The Name With No Man
By Harry Buschman
You can't get very far with a name like Arthur Noble, not in the fascinating world of cyberspace. When I first signed up and applied for a screen name, AOL said, "sorry .... Arthur won't work, it's been used before. Neither will Arthur Noble, how about ANob7782?" I asked Sylvia, sitting next to me at the time, and she said, "No dice! What kind of foolishness is that? Look at yourself -- do you look like an ANob? .... and that 7782! What's with that! Sounds like you're signing on with a Riker's Island business card."
As usual she was right, Sylvia is never wrong, and not a person to trifle with. She maintained that a person's screen name should be an extension of himself. It should stand out bold and true. It should say, "This is me! Get out of my face! You got a problem with that?!"
But who am I? In this dazzling electronic world where great things are possible, (even though the little things remain impossible) I really don't know who I am. Well, maybe I do, but I would rather not have you know who I am.
I have always been the shy type -- soft-spoken you might say. I never duel for parking spaces at the mall, never get angry at the post office, nor do I get upset when my flight is canceled. I simply write these things off as unfortunate circumstances that must be endured in a budding technological world. Sylvia is quite different. She never drives around trouble, she hunches her shoulders, pushes the pedal to the floor and bulls her way right through. We make a good pair as a rule. She provides me with the backbone I lack, and I keep her from making a fool of herself.
So she said, "You better assert yourself, ANob" .... and I did. Within ten minutes I had three new names, none of them my own. As children assume names of sports heroes, (Hey! looka me! I'm Willie Mays!) I chose names of people I wish I were but never could be. Let me explain ....
I have always envied the kings of the road .... you know, the unshaven truck drivers with American flag tattoos. Now, when the spirit moves me, I can adopt the persona of a cigar smoking truck driver with the name 'Semirig18'. I can talk like a truck driver, think like one, everything short of smelling like one. Then, when I sign off, I am mild-mannered Arthur Noble again.
Sylvia often works late in her beauty parlor. At such times I take advantage of her absence, and like a cicada emerging from its chrysalis, I become 'cyberstud,' the mad stallion of the chat rooms, pawing at the paddock gate. I think I may have overdone my hyperbole there, nevertheless, both comparisons apply.
All men have a feminine streak, and I'd be the first to admit that mine is perhaps wider than most. I love to cook and Sylvia has often said I hang out a lovely line of wash. For those times when the left side of my brain is in the ascendant and in conjunction with a bad hair day, I can adopt the name ToyBoy69, and search for a kindred spirit.
The anonymity of cyberspace permits me to switch
from Jekyll to Hyde at the
speed of light. There are no physical changes to slow me down and no one looking
in on Arthur Noble in his sweatpants and T-shirt would suspect him of
living three lives .... well four, if you count the flesh and blood Arthur --
and as you might suspect, not many people do. I cannot possibly take any of
these characters with me into the physical world. They must forever live within
the glass eye of my computer screen.
There are times when my personae overlap. When it does, it is usually my fault. I may find myself in a situation in a chat room when my response should be 'Semirig18', but unfortunately I may be in my 'ToyBoy69' masquerade. The solution, if you can call it that, is to sign off immediately, and like a quick change artist, reappear in a new disguise. Then I may be in my 'Cyberstud' stage only to find I am alone in a chat room filled with giggling 14 year olds. It can be like a game of charades played by the blind.
I sometimes wonder what would happen to me if I carried the deception into the real world? The notion frightens me, for there I am simply the innocuous Arthur Noble, smiling account executive for Allstate Insurance. I would have to answer to Sylvia first of all, and that is easier said than done. Dear Sylvia runs a tight ship, she is the owner and operator of "NuYou," an establishment dedicated to making women more attractive than they actually are. I am her trusted accountant. I have been slave to other people's problems; hers and those of the Allstate Insurance Company for more years than I can remember. The thrill of being a virtual someone I am not, in the rarefied air of cyberspace is like a weekend pass from Fort Dix, but the possibility of it actually happening scares me.
