THE EIGHTY-SEVENTH PAGE

Returning from the best breakfast of my life, I contemplated the scene in New York. The most miraculous thing of all was that they employed e-mail. For a company mired in antiquity--or at best, post-World War II technology; watercoolers, for Christ ‘sake--it was a miracle they had any kind of e-mail. A new tool can be useful if you know how to use it, but this publisher’s program was built on a now-defunct commercial online service and there was really no one to manage it. Virus detection software? Ha! get serious. Most of the department heads thought computers were for the secretaries.

Never would it have been possible for me to use my infection if the publicist’s boss had been sent my mail and been expected to open it. How could he open his mail, if he didn’t know how to turn on his machine? Never would he have panicked when his screen started behaving badly because he thought all screens always were bad. In that moment of panic, he wouldn’t have hit the off switch, as did his lackey, and assured the codification of the virus throughout the office.

To make certain all was well, I transmitted a few e-mail messages to the publishing office from the motel. It could not be received. All was well.