Issue 1.2, April 1995

Cybermare
by Chrissy Geary


    I am a computer widow mourning the loss of my husband to cyberspace. You
may have
met him somewhere. He's very friendly; so friendly, in fact, that I hardly
get to see him anymore. 
   Our habits have evolved differently from each other. When I get up in the
morning, I like to take a shower and eat a bowl of cornflakes. My husband, on
the other hand, emerges from bed
zombie-like and is drawn straight to the power switch on his Mac. The day
doesn't begin until the eerie chime rings in the day. After that, he hops
into the kitchen for a bowlful of Cocoa Puffs with
extra sugar. Sometimes we manage to eat breakfast together. 
 "Want some tea?" I ask.
 "I'm downloading," he replies.
 "Does that mean yes or no?"
 "Sweetheart, I'm in the middle of something." That means yes. 
   We only have one car right now, so after work, I have to pick up my
husband. Depending on traffic, we can usually squeeze in a nice chat. 
    I like computers. I use e-mail and I chat; I even like to click around on
those little pictures. Just this past Christmas, I bought my husband an
ergonomically designed chair for his computer
because I don't want him to have back problems. He is extremely tall and
slumps in regular chairs. His chair is parallel to a wall, so I can see only
the right side of his face. I think the left side looks about the same, but I
don't remember.
    My husband's favorite thing is mail. He would go to our mailbox in a
hurricane---naked. It's fortunate that the post office delivers only once a
day. Otherwise, he would be in and out like a little gopher.To satisfy his
need, he has signed up for at least ten mailing lists. Personal e-mail,
however, is his favorite and he gets upset when he doesn't have any.
 "I never have mail," he says.
 "Does that mean you're done?"
 "I'm going to download Miss Manners for you. You like Miss Manners, right?"
He is a sly one. He knows what will placate me. I notice that he is rubbing
his wrists.
         "I think you should see Dr. Klein. It might carpal tunnel syndrome."
 "No," he says sharply, "It can't be. I've had this pain for years."
 It's Tuesday night and he breaks for NYPD Blue. I don't like the show
myself, but I watch it with him. He is also trying to dial up a VAX. He keeps
one ear aimed towards the bedroom waiting for the
beep-shush-beepitty-shush-shush-beep of the connection.
 "Did you hear that?" he asks.
 "It was the TV, sweetheart." I say.
 "This is such a fantastic show. I can't believe you don't like it."
Suddenly, the sound. "Oh! Could you log on for me? Please?" I log on and
check my mail. I have been forwarded a bunch of gross jokes from his pal,
Arnie, in D.C. Arnie is the Howard Stern of cyberspace. 
 Later, as I am lying in bed, enjoying its full king-sizedness, I can still
hear the click-click, click-click of the mouse. He must be checking rooms on
NEWSLINK. 
 "How's Don?" I ask.
 "Oh, he's fine." he replies, typing fast.
 "Does that new hard drive help you get on faster?"
 "Listen, I'll be done in five minutes. And I don't want to talk about it."
We never talk about the hard drive. It's a touchy subject. "I don't know what
you're complaining about. I said   I would take dancing lessons with you."
That's right. I forgot.