Joshua Cohen - Four New Messages

He should’ve handled this himself, Mono decided Sunday night when he was down to his last thousand dollars and applying for credit cards online: should’ve found Em’s address or phone through pleading at keggers and honor society socials, then handwritten a letter or called personally, throwing his future on her mercy or just paying her off, throw her a couple hundred or even a thousand — that would’ve cost the same if not less and less worry.

He shuddered whenever the phone rang.

Majorie? He didn’t think Ms. Airline Miles Mogulette ever intended to return his call.

She sputtered, I hope you’re not recording this.

I last asked that of you.

Never mind. I’ve been talking to Tech.

Who?

My support guy.

Who guy?

My computer person.

OK.

But this is mondo illegal, shaky shaky ice. I never said that. I’ve never done this before.

Done what?

He lit a smoke.

I’m liaisoning with my liaison, my hacker. He’s going to hack into this Em woman’s blog and erase the original entry then he’s going to do the same to all the other sites, I think.

You think? trying to stabilize the ashtray on a knee.

Or else he’s going to send them all a virus that destroys everything but leaves no trace, I don’t know, I’m no gearhead, just a paraparalegal.

We’re talking additional costs?

The tray teetered, heaping.

It’s a sliding scale.

A slide beginning where?

We’re not prepared to quote just now. We’ll send you an email with the figure.

We?

Myself for project management but mostly my tools goon for the tool stuff.

And who is he or she exactly?

Richard, when it’s against the law I’m against naming names.

What are the risks?

We assume more risk than do you — that’s also why it’s expensive, if it’s traceable it’s to us.

But then you’re traceable to me.

Plus it’s time intensive — there are worms to code, firewalls to crack.

You sure you know what you’re talking about?

It’s not a minor undertaking, having to stealthify kludge all that daemon javascript and such — Tech was explaining it all just this morning.

Mono’s cigarette was finished except for the filter, the foam pellet he thought of popping into his mouth as if a pacifier, chewy.

I’ll call you back when the process is in process, Majorie said. Do you have any payphones in your neighborhood?

I have payphones in my neighborhood.

Find the number of one, making sure it’s not the most convenient but pick one a ways far out then email that number to me spaced over ten emails, one digit per email, you with me?

With you.

Then intersperse each digited email with other emails containing links to, I don’t care, hardcore penetration, but none of the emails can be sent from your address — be sure to open other accounts with multiple providers.

Didn’t I tell you I’m through watching porn?

Then send me more better news, Rich — I have no idea what’s happening.

There are wars on.

Mono sent her links.

On Wednesday it felt like winter was finally breaking. The ice could crack for the grass to sprout and a warm breeze could balm the parkinglots and roundabouts and it was fine — winter would be back next year. Mono would be shattered forever.

He put on his coat and walked to the only payphone he was sure of, located just outside the university’s main library — every student body could use that phone every day though they never did, they all had phones of their own that didn’t require booths. He’d recently forwarded Majorie a link to an article — a web exclusive, never printed in hardcopy — about the phonebook’s disappearance. They were going to stop universal distribution — this, the one book everyone could be in.

Students were coming out of the library but none clutched books, they held each other.

And a new beverage for a new generation, not bottles of water but bottled water, plastic, perspirant.

They didn’t need books because of the bags on their shoulders, which contained computers — tablets and pads on which they could read all that’d been written by anyone ever and also Em on Richard Monomian.

The phone rang but his rush to pick up was unnecessary.

Students, children essentially, pedestrated past as blithe as projected light.

He said, My mailman has no address.

Pigeons alighted on the pathway slabs, pecking at butts and clots of gum.

Was that the password?

You tell me.

We’re on track but also delayed.

Which is it?

Both. Plus I need that second thousand.

Behind her speech Mono made out the riddling whir of her computer’s cooling fan, the high screech of either passing sirens or neglected pets.

It wasn’t that it wasn’t spring enough yet or that it was sunset already — he was chilled from being scared, feeling himself recognized by all who passed. He remembered there had been another phone by the gym. Nothing remained besides a stanchion tumescent from a speck of foundation.

Can I call you back from my mobile?

And subvert our subversion — what kind of subterfuge is that?

I’m paying you — so you find a payphone, email me the number, set a time, and I’ll also call ten minutes late.

That’s precisely what I wanted to talk about. You have my invoice. I have material expenses.

Must be a reason I didn’t respond to your email about the next installment.

Richard, it might be better if we talked about this once you’re comfortably at home.

Mono had begun to suspect that this hacker of hers, this gensym guru he was never allowed to talk to, was not a person, not a man or woman and so not her lover as Majorie let on, claiming access to him at all hours: when Mono called from home bonged stuporous slack drunk at 3 AM on Thursday asking to be reminded whether they were trying to infiltrate the sites to remove the posts or just crash them with a Trojan she said, Let me ask him. He’s sleeping just right next to me. Then there’d be a murmur that had to be her respiration — Mono got the idea she never even took the phone from her mouth to imaginarily rouse this imaginary partner — until she’d say, Tech’s grouchy, not getting up. He had a rough day yesterday. I’ll ask him over breakfast and check in with you tomorrow.

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.