First
Love
copyright 2017, David Benning
I had earned my big college degree in general science
with a practical helping of computers on the side. It was little
surprise that I got a job in a big tech firm helping keep their
computers running and fixing all the standard user issues that came
along. Soon, management saw that I was able (and willing) to delve
deeper into problems and fix the big ticket items such as a
compromised computer.
A compromised computer was a euphemism for one of
several problems. There were the standard bad programs that had been
around since the beginning of inter-computer-connectedness of the
late twentieth century. These programs, written by individuals or
groups or even foreign governments, took over control of the computer
to some extent and potentially allowed sensitive data to be trapped
then transmitted back to some collecting computer. Always annoying,
usually urgent, sometimes critical.
It was during one of these digital cleansing sessions
that Paul, my co-worker, probably fifteen years older than I, told me
that all computers were compromised.
I looked at him and waited for the explanation.
He just glanced my way and smiled cryptically. I
remember hearing the whirl of the fans in the servers and the tick of
the old-fashion battery operated clock on the otherwise bare wall
behind him.
“What do you mean?” I finally asked.
“The Watchers have to have a way in to monitor
everybody,” he said casually. “No computer can be made without
it. That's a law. Been that way for, umm, two or three decades, or
so.”
He studied my face as I absorbed his words and then the
deeper meaning.
“Every computer?” I finally asked.
“Yep. And let me show you what to look for in case
someone has taken it upon their-silly-selves to disable that
feature.” He caught my eye then winked. “I mean it's important
that the computer technician knows how to spot if a machine's been
tampered with. Right?”
Over the next half hour or so he then showed me how to
disable the Watcher's backdoor program. He also showed me the
tell-tale signs of tampering as well as how to disable the program so
that there were no signs at all—other than it wasn't there.
I really think he wanted me to be able to evade the
Watchers although I did not act on his information. At least
not immediately. Yet he always couched his terms in how to watch for
those who were trying to subvert the system.
I didn't get a chance to ask him about that since he
suddenly turned the conversation to my love life and who I was seeing
and all that sort of stuff. I was immediately defensive and
off-puttish since that was an area of my life that was a major sore
point for as long as I could remember. I tried putting him off but
he saw through my fake bravado and said, “You need to get a girl.
Don't go for anyone in this company—always keep business and
pleasure separate. But do try out a few night club scenes. There
are some fine people there—some that would make a fine partner
even.”
We finished up our work and he slipped me an address to
a night club then we went our separate ways. I did nothing with the
paper he gave me except stick it on a shelf in my room once I got
home that night. I did explore the “behind the scenes programs”
that he told me about and even practiced turning the Watcher
logger on and off a couple of times while using my “bit-sniffer”
to watch what information was coming out of my machine. After
satisfying myself that the program was indeed truly turned off, I
decided to leave it off for a while. After fixing a bowl of soup
from a can, I settled into my comfortable chair to read a favorite
hard copy book about space flight and escaping from the alien
overlords. I fell asleep there long after midnight—something that
I did several times a month.
I didn't act on his night club suggestion for at least
two or three weeks. I noticed the slip of paper on my shelf but
ignored it. Yet I didn't throw it away either. Finally, I picked
the slip up and thought about throwing it away. It hovered above the
garbage can for several moments before I decided that I should at
least give it a try.
The address was for a place on the far side of town in
what some might call a seedy section; the event was a raucous music
gathering known as a slammin' rock house. The “rock” in the name
was short for “rockin'”—as in something that was very hip and
happening in the music world; it had little to do with old fashion
music form of rock and roll. The term “slammin'” was used as an
intensifier, implying that the music was loud, vibrant, fast and
often accompanied with drugs and drinks.
That alone should have made me decide against entering
the building—I could plainly hear the music from almost a block
away. I grew up liking quiet because that was another way that I
maintained my near invisibility. Quiet also wore well in the realm
of reading books; noise would far too easily drown out the voice of
the characters in the stories.
Yet I stood outside the old, four story warehouse. In
the industrial areas of large cities, warehouses were commonly
re-appropriated into avant garde usages such as cheaper living
alternatives or party spaces for independent musicians—the
so-called indie musies. I could appreciate indie musies
because much (if not most) of what the pop music scene turned out was
“sameness.” Listening to the music feeds in public spaces dulled
the mind and wore down the intellect with homogeneous, ordinary,
nearly uniform pâté of songs. I would retreat to the quietude of
my room and my headphones to listen to classical music for hours if I
were not reading.
That perhaps is why I stayed outside that old warehouse,
staring up at the boarded up windows, rickety fire escape ladders,
and ugly gray-brown paint that was covered in years of filth and
grime. The setting sun provided a yellow-gold patina to color the
otherwise drab building. I realized that it would be something
novel—already I could hear that the music was more complex than
anything on the public music streams. Plus the old programmer
promised that I could meet people here and “meeting” came with a
strong promise of meeting some young woman. Yet the level of noise
within the warehouse was startling and off-puttish to an avowed
introvert like myself.
