

“You’re leaving your job?”

“Project coming to an end. May lead to something else, may not.”

“What kind of project?”

She considers this. “Marketing.” The word comes out flat, hard to read.

“Of? I mean, in general terms.”

“Not for print.”

“Absolutely not for this article, not until I get the go-ahead. We’ll find language you’re okay with. I just want a sense.”

She pauses. I’m about to confess that I did a little digging and tell her that I know she works for PRISM, up the stakes, when she smiles.

“Tiny jugglers.”

I shake my head, hopefully expressing my lack of comprehension.

“That’s an awesome image, right?”

“Well, yeah, but I. .”

“I work for some of the smartest people in the world. They’ve figured out how to use computers to make people smarter. Kids. Way smarter.”

“By teaching them to juggle?”

“To juggle data.”

“Sorry, Sandy. I’m just a journalist, I’m not a technical person, so I. .”

“Let me see your phone.”

“Why?”

“You’re so defensive. You’re like Deacon, on Season Two. Just let me see your phone and I’ll show you.”

I hand her my phone. She holds it so I can see the screen.

“Texting, emailing, calls, Skype, a million apps, and so on. There’s so much information coming at you. And the biggest consumers are kids.”

She launches into a presentation I sense she’s given before. She tells me that one recent study found that adolescents consume 7.5 hours of media a day. With rampant multitasking, she says, young people will soon be consuming media for more hours than they sleep or are in school.

I get the point and wave her on to continue.

“Their brains can’t handle it all.” She meets my gaze, wanting me to clearly understand this point.

But it’s not a revelation. Since the 1950s, it’s been clear to researchers that the human mind can’t simultaneously process two streams of information, let alone make decisions about them. Our brains can’t do two things at once; rather, they try to rapidly switch between the tasks, often at the expense of harming the performance of the individual tasks.

I picture newborn Isaac with ones and zeroes flying around his head. He swats them away with his tiny hand.

“Hello,” Sandy interrupts my conversational vacation.

“So we’ve got a way to make it easier for a new generation of children to keep up.” I recover.

“Think: juggler.” She says this like it’s a punch line. “The juggler,” she repeats. “Great image, right? We’ve got dozens of digital balls in the air. Who can catch them? Who can keep adding balls without dropping any?”

“I’m still not following.”

She laughs. “I’m not either. It’s complex stuff. I’m still learning. Anyhow, let’s move on.”

Something about Sandy does not add up. The blowhard has turned sophisticated communicator. Unpredictable. Were I a TV producer, I might have picked her too.

“So is this stuff available on the market? Can I see the kinds of products you’re talking about?”

For a second, she holds my stare. It’s subtle but revelatory. This woman lacks self-awareness but she’s no fool, and a tiny distant light turns on for her; she senses I’m homing in on something but she’s not sure what or why. She looks away.

“Earth clown,” I venture.

“What?”

I’m thinking about the weird Chinese characters: Earth clown. “Sorry, rambling. It’s something I heard about from Jill Gilkeson, Kathryn’s mother.”

She blinks three times, seemingly lost.

“Look, Sandy, I know you work at PRISM. I found it online.”

She takes it in. She shrugs. Maybe, she thinks, this is possible. “So why pretend you didn’t know what I’m doing, Mr. Reporter?” She doesn’t seem disturbed by this revelation.

“I don’t know what PRISM is. It looks like some software mill, some modest real estate here, headquarters overseas.”

She laughs. “It’s the new thing, blending American know-how with this crazy work ethic they’ve got over there. They’re dying for a piece of what we’ve got. They want to catch up.” She pauses. “Off the record!”

“You’re doing all this marketing, the tiny jugglers, for PRISM?”

She shakes her head. “I told you as much as I can. You know how these non-disclosures work. But stay tuned. I’ll definitely get you in the loop as soon as we’re ready to announce anything. It’ll be a great scoop.”

We sit there looking at each other, an impasse coming on quickly.

My phone rings. She’s still holding it in her open palm. On the caller ID, I can see the word “Faith.” Sandy looks at it.

“I should take this.” I snag the phone and put it to my ear. “Hi, it’s Nat.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Of course.”

“I need help. Now.”

Istand and hold up an index finger to Sandy, indicating I’ll be right back. I walk to the edge of the deck.

“Where are you, Faith?”

“He’s following me.”

“Who is?”

“I’m near your office. There’s a pizza place where they give massages. Do you know it?”

“Who is following you, Faith?”

“The man with the Mercedes. The bald man from this morning.”

A vicious wind whips in from the bay. Frothy waves smack against the pillars of the deck below me. I cup my fingers over the mouthpiece.

“Where’s the man now?”

“In his car, a block away, double-parked in front of a head shop.”

“Does he know you’ve seen him?”

“No.” She pauses. “I’m an actress.”

The sentence strikes something deep in me. It feels both like a bit of a non sequitur and the single most honest thing Faith has told me.

“Order a slice of the mushroom and pepperoni.”

“What?”

I feel something on my shoulder, like a tap, but it’s another burst of wind passing over the deck. My knees go weak and I have this sensation I’m going to turn around and find Polly standing behind me, Isaac in her arms. I turn. There is no one. Not even Sandy. She’s no longer sitting at the table. I squint through the drizzle into the restaurant/bar, seeing only a smattering of young revelers. Maybe Sandy’s gone inside but I figure she’s taken off, the phone call giving her an easy exit.

“You want me to order pizza?”

“Yep. Avoid the massage. I’m coming.”