Chapter 8 - The Wire
I arrived early the next morning and made myself at home in the sky lobby cafe. I had never been in a sky lobby before, let alone drinking a delicious flat-white with elaborate milk-froth designs. I must have been the first patron of the day, or made some kind of impression with the barrister, because mine was delicately shaped like an orchid.
“Is that an orchid?” I asked the handsome, reggae looking barrister. He smiled and nodded from behind the counter.
I turned momentarily towards the windows. We were facing east with an unobstructed view across the East River. You could see Brooklyn, all of it, as it edged into the shoreline of Long Island. Beyond that was the Atlantic Ocean.
“Jesus, is that Kennedy Airport?” I asked my new friend.
“Yup,” he pointed further north, “and that's LaGuardia.”
“Not a bad place to brew coffee.”
“Sure beats the plantations,” he said with a smile.
I couldn’t help but to laugh at that one. I took a sip of the flat-white, consuming two of the orchid petals.
“Hey, would you mind if I asked you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“If someone asked you to teach them about human connections, what would you say?”
I watched his eyebrows raise at this unexpected question.
“I’m not sure I understand,” he replied, placing both his hands on the fine white marble countertop. It was still early, and no other patrons had arrived. I could hear the commercial vents humming gently overhead.
“The human connection,” I emphasized, “if someone asked you to explain the meaning of it, what would you say?”
I could see him repeating the words. Human connection. “That’s a very loaded question,” he finally responded. A group of well-dressed people suddenly emerged from the elevators, with several heading our way.
I nodded in recognition that he had work to attend to, and moved with my belongings towards a high-counter near the window.
I packed a bag in anticipation of spending the evening at Daniele’s. Granted, a bag consisted of clean underwear, a toothbrush, fresh socks and a t-shirt. So my Jansport backpack. Still, I was planning ahead. Something I hadn’t done for ages. I finished my flat-white, nodded to my new friend and made my way towards the main atrium. My escort was waiting.
“Right this way, Mr. Noble.”
I followed him towards the elevator banks. “You know, I don’t even know your name.”
“Robert.”
“Nice to meet you, Robert,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Sam.”
“Yes, I know who you are, Mr. Noble.”
“Sam,” I emphasized.
We entered the elevator and shot-up towards the 110th floor. After that it was just the observatory.
“I can’t believe tourists pay $75 for a ticket to the observatory, isn’t that crazy?”
Robert just nodded at me. Telemarketers, I thought. Great way to spend the morning.
“What about you, Robert, would you spend $75?”
No comment.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” I said, answering my own question. “Look at where you work. You get paid to be here!”
The elevator doors opened.
“So do you, Mr. Noble,” he finally remarked.
I wasn’t sure how to take that one, although I thought I caught a flicker of sarcasm along the side of his stiff mouth. “Sam,” I repeated, not knowing if he heard me as we exited the elevator.
We walked along the polished wooden hallway towards Q’s office. “What even goes on here?” I asked, slowing my pace to stare into one of the private offices. There was a whiteboard on the wall with what seemed like complex algorithms drawn out.
“In response to that, Mr. Noble, I’m afraid I am just a tourist.”
I didn’t even bother to correct the nomenclature – I could see he wasn’t budging. Goddamn thick-ice. C’mon Robert!
“Q will be here shortly,” said Robert, closing the door behind him.
I took the opportunity to dislodge my notebook that was shoved into my backpack, accidentally spilling out some of my belongings. I was busy picking up the sock-ball that rolled out on the floor when Q entered.
“Is that your gym bag?” she asked.
Q was wearing a black button-down shirt and tight khaki colored dress pants. She looked flawless, and in prime physical shape.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been to the gym since I was in high-school. And it is not the gym you’re asking about.”
“What gym are you referring to,” asked Q.
“The school gym,” I said. “You know, the one where you play dodgeball and stick gum on lockers that smell like jockstraps.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know that kind of gym.”
“That would be a good thing. It’s not really a priority destination in life.”
“Sometimes I wish I could have gone to school,” said Q, sitting across from me.
