..

The 27.9 Gig Life

​by Ray Ogar, 2001

​

home from school,

and i sling my books and palm pilot

from my back to the tiny steel cart

near the front door entrance to our apartment.

the palm almost snuggled into its

cradle on the first toss.

i retrieve it and jiggle it into

its synchronization port--

it chirps as it updates my life and

today’s events into the home mainframe.

a few seconds.

shiver.

i understand mom is going through

menopause but the house is much too

cold for that right now.

a few more seconds and the palm pilot

prolongs its synchronization.

i leave it for the moment heading

for the front bathroom.

getting colder.

and now i hear crying and what sounds like

metal clanging metal.

usually i just find mom in the front room

twiddling on the playstation or home-shopping

from the webtv.

not there.

i follow the house sounds.

i close in on the distress.

target.

locked.

and i see mom shoveling ice from a several

plastic trash bags onto and around the

home computer.

i squint, adjust my jaw and next start to question...

but i see dad in the corner,

half buried by ice,

a small pistol in one hand and a box of bullets

in the other.

he’s very dead.

at first i try to believe mom is shoveling the ice to

slow dad’s temperature or she is trying to

perform some quick life saving method i

don’t think will work.

she’s not though.

the ice is layered very methodically around the

computer.

likewise the ice is placed very neatly in stacks and

clumps, as if mom were trying to erect some sort

of glacial computer housing.

i yell.

and i scream in my own fashion.

mom turns to me.

tears of course stream her face,

some though are broken,

slightly frozen and

one even bunches nicely near her

lower lip like a moment of frustration

preserved ever so sweetly to

guard over her angry snarls.

“your father decided he was green...”

i kind of stir at this rasp but don’t completely

understand.

i sort of mewl, “what exactly...,” and i try to

move over to dad but mom raises her

shovel.

“get away from him. he’s destroyed my life!”

and i think, how could this be, they fell out

of love years ago, they were simply

life companions now,

mutually exclusive financial

entities combining their incomes to

fully succeed in today’s ultra informed

society.

i keep an eye on dad.

“LOOK what he did!” mom points the shovel for

a second at the computer, that is she points

to what portions of the computer housing that

remain uncovered.

i see a few bullet holes and scorch marks.

mom cries even more.

at any moment i expect to hear cracking and

the sound of ice drop from her face.

no luck.

i step towards dad and

mom slams the shovel onto my back.

i hit the ground.

ice chunks cut into my skin,

some immediately liquidate

under my knees and hands.

mom cringes with the solid thud.

i’m conscious, “what are you doing?”

“if i cool the computer hard drive all the

data will be frozen long enough...”

i stay put, “you don’t really believe that...”

i almost continue but decide to leave it

to mom to figure the sanity of this situation.

mom keeps shoveling.

and dad continues to turn blue.

i can hear my palm pilot chirp two more

times as it tries to access the home computer

from the other room.

i wipe my face, “and by green you mean....”

“he resigned from living with technology. he gave

up making civilized decisions... he gave up

thinking about what was good for both of us...”

“no, i don’t believe that... i think maybe he

chose some sort of sanity over you’re own

simulation of life...,” and i slyly point to the

computer itself.

mom raises the shovel and slams it half

way down near me.

she doesn’t complete the move.

i cringe anyway.

she crumbles to the floor and almost

moves over to me.

and i almost hold my arms out but

push back on the cold floor.

i look to her then to the computer.

i try to see who she really is

and i only see the dull husk of the

home computer under so much ice...

and several of its own gunshot wounds.

mom turns away and begins to

move into the nest of ice

surrounding the computer.

i have always understood that

her and dad lived partially on the internet,

but they also stored everything on

their computer.

of course there are backup disks and

servers where portions of their lives are

temporarily stored across the globe.

but all i can think of now is when mom might

have last backed up the hard disk.

i turn back to mom.

she screams and claws at the

machine’s data housing.

spittle dribbles from her lip.

and i know that she hasn’t had the

sense of reason to backup the memory

in quite a while.

i simply make for the doorway,

quickly disengaging my palm pilot

and grabbing any personal items that

i can.

as i close the front door,

i try to figure out ways i can

disentangle myself from my

parents and the webbed life they lead.

i immediately compile a list nearly

50 points long describing internet plug-ins

and bookmarks i can delete that

connect me with my parents.

i realize i can try to dodge the search

engines for a little while.

then again some network connections

can never be severed.