Copyright 1993 (c) 
 
              IN THE GROVE:  Adrift in Cyberspace 
 
     In the grey, swirling nothingness of cyberspace was a spot a 
little thicker than the rest. A man in a grey leather jacket sat 
before a campfire, scribbling in a small bound notebook. 
     He could hear voices in the distance; a short time later, 
Ruby Begonia, resplendent in a silver lame diaper and a    
strategically-placed sash reading "Hello, 1994!!" tripped by with
Rockford Files in tow. Or vice versa. Anyway, the two stopped at
the campfire for a moment. 
     "Hey, darlin'!" Ruby hollered. "Y'all comin' to the party 
at the Half Shell?" She twirled, making the piranha in her glass
heels a little dizzy. "It's a costume party for New Year's Eve."
     "Ya know, bud," Rockford rumbled, "if you show up, I won't 
have to dance with this dame all night." 
     The man in the grey leather jacket smiled a small 
half-smile. "I'll be along in a bit. Ask Sy to have a club soda 
with a twist of lemon ready for me." 
     "You betcha, sweetie. Come on, Rocky--I don't wanna be late
for my big entrance!" Rockford and Ruby disappeared into the 
ether, trailing a tinkling giggle and a deep chuckle. The grey 
swirling nothingness closed in again, leaving the man in the grey
leather jacket with his campfire. 
                               ***
     "Happy New Year!" burst from a few dozen throats as the
giant pearl dropped from the ceiling of the Half Shell. The
swirling, babbling crowd of party-goers filled Ruby's Joint; Sy
Feierstadt, the world's friendliest bartender, was having a hard
time keeping up with the thirsty. 
     The costumes were as eclectic as the clientele. Kent Ballard
was in the corner, dressed in camouflage and ruby slippers. He
was clicking his heels together, chanting, "There's no place like
Indy, there's no place like Indy." Eric Loeb was wearing a cape,
this one lined in red silk rather than white. The top-hat was a
spiffy touch, especially when worn at a slightly rakish angle. Al
Ruffin was there, in a plaid flannel jacket and a deerstalker;
and Dick Burkhalter was dazzling the crowd with a neon-blue
Hawaiian shirt and a grass skirt. Lyn Rust was dressed as a bag
lady, but the "I'm a Klingon female with PMS" t-shirt didn't seem
to fit. Two versions of Rockford Files were in evidence: the real
one, and Robert McKay trying to pass as Files. Rick Dawson was in
leathers, Avenir Reynolds was in motley, and CD Jeppsen was
wearing a Rush Limbaugh mask. 
     Suddenly, the revelry paused. The party-goers could feel an
entrance coming on ... and, sure enough, a pool of light sprang 
into being next to the jukebox. The jukebox began to play "Devil
with a Blue Dress On", and into the spotlight stepped Ruby
Begonia. 
     She was clad only in the aforementioned silver lame diaper,
the strategically-placed sash with its New Year's greeting, and a
tall, shiny pair of heels, complete with a lively pair of
piranha. 
    "Okay, boys--let the party begin!" she hollered, and every
male in the place dived for cover beneath the nearest table. 
                               ***
     The man in the grey leather jacket rose from beside the 
campfire, closed the notebook, and slipped it in his jacket 
pocket. He stretched, popped his knuckles, and stared off into 
the grey nothingness, a look of intense concentration on his 
face. The nothingness began to recede, replaced by a virtual 
street with a row of virtual places. 
     The man walked, more or less, down that virtual street. He
passed Kent's Place, its windows boarded up and the tatters of an
"Under New Management" banner trembling in the virtual breeze. In
the distance he could hear the tinkling of a sticky-keyed piano;
he smiled a small, sad smile. At the end of the street were the
neon curlicues announcing "Ruby on the Half Shell"--he glanced at
his watch. 11:58 p.m. He stepped into a shadow and vanished. 
                               ***
     Every male in the Half Shell was cowering beneath a 
table--except the real Rockford Files. He snorted, and quaffed 
something dark and aromatic from a tankard the size of a 727. 
Ruby pursed her lips, adjusted the hang of her sash, and sprinted
toward the bar. Eight feet from the polished wood and brass, she
leaped into the air, executed a perfect triple somersault, and 
landed with a piranha on either side of Rockford's tankard. Files
looked up--Ruby looked down. 
     "Hey big fella--got a quarter?" she purred. She 
ching-chinged the change machine at her waist suggestively. 
     Men who looked like they'd just dodged bullets crawled from
beneath tables. Ruby had chosen her first victim of the evening,
and this Files fellow looked like he could take care of himself.
The party returned to normal; the noise level rose, as did the
number of sloshed drinks and guests. A thin trickle of new
business came through the door, and bellied up to the Oyster Bar.
                               ***
     The man in the grey leather jacket stepped from a shadow at 
the end of the bar. He smiled, motioned to Sy. 
     "Club soda, twist of lemon, please," he said to the smiling 
bartender. 
     "Nice to see you again, Mr. Hahn," Sy replied, offering a 
hand. "We haven't seen much of you around here lately." 
     Michael shook the offered hand. "Nice to be seen, Sy. It's 
been a strange couple of months. I just got thrown out of a place
I left two weeks ago." 
     Sy scratched his head. "How can they throw you out of a 
place if you aren't there?" 
     "Beats the hell out of me. Anyway, it's all water under the
bridge. And speaking of water ..."  Michael cocked an eyebrow, 
and Sy grinned, producing the drink. The lights dimmed then, and
Ruby made her entrance. 
                              *** 
     The party rambled on into the night. Bret Underberg-Davis,
Paul Moor, Terry Preston, and Dick Burkhalter were busily trying
to persuade Diana Linkous, Kay Honaker, and Aline Thompson to
join them in a game of strip Uno. (They were convinced seven was
a lucky number.)  Greg Kirby was sitting alone at a corner booth,
looking despondent; the Caruso quartet was at the next table
playing poker. Herm Holtz had laid aside his pistol and was
carefully constructing a ziggurat of his published works. Paul
Lauda walked in, ordered a bowl of albatross soup, and slurped it
quietly. 
     The "No Honchos" sign posted over the door was apparently 
working--none of the network brass/riff-raff were in attendance.
Jackie Jones and Curt Akin were trying to flip beer nuts into 
Louise Hagan's Virgin Mary. Franchot Lewis, in a burgundy and 
gold sweatsuit, was trying to get a bet down on the Washington 
Redskins/Immaculate Heart football game. The nun wouldn't give 
him the ten points. 
                               ***
     The man in the grey leather jacket sipped his club soda and 
mused. The party flowed around him, never quite including him. A
few of his old acquaintances dropped a passing "Hello"; he
smiled, returned the greetings, and watched the swirling mass of
virtual humanity. 
     Suddenly, he heard a shrill beeping sound. The room around 
him began to fade. Pop! He was once again in the virtual street,
and it too began to fade. Pop! He was back in the swirling grey 
nothingness, beside the campfire. It too began to fade ... 
                               ***
     "Damn! I was almost finished with this packet, too," 
Michael Hahn swore at the red blinking light below Dellbert's 
display. With a rueful grin, he exited his mail reader, tapped 
the power button on the notebook computer, and returned it to its
case. Just then, the flight attendant announced the descent 
into Boston, and Michael folded up the tray table and slid the 
notebook case beneath the seat in front of him. 
                               ***
     Somewhere in cyberspace, the man in the grey leather jacket
waited. 
                               END