“And I’m sure many wish they could be in Q’s school,” I said, not entirely convinced myself. Q could sense it, and frowned a bit.
“So many friendships are made in school,” Q stressed. “And not just friendships – relationships. Memories are formed and never forgotten in school.”
“Yes, well, now you’re just talking about the social elements, but sure, you are correct.”
The door opened and Robert placed a tray of drinks on the table. The aroma of coffee filled the room.
“It’s not all Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, you know?
Q reached for the portable keyboard that was on the table and powered on the monitor.
“I walked myself into that one, didn’t I?”
She pressed her lips together with a look of serious determination. I couldn't help but to enjoy the irony of the moment. Since when did Matthew Broderick become a subject matter?
“What I mean to say, Q, is that social pressures in school are real. Real as a goddamn papercut. At least in America, and definitely in high-school. Kids can just be real punks.”
“Like adults,” added Q, as she loaded a movie trailer. She looked at me for approval to press play.
“Sure, like adults, but….yeah…fucking high school.” I glanced at the thumbnail image of Broderick staring into the ceiling. “Okay, it’s a good warm up. Let’s watch.”
Life moves pretty fast, if you don’t stop and look around once in a while…you could miss it.
The clip ended. Meanwhile, I had zipped my backpack so no other loose ends of my life might fall out.
“Interestingly enough,” I explained, looking at my notebook, “this is a pretty nice segway into where we are going today.”
I took a breath, tapping my pencil gently against my temple.
“We were talking about friendship, right?”
Q nodded.
I continued. “Friendships can be understood as social connections that might, like in our little example, be cultivated at school. Where else might you find friends?”
“At work.”
I nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“Through other friends.”
“Great, two-degree connections, keep going.”
“At a social event – a party perhaps. Or through community-oriented events, such as organized sports. We already mentioned academics, like University. Generally speaking friendships tend to be stronger when they stem from common interests.”
I bit into the wood of the pencil, leaving small indents. It was a habit I’ve had since elementary school.
“Using social media and online platforms,” continued Q. “There are many online communities and social media platforms that can help you connect with people who share your interests.”
“Bingo!” I said, jumping from my chair. “Social platforms that can help you connect with people who share your interests.”
Q seemed unfazed by my sudden reaction.
“This is important, Q.”
“What is important?”
“You are lightyears ahead. Social media platforms, I mean, are lightyears ahead from where we are right now in the context of our conversation.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
I paced for a moment, thinking out loud. “Have you ever made friendships directly through chat rooms with no visual elements to support your imagination?” I asked, rhetorically. “No fact-checking mechanisms at hand. No ratings, reviews, checks and balances. No cross-referencing. No followers. No pictures. No profile bios?”
She thought for a moment. “It depends what you mean by ‘chat rooms,’ but I don’t believe so. We all have profiles, though, somewhere.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Do me a favor, google images for America Online chat rooms. Ahh, that’s a good one.”
I pointed to the monitor. “Here you can be anyone. Or alternatively, they could be anyone. We’re all lesbians – even the 13/m with pimples in Kansas. The next day he can be someone else, too, like a 28/m from California with blonde hair and a surfboard. It’s liberating…even dangerous, but we’re jumping light years ahead.”
I wasn’t sure where I was going with this. I just knew that I had to start from the beginning. There would be no other way.
“I’m not sure I understand,” confessed Q.
I drew a breath. “Okay, let’s cut the phone line for a moment. I held up the telephone receiver on the desk for special effect. “Literally.”
I placed it back down on the receiver. “For most households you had one home phone line. One dedicated number that someone would call.”
“It was in the White Pages?” asked Q.
“Exactly! You are an excellent student, Q.”
She blinked proudly.
I continued. “Now, it wasn’t until later that economies-to-scale and progress started chopping down multinational conglomerate telecommunication companies.”
She seemed confused.
“Do you know that guy from Field of Dreams?” I asked.
She nodded and started to type in Field of Dreams — bookmarking it for later.
