A shadow of a dream

Though the following is autobiographical, some of the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

One day, I saw the wireless-detector image blinking, alerting me to the availability of wireless networks. Sure, they'd always been available—they'd just never had anything to do with me. I was consistently, unyieldingly, locked out of them.

Call me superstitious, but something, this time, felt different. So I clicked to open the window, and sure enough, there she was—wApple633fq, a connection I'd never seen before, and, miraculously, absent that soul-crushing "lock" icon by her side.

Why not? I took a chance and clicked, still certain something would go wrong—we wouldn't connect, for some unknown reason. I'd connect with her, but it would be local access only—nothing that gave me any internet. It wouldn't be anyone's fault. It wouldn't even be a shame—it'd just be the way things were.

But no. Somehow, everything clicked, and, before I knew it, she had opened to show me Google, right there on my screen, clear as day.

The signal was strongest in bed—there, I could have it anywhere I wanted. The kitchen and bathroom were out of range, as was most of the entryway, but it worked fine right behind the front door.

It was wonderful. The days passed, and we fell into a routine. Honestly—and it seems like both a sin and an impossibility when I think about it now—the wonderment did fade. No longer was it an unexpected joy to come home and find internet in my bed, waiting for me to slip under the covers, ready to take me anywhere I wanted to go. If you can believe it, I actually began to expect to be transported to images of the Colosseum, to have access to definitions of any word in myriad languages, to be told everything I could ever want to know about the Armenian genocide. Sadly, perhaps—or, I don't know, maybe it's just the way of things—as I began to expect it, I took less and less advantage of the situation. I'd check e-mail and Facebook, craving that shallow, immediate buzz I'd find in mostly meaningless messages. I'd have conversations with people I wasn't interested in communicating with just to avoid working on that Hindi story, even though I finally had the miracle of bedroom access to translation dictionaries; grammar forums; and, wonder of wonders, actual real, live Hindi speakers.

As if she knew this, she began to withdraw. Once available in every square foot of the bed, she became accessible solely in the southeast corner, next to the wall, and only in a certain position—smack-up against the window, the laptop on my thighs.

Then, even that wasn't enough. It had to sit on my chest, inches from my face. It was getting to the point that it almost wasn't worth the effort.

Then things changed yet again—to gain access, I'd have to lie in bed with the window just on my left, legs up against the wall, laptop on my shins. I don't know how many times the resistance provided by my kneecaps was all that kept gravity from scrambling hardware on the bed like eggs in a pan.

But, still, I only accessed her when the need was strong, and it wasn't really uncomfortable. Overall, it was actually an improvement from the on-the-chest situation. Sometimes I'd have to swing my feet one way or the other to reach that connection with her, but it was sometimes surprisingly strong, and certainly reliably there, almost always attainable, if I had the motivation to do the needful.

Then, one day, just like that—as all victims of the thief called Time come to know—just as she had come into my life, she was gone.

This wasn't unprecedented—there'd been instances when I'd come home to find her gone, but, sure enough, like clockwork, the next morning, she'd be back with me, and things would return to normal.

So, as usual, I patiently awaited her return. Noon came and went. Still, no sign. I had an appointment. I left the house and came back that evening. Still no trace. I began to suspect something was different—that maybe, this time, she wouldn't come back.

I fell into the habit of sitting there, looking for her—trying to figure out if maybe she was around, just under a different name—is that you, now going by TWC0859? Did you use to be mine, Abramson Family Network? 2WIRE920, you look new—have I seen you around here before?

Truthfully, I don't know. It doesn't matter anyway. All of them were—are—locked. Off limits. Even if it is "she", it's not. She's a different entity than she was. As different from before as a locked bank vault to an open bedroom door.

Isn't it funny how circumstances dictate so much of life—so much of who we think we are? Already, it's returned almost completely to the way it was before her: I work on the computer at home. I study. I read. If I need access, I know where I can get it—if I want it with some level of privacy, and don't mind it seeming a bit like work, I can sit at a cubicle at FedEx Kinko's. If I'm happy to take what's available for the price of a bagel, I can head over to Starbucks. When the time's right, and there's a seat, I can get it at the library for free.

Truthfully, though, it's not totally the same. It never is, is it? Sure, this is the way my life used to be—exactly the same, by all outward appearances—even the most astute observer would be hard-pressed to pinpoint any change. Still, sometimes I'll just hover my mouse icon over the wireless detection box and watch, transfixed, for minutes on end, the weakest signals appearing and vanishing—like a cowboy staring out at the plain shadows at dusk, waiting for the silhouette of the beautiful girl he once knew, decades ago, to appear once more.