Copyright 1993 (c) 
 
          GET A LIFE--THOUGH PREFERABLY NOT YOUR OWN: 
                The Art of the E-mail Alter Ego 
 
     Regular readers of RUBY'S PEARLS, SMOKE AND MIRRORS, or the 
Writers' conferences on RIME and P&BNet will recognize me as the 
man in the grey leather jacket. Michael Hahn, sometime 
bailbondsman to Ruby Begonia, the mysterious fellow with the 
insurance agency that fronts for an information brokerage, is not
*exactly* who I am. It's only a BBS persona. 
     Some of the regular correspondents on the net are a lot more
obvious about it. Del Freeman has her Ruby, Al Ruffin has Bubba 
and Weasel, and Bent Dullard has Kent Ballard. Or is that the 
other way around? 
     Anyway, the key to a successful persona is excess. I've 
never been an employee of a government agency, I know nothing 
about the insurance business, and I no longer own a grey leather 
jacket. But *they* don't know that! In the posted piles of 
electrons, I can be tall, dark, and handsome. I can be a former 
CIA operative with a flat little H&K 9mm tucked into an inside 
pocket. I can drive a fast car, hang out with loose women, and 
keep the dog off the furniture. The sky's the limit, as long as I
keep my ducks in a row and never run out of appropriate cliches. 
     Think about it for a moment: Do you think Dick Burkhalter 
is his real name? My guess is that Lyn Rust is actually an alias
for Jackie Jones, and Bill Slattery and Curt Akin are really one
and the same. 
     Seriously though, folks, the characters we portray on the 
networks don't have to be our own. The very nature of e-mail 
allows us to come up with all those lines that, in-person, we 
always think of after the fact. 
     The man in the grey leather jacket can be confident and 
competent--I'm a klutz. The man in the grey leather jacket is 
well-mannered and soft-spoken--I generally exhibit the social 
graces of a poorly-trained baboon. The man in the grey leather 
jacket has an ace-mechanic/unrepentant-axe-murderer brother named
Randall--I have an ace-mechanic/unrepentant-axe-murderer brother
named Randall. 
     Oops. Well, it doesn't all have to be fictional. 
                               END
