2.13.2010

Copper and Steel

Out of sheer boredom I decided to "sign on" for the first time in months. The real-time online talking platform lost my interest years ago. I'd much rather leave it to the long-term avenues of discussion such as email; or better yet, write something that only the most motivated potential conversationalists would even respond to via post, though sometimes they prefer the cowardly anonymous route. Besides, I was once enslaved by the Instant game, my moods and actions being too easily determined by the presence, state, or statements of other people who didn't realize their power over me. The constant need to be in the Matrix became a sick addiction, thankfully one that I managed to escape. So now when I visit it's only to remind myself of how much I despise it.

Today was a typical session. A few people I'd rather avoid tried chatting me up. Some others I tried making contact with didn't respond, leaving me to wonder if their "Away" status was either true or a convenient ruse. And then there was B100452. We didn't speak or try to, but I knew she was there on the list located on the right side of the screen. Beth was an old lady I worked with at Burger King eight years ago. She smoked cheap American Gold cigarettes that I'd only bum when absolutely desperate and drank stale decaf in between taking orders on the drive-thru register. Her hair was always a vibrant red closer to purple, though she was sixty-something. During slow times in her shift she'd pick the wheat-back pennies out of her drawer and trade them for ones in her purse-- a simple collection for a woman raised in simpler times. Her three sons had been reared in the traveling military fashion, her husband a retired soldier. Their boys wound up becoming servicemen as well, one Army Ranger and two helicopter pilots. She used to show me pictures of their families, all of which seemed the same: wholesome, God-fearing men hugging smiling blonde wives from the midwest, both surrounded by eager boys in close-cropped brown hair. I see Beth's screen name on my list of fairweather friends now and wonder if all of those smiles are still there. I know her husband passed away a few years back. She told me when I ran into her at the gas station, her hair finally its natural gray as if in defeat. Have her sons faired well in these last war-hungry years? Have the trophy wives managed to neglect the widow's black veil? Are the kids still alright? I hope so.

And one day years from now I'll make the mistake of signing on again and B100452 won't be there. I won't run into her at the gas station, either, and I'll be forced to wonder: Do people on the Internet ever really die? I suppose it's akin to her wheat-back pennies. You collect them, lose some, find others.

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