Joshua Cohen - Four New Messages

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?

The mother offered her email but I said I’d prefer her street address as my computer had just crashed — it’s tragic, I lost everything.

You’re jinxing yourself.

She asked wouldn’t I rather she give me the phone.

Wouldn’t you?

I was afraid it’d be a mobile but she gave me the landline too.

And you did a reverse lookup?

I had to look up how to do a reverse lookup. You’ll find both on my next invoice itemized separately.

And you’re going to call or send a postcard? Or go over there yourself?

No.

Don’t tell me I should go.

No I’ve met a new man. I call him Alban. He’s Albanian. He works security at my multiplex for the big crowds on the weekends. I’m always wasting Sundays and we talk. He lets me into a double feature no problem. I made a quiche for him last week.

Not Alban, his real name was Enver. He was a recent immigrant, born in Tirana. He worked for a security company that had classified his language skills as Minimal. Before moving to the area he’d lived in New York, which is where all immigrants live until they sleep with their brother’s wife. Enver was not even attracted to her.

His brother’s couch was three-cushioned, comfy. And his job, his first job his brother vouched for him, wasn’t bad. Enver worked for a friend of his brother’s at a pizza joint called, coincidentally, Two Brothers. Albanians being swarthy and proximal to the Mediterranean by birth pretending they knew their dough and cheese and sauce. But Enver wasn’t allowed to make the pies. He was supposed to sit on a stool by the back door, held ajar by cinderblock, waiting until his brother’s friend’s minivan appeared on his monitor. Then he was to open the door all the way, accepting from this man, Arben, whatever he was handed. Electronics, often bags containing something that looked like flour but was not — it was heroin — and less often, bags filled with cash (the entire ring was busted).