THE EIGHTY-FIFTH PAGE

The next day dawned in a foggy, foul swirl of Maine mist, changing to high winds and thunderous rains as the morning progressed.

I hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the outside door for there was little to clean other than some empty cans and a couple of pizza bones. Privacy was essential.

Plugging in my computer’s power cord and modem line, a surge of happiness coursed through me as I booted up and the Microsoft Word opening window appeared with its handsome uncapped fountain pen, ready to accept my disk, homemade for just this purpose. I felt like the Witch getting ready to hand Snow White that tasty orb of fruit from her poisonous garden. Or on an elevated level, a snake in conversation with Eve.

I was ready to go in search of a common, outside venue where I could slip my disk to its unsuspecting recipient.

Nearby, I found a comfortable computer ‘n coffee shop, where I could anonymously set up shop on the internet and dispatch my computer virus, beguilingly dubbed a Trojan Horse by the great computer-language lexicographers of our time. I paid cash for my time on the machine, ordered pan au chocolat, a flaky pastry with a slice of chocolate running through the center, not unlike the vein of virus lurking in the disk I was about to send to the big city.