Microserfs

Todd, Abe, and I lugged her "ownables" from her geek house down the street up to our own geek house at the top of the cul-de-sac: futon and frame . . . cluster o' computers . . . U-Frame-It Ansel Adams print. . . and dumped it all into Michael's empty room. And then, once she installed herself in our house ("Think of me as a software application ") she announced that she was an expert in (thank you, Lord . . .) shiatsu massage!

* * *

Mom phoned this afternoon. Out of the proverbial blue she said to me, "The house! The soil up in the hills is settling and the roof's rotting. The door and windows need replacing. I just stand here and feel the money being sucked out of my body. At least we had the foresight to buy it when we did. But all my librarian's salary goes into the house. The rest goes to Price-Costco."

Money.

I changed the subject. "What did you have for dinner?"

"Those pre-formed pork by-product patties. And ramen noodles. Like the food you kids eat when you do your coding all-nighters."

It was a "Listening-Only" call.

"I know, Mom. How's Dad doing?"

"Prozac. Well . . . something like Prozac. At least he doesn't obsess on the garage anymore. He goes out in the morning I-don't-know-where looking for work. Let's not get into it. God, I wish I drank."

Life is stressful in Palo Alto. I send Dad $500 every month. It's all I can spare on the 26K I make here ([$26,000 / 12] - taxes = $1,500).

It was a really bad phone call, but Mom just needed to vent - she has so few ears in her life who will listen. Who really ever does, I guess?

* * *

Michael never did return from Cupertino.

Rumor had it Bill had Michael secretly working on a project called Pink, but nothing ever came of the rumor.

A delivery firm specializing in high-tech moves carted Michael's things to Silicon Valley. His pyramid of empty diet Coke cans - his suitcase-worth of Habitrail gerbil mazes - his collection of C. S. Lewis novels. Gone.

* * *

Fun fact: We found about 40 empty cough syrup bottles in the cupboard - Michael is a Robitussin addict! (Actually, he bulk-buys knockoff house brands-he's a "PayLess Tussin" addict.) The world never ceases to amaze.

* * *

It’s late at night. Basketball on TV; computer and fitness mags everywhere. Let me talk about love.

Do you remember that old TV series, Get Smart! You remember at the beginning where Maxwell Smart is walking down the secret corridor and there are all of those doors that open sideways, and upside down and gateways and stuff? I think that everybody keeps a whole bunch of doors just like this between themselves and the world. But when you're in love, all of your doors are open, and all of their doors are open. And you roller-skate down your halls together.

Let me try again. I'm not good at this.

Karla and I fell in love somewhere out there - I think that's the way it happens - out there. The two of you start talking about your feelings and your feelings float outside of you like vapors, and they mix together like a fog. Before you realize it, the two of you have become the same mist and you realize you can never return to being just a lone cloud again, because the isolation would be intolerable.

Karla and I would talk about computing and coding. Our minds met out in the crystal lattice galaxy of ideas and codes and when we came out of our reverie, we realized we were in a special place - out there.

And when you meet someone and fall in love, and they fall in love with you, you ask them, "Will you take my heart - stains and all?" and they say, "I will," and they ask you the same question, and you say, "I will," too.

* * *

There are other reasons Karla's lovable, too, reasons not so poetic, but just as real. She's like a friend to me, and we have all of these common interests - "mind meld" - whatever. I can discuss computers and Microsoft and that part of our lives - but we also have esoteric conversations that have nothing to do with tech life. I've never really had a friend this close before.

And there's the nonlinear stuff: Karla's intuitive and I'm not, yet she's still on my frequency. She understands why yaki soba noodles in a plastic UFO-shaped container from Japan are intrinsically glorious. She scrunches up her forehead when she knows she's not explaining an idea as clearly as she knows she can, and she gets frustrated.

Anyway, I want to remember that love can happen. Because there is life after not having a life. I never expected love to happen. What was I expecting from life, then?

As I type this in, I feel small arms around my neck and a kiss on my jugular and I don't know, but I think I may be forgiven. I hope so because my forgetting the anniversary thing was an honest mistake. I'm new at this love thing.

* * *

Sierra Nevada Pale Ale

Cedars Sinai

starburst explosion

Gak

UNDO

Ctrl Z

CtrI Z

CtrI Z

Phoenix

Cleveland

Luis Vuitton

Kalashnikov

Waxahachie

LA Lakers

San Antonio

bubble economy

Creamsicles

Livermore

the place for ribs

Taylor Sequences

frog

Bleeding eyeliner

Colossal

SUNDAY