“If you never owned a pager, you probably don’t know who I am talking about,” I added.
Q shook her head.
“I’ll give you a few hints. The voice of Simba’s father. Darth Vader.”
Q found him and read his name out loud. “James Earl Jones.”
“Yup, that’s right.
Q shook her head. “I’ve heard of him, but never knew who he was.”
“Exactly,” I said, as if there was some miraculous discovery for the ages. “You’ve heard of him. The voice of the circle of life and one of the greatest introductory sequences of cinema. No humans – just beautiful music and emotion. Some would argue that we are the ones who fucked it all up. The Lion King. You’ve seen this, right?”
She shook her head.
“You’ve never seen the Lion King? ” I instructed her to find The Lion King and bookmark the opening sequence.
“Anyway, it was through James Earl Jones that Bell Atlantic ruled the wires – sure, there were a few other big players in North America, but let’s just say for purposes of our academic discourse that all the wooden telephone poles ran through our man with the smooth-jazz radio voice.”
She Googled Bell Atlantic and rapidly stumbled upon an amazing promotional video. “Hold on, let’s watch this one.”
We are your friends, we’re your neighbors. We’re right in your community….
“God, this is some amazing stuff,” I said.
Q seemed indifferent and was about to watch another video with James Earl Jones — I instructed her to bookmark it.
“So, as I was saying. There is one telephone line for all. Even our new blinking friend, the modem, sourced its magical powers from here. And the eight-step process for ‘dialing in’ was an incredible digital journey. Climactic, really.”
“Eight-step process?” asked Q.
“Maybe nine or ten,” I explained, “I’m not exactly sure. Let’s just call it the dial-up process. It was remarkable. Completely novel. Sounds eternal. You were entering the binary and all your senses were encapsulated into these moments. Sometimes this transformative journey was quick – lasting less than a minute – which meant a solid-high-line connection through James Earl’s wires along the wooden telephone poles lining the suburbs. You were connected.”
I took a breath and continued.
“During those not-so-lucky peak connectivity times – like after school hours, for instance, or weekends – telecommunications bandwidth was at capacity. Not even binary could get through. Not enough… what did you call it?” I asked.
“Latency,” Q replied, as if answering a Jeopardy! question.
“Yes, that’s it. 56k. The patient and committed could wait ten, fifteen, sometimes an eternity until you got through – and it would be worth it. The ‘shh’chhh’shh high-to-mid-to-low ‘bbbbbbb pitch sounds indicated you were going somewhere. And then you were there, in the prehistoric origins of the metaverse.”
“I’m impressed,” said Q. “You actually know what the metaverse is?”
“I have no fucking idea,” I replied.
Q pressed her lips together, using all her cheekbone muscles to etch out a smile.
“Nor do I want to know,” I added.
Q looked at me with a peculiar expression. A tangible energy emanated from her. I sipped on my room-temperature coffee and tried to gather my thoughts.
“I have a question, Sam,” said Q in a delicate voice, as she simultaneously scrolled through some images. “What do you mean ‘cut the line’?” she asked.
“I’m glad you’re paying attention,” I replied, enjoying the role of tenured professor. “Sometimes signals would get crossed. Physically. A sibling. A parent. An accident. Remember, household appliances. Corded wires and telephones attached to the wall.”
I picked up the receiver on the desk for special effect again.
“If someone in your home picks that up when you are in the midst of an AOL chat with some 18/f with blue eyes who loves Mark Twain but is really a 48/m that eats microwavables, then it’s all over baby blue. Your connection is lost. You’re out of the metaverse, kid. You can get back in, sure. But it won’t be the same. Maybe you lost your binary space and now need to wait during rush hours. If you’re in a popular social scene – the lesbian chat room, for example – you certainly won’t get in there again. It’s capped. Literally no digital space. You can try others. And there were certainly others, but let the wise tell you – the narrative thread is gone like a dream upon awakening. In reality, your Tom Sawyer lover is creepily eating microwavables and watching the ballgame. And you’re all alone again in the fantastical space of possibilities.”