"Let me look at you," Sylvia said one afternoon .... "are you up to something?"
I was doing her books that afternoon. She has a small office, off to the side, next to the ladies dressing room. From there you can hear the secret confessions that ladies can't seem to hold back when they are being fussed with. Adrian, the star hairdresser, was in full falsetto and matching the ladies revelations with those of his own.
"Of course not, Sylvia, I'm fine," I replied, "just fine, I always feel a little macho here in NuYou." I went on about my work but I sensed a subtle change coming over me. It felt as though 'cyberstud' was in me somewhere looking for a way to get out. It was definitely cyberstud. I know him. I could tell it wasn't 'Semirig18' or 'Toyboy69' .... it must have been the presence of the ladies inside.
I finished Sylvia's books, stuffed the notes in my brief case and put on my coat. As I left the shop, the cyberstud phase quickly wore off and a new feeling came over me. I found myself walking like John Wayne through the parking lot, hands loosely dangling at my hips as though ready to draw. A queer rocking sort of walk which hardly befitted my gray tweed coat and black fedora. I reasoned that 'Semirig18' had taken over and when I sat in the well worn seat of my old Biscayne, I retrieved a forgotten dried out cigar I left in the ash tray the previous New Year's Eve. I fantasized I was in the cab of an 18-wheeler as I backed into the street. I made a wide right at the corner so as not to hang up on the curb and drew to a stop at the light at the intersection of Lincoln and Jefferson.
When the light turned green, one of those brash
Toyota horns squawked behind
me.
"Smart ass," I said to myself, and then I looked in the side view mirror and I saw this pimply faced young punk in glasses hitting the horn with the heel of his hand.
I opened the door and climbed down from the cab. Clamping the dry cigar in the side of my mouth I walked menacingly toward this little runt in the Corolla behind me.
"You gotta problem witcha' horn kid?"
He locked his driver's door with his elbow and gave me a nervous grin.
"Well, you're holding us up here chief, and I'm kinda in a hurry."
"Whyn'tcha pop yer hood, I'll see what's wrong wit'cha horn."
As I look back at the situation, I can't imagine
why the young man folded as
quickly as he did. There I was, a pale, middle aged insurance agent getting
out of my old dented Biscayne, dressed in a tweed overcoat and a black fedora.
He had nothing to fear from me, and yet somehow, he -- as I, had been mesmerized
by the menacing persona of 'Semirig18".
"I'll pull yer friggin horn out by the roots and stuff it up yer ass .... " I had just finished blurting out these intimidating words from behind my cigar, when Charlie Spangler, our local constable, tapped me on the shoulder.
"You having a problem here, Arthur?"
As though the air had been let out of my balloon,
my mood changed abruptly. I
spat out the dried cigar and heard myself say, "Thweety! I'm tho glad to
thee you." What had happened to me? In the space of five minutes, I had
become
three different people. None of them were me, but I had convinced myself and
others into thinking I was someone I wasn't. I had deceived people I knew and
cared for. What would Charlie Spangler think? We had bowled together, watched
Monday Night Football down at the Hollow Leg Saloon.
"You O.K. Arthur? You ain't been drinkin', have you?" I assured him I had not. "Wanna get back in your car? .... Lookit the line of cars you're holdin' up here." We walked back to my car together and I was aware that my walk had changed again. I was now putting one foot in front of the other and twirling my car keys in my left hand. I didn't dare utter a word but I could see Charlie looking at me strangely .... "Now you go straight home Arthur. Don't stop fer nothin," y'hear? Just go straight home, get outta yer duds and put'cha feet up."
I did just that. The ToyBoy69 affectation had eased up a bit, and I began to feel a bit more like nobody again. What a relief!
From where I sat I could see the great, gray, blind eye of the computer screen looking out at me from the den. It seemed to beckon to me. Somewhere in the distance I thought I could hear music. It seemed to me I could hear the voices of women .... yes of course! That would be my new name .... Odysseus!
© Harry Buschman 1998
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