“Hey! You going in?”
The voice caught me unawares. I usually tried to keep
track of things like who was coming up the street toward me, but I
was lost in contemplation and the energy of the music from within.
The voice was a young man about my age with three young
women hanging onto his arms. “Lucky sucker,” I thought to
myself before answering, “Yeah, maybe.”
“Then com'on, bruh!” he laughed. “We show ya'!
I'm Ty.”
One of the young women unfolded her arms from his neck
and came to my side. “First time?”
I nodded.
“You'll absolutely love it.” She then wrapped her
arm about mine and led me inside.
The feeling of a young woman close and showing attention
is a very powerful drug. It should not be dispensed idly nor doled
out without careful thought. I willingly went with her, following
the other three, in through the old doors, up a flight of stairs then
to a lavishly decorated door that was wrapped in red velvet and
decorated with many jewel-colored bangles. Across the top were the
words: “Welcome to Phat Man Ginseng Jungle!” There were
also many Chinese characters on the door.
“You're gonna love it,” the young woman holding my
arm said to me.
She had to speak very loudly because the thumping of the
music was intense. The young man opened the door; the wall of sound
struck—hard. He looked around at me, laughed, then handed me
something.
“Earplugs,” he shouted to me.
The woman on his left arm laughed and said, “Noob!”
Yeah, that I was. I was the Noob, the new-bie,
the innocent initiate. But I was grateful for the plugs. I wiped
them off on my shirt then stuck them in my ears. The young woman
smiled at me again then pulled me into the room.
The volume after the earplugs were seated was bearable
and was actually entertaining. And the company was very fun too.
The earplugs were rather clever. They occluded most of the din of
the room and the driving throb of the music, but the close
conversations of friends were transmitted in readily. I don't know
how exactly, but I was able to hear what my new friends were saying
without the background noise of the music masking their words.
I
also found that the indie
musies really
had a complex structure and an enjoyable chord progression. Over the
course of the evening, I found out that her name was Winnie. Winnie
Tudosa. She was the granddaughter of Romanian immigrants. She told
me that her grandparents had left Romania at the end of communism
after the fall of Nicolae Ceaușescu
near the end of the twentieth century. That was something that I
remembered from history classes.
“So what's your name, stranger?”
I
went silent. I wasn't prepared to say. I really hadn't thought that
I had ever had a chance to make it this far on the very first night.
I didn't want to say my name. I didn't want to utter it because I
absolutely hated my real name. I loathed the name of Leonard. It
was usually pronounced “Linnard”
and
all throughout elementary my classmates laughed and rhymed it with
the old twentieth century rock legend “Lynyrd
Skynyrd.” As
young children they would love that “Skynyrd” sounded like
“skinny” or “skinner” and than brought up all sorts of other
related imagery. And I never,
ever let anyone find out what my middle name was.
“You have a name?”
I quickly pulled back from my introspection. I had
always imagined that maybe I was named Leon or maybe Leo. But that
sounded too close to my actual name; instead I gave my name as
“Reynard. But you can call me 'Ray'.” I knew that Reynard was
French for “fox”—I thought I was being so clever.
“Ray. I like that,” she gushed.
“I'm glad,” I replied, not really knowing how to
respond to positive female attention, having never experienced
anything like it before.
She smiled and looked down.
I took that time to really take in who she was—or at
least what she looked like: Blonde hair with darker brown at the
roots, hazel eyes with fake eye lashes and painted eyebrows, and her
face was angular and a chiseled chin embedded with a small dimple. I
liked how she laughed easily and slipped in so complementary into my
arms during the course of the night. Again, in hindsight, I warn you
to be careful against the intoxicating influence of a young woman's
attention.
“Ray, I've gotta say, I've never met anyone like you
before,” she finally said.
I almost blushed. “Why's that?”
“Most guys would have already had their paws all over
me and been hitting me up in a hundred ways. But you've just been a
nice chap, sitting there, talking and then dancing. What's your
angle on this?”
I shrugged. “No angle. Just never seen this scene
before. I wanted to experience it.”
She smiled sweetly then leaned in close to me. “Can I
give you my number?”
So we traded numbers that night and soon I was involved
with Winnie. I'd have to say that it changed everything, I was
thinking of Winnie as I woke up and as I went to sleep. Throughout
the day at work, I would recall things that she said to me and smile
in random, unexpected times. Paul, the old programmer, finally asked
me in a knowing tone if I had been to that club.
I
was a changed man, I tell you. I was eating, sleeping, thinking and
breathing all things Winnie. Winnie was my muse and my goal. She
was my reason for my next heartbeat as well as the cause of my last.
I was back at Phat
Man Ginseng Jungle
many times over the next few weeks and each time was with Winnie
Tudosa.
“Ray, I'm so glad that you showed up in my life!”
Her voice was like music to my heart; her speech was
like the whisper of an angel. Of course, I'd do anything that she'd
ask of me. Almost.
She
introduced me to the party life and adult beverages became a common
commodity when we were together. Oh, I had grown to like beer while
in college, but the stuff that Winnie ordered was far stronger, more
sparkly, and probably more troublesome in the long run. Sometimes
she wanted to try her hand at “Lady
Luck,”
as she called gambling. I never saw the sense of throwing money away
like that since I completely understood the odds and the mathematics
behind “random.”
She kept pressing me but I'd politely deflect her push.
One night she grew downright angry with me. I met a surly side of
Winnie that I didn't know existed. She screamed at me then slapped
my face. I jumped back, completely unprepared for such a display.
I think she saw the combination of fear and hurt in my
eyes; she broke down and began crying. I hate crying. I especially
hate it when others cry since I feel so helpless and unable to do
anything for them.
I think I stared at Winnie for several long moments.
She slouched down onto a chair, leaned on the padded arms of the
chair and bawled. I finally moved closer to her and knelt down next
to her, placing my hand on her shoulder. Her hair was soft under my
touch; I could feel her sobs shake her body.
“So sorry, Ray,” she whispered, her voice muffled by
her arms and the chair.
I didn't know what to say yet—I was still trying to
process what had happened.
“I didn't mean to do that,” she continued between
sobs and sniffles. “It's the stuff I take.”
“The stuff?” I seriously didn't know what she
meant.
“Uh-huh. I'm sorry. I'll be better tomorrow.”
“What stuff?” I asked.
“I'll have Trudie take me home.” She looked up at
me and I saw her hazel eyes blood shot and smeared with tears. “Good
night, Ray. You're so sweet.”
A short while later, Trudie helped Winnie out into the
night and I was left in the club still trying to figure things out.
I decided that staying would be stupid so I found my coat and left.
At the door a man spoke to me, “It's the reds. Some
peeps can't handle them at all.”
I looked at him, not understanding his meaning.
He nodded toward where I had been then added, “Your
girl? Emotional? It's the reds. Some peeps react badly; some go
fruit-loopy.”
I
suddenly clued in that he was talking about recreational drugs. I
had no idea what “the
reds”
were. I knew that drugs were all around the club—that was basic
knowledge. It surprised me that Winnie was trying them. It bothered
me deeply that she was being messed up by them.
I went home angry: angry at anyone that gave the drugs
to Winnie, angry that Winnie tried them, angry that I wasn't there to
help Winnie and keep her from harm.
She didn't answered my phone calls or texts for over
thirty-six hours, which added to my concern, anger, and angst. I
finally met up again with Winnie a couple of days later and
everything seemed as it was before. Except I was wondering if there
would be an outburst like that again. I decided to play it safe and
not bring it up directly, but just express that I was concerned for
her and happy that she looked to be feeling better.
“You are such a dear,” she whispered and hugged my
arm tightly.
Yet things were not the same. She wanted to spend more
time in the club and more time in the club rooms where drugs were
overtly used. I refused.
“Ray, you gotta understand: this is who I am. I love
the rush; I love the sights and feelings.”
“Do you love hitting and yelling at your close friends
then breaking down in tears?” I fired back. “And then having to
have someone take you back home cause you're to ill to walk
yourself?”
She stared at me hard and pursed her lips tightly.
Finally she said, “You will probably never understand; you're just
a simple chap. Very likeable, as far as that goes, but simple.
You'll never be sophisticated unless you can open your mind to trying
other things.”
“If you're the advertisement for trying drugs, I think
the ad campaign failed.”
She swung to slap my face, but I stepped back. “I'm
erasing your number from my phone,” she finally said. “And I'm
erasing your memories from my life.”
I was angry. She spun on her heels and left, retreating
into another room. I left the club in a huff with my mind spinning.
It was only later that I realized that I was hurt—deeply hurt.
I
never went back to Phat
Man Ginseng Jungle
nor did I ever see Winnie again. There was a raid on that club a
week or two after our breakup; all the druggies were arrested and
from what I heard Winnie was so strung out that she died in police
custody waiting to be processed.
My life changed again. I put a wall up around my heart
and my emotions and retreated to the fantasy world of online gaming.
There, I could make up my own story of who I was and where I was
from. I developed several personae: an ex-patriot Frenchman named
Reynard, an middle-aged Slavic man named Ruslan living in the Bronx,
a late teenager still in high school who went by the name Chevy, but
no one named Leonard.
The problem with online gaming was that it usually got
really good late at night. That meant that I was sleeping fewer
hours and coming into work more tired and often quite ineffectual.
The morning that I deleted the director's presentation was the last
straw for my boss. I was unemployed and without a friend in a far
away city.
