Really, though, I had an awful time trying to be productive in cyberspace. I kept getting pulled off course by the magic of hypertext. I began in earnest. Thinking about that book project, I went looking for some market data. At a Web site called BookWire, I learned that U.S. consumers spent an estimated $23.8 billion on books in 1994. From there I was transported to a current list of religious best-sellers, compiled by Publishers Weekly, and an even more specialized list of evangelical best-sellers -- both mildly relevant because my book was to be at least in part about religion. But somewhere along the line I ended up in the World Wide Web Virtual Library, scanning the list of public-domain classics available on-line and finding Fanny Hill. That did it. I closed up virtual shop and settled in comfortably, alone with my screen. Time flew.
Emerging groggily from an 18th-century London bordello, I noticed that my phone message light was blinking. Well, well, must be my fruit basket, ordered that morning (1-800-FLOWERS) on America Online. I decided that checking voice messages, while technically a misdemeanor, was preferable to starvation. But then I faced an even bigger dilemma. Do I call the front desk (a serious crime) and have the basket sent up? Or do I leave the room (a felony) and fetch it myself? I chose to fetch it myself. With no cash, only plastic, it was that or stiff the bellhop.
The fruit was delicious but hardly a meal. By 9 p.m., more than 30 hours into my journey, I was eyeing the room-service menu greedily. I sought advice on-line:
IncWhitfor: OK, will you help me solve a problem?
MBUDZ: Sure.
YogurtCup: OK.
IncWhitfor: I'm in a hotel room in . . .
YogurtCup: And?
MBUDZ: Aaaannnndddd?
YogurtCup: Aaaaaannnnnndddddd?
IncWhitfor: For the past 24 hours my only contact with reality has been via the Net.
MBUDZ: You fell and can't get up?
YogurtCup: You must be proud.
MBUDZ: How come?
IncWhitfor: No, not proud. Hungry. I had hoped to live on-line, eat on-line, work on-line, see how far . . .
MBUDZ: What's the problem?
YogurtCup: That may be difficult.
IncWhitfor: . . . I could go. But the only food I've been able to get is a fruit basket, and I'm faint . . .
MBUDZ: Please call 911.
IncWhitfor: . . . with hunger. Do I give up, or order from room service?
Chance had brought us together only moments ago, yet already I felt this bond with my buddies MBUDZ and YogurtCup. I waited hopefully for their advice. Suddenly, a stranger burst into our cozy little chat room -- call him or her AJERK -- and blurted out: "ANYBODY WANT A GOOD F___." I ignored the creep, but MBUDZ and YogurtCup pounced, happily hurling insults ("You are sick-ooo," "Besides, you probably aren't UP to it"), forgetting all about me. Quietly, I left the chat room.
* * *
The woman who answered the room-service phone had the sweetest, warmest, most hospitable kitchen-wench voice I have ever encountered. First, I made her recite the entire menu (a food menu!) while I fantasized. Then I ordered. Swordfish. Spinach penne alfredo. Salad with peppercorn dressing. A bottle of beer. A slice of apple pie.
From my journal: "10:19 p.m. I understand the impulse to devour raw flesh.
"10:51 p.m. Ahh, much better. Had a wonderful dinner. Am now stuffed. Didn't even mind too much that my back was so sore I couldn't sit down to eat.
"11:57 p.m. Slipping between the sheets, the bed warmed by the heat of my computer."
* * *
For someone who hadn't shaved, brushed his teeth, or changed his underwear in three days, I was leading an amazingly active social life. Every time the man from AOL would break in with "You've got mail!" I'd experience a Pavlovian pleasure jolt. I had a tantalizing tête-à-tête (all about food, believe it or not) with a stranger who signed her letters "Peace. Janet" and liked to throw in a New Age aphorism by way of a p.s. ("Oh what a tangled web we weave," "Sometimes the songs that we hear are just songs of our own.") Late on the second night, I was startled to hear from an old college friend, a newspaper reporter, who sent a live message that appeared magically and without warning in the middle of my screen: "I always heard losers lurked on the Internet all night," he said. We caught up quickly, traded gossip, and then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone. Weird. Throughout, I exchanged letters with Sara, something we hadn't done for years. I wouldn't call them love letters, exactly; mostly we stuck to domestic-management topics -- kids, schedules, logistics. Still, it was undeniably romantic. Letters between lovers are precious, no matter the content, no matter the medium.
So I wasn't lonely. But I had plenty of other problems. Locating grooming items on-line, it turned out, was no easier than locating food. I came across a well-stocked shaving kit available for overnight delivery, but I gagged at the price: $59 plus postage and handling. Even on an expense account, you have to draw the line somewhere. I never found any clean underwear, either. Maybe if I'd had more time. Lands' End has an on-line catalog and accepts E-mail orders. But if you want express delivery, I discovered, you have to call or fax. Go figure.
* * *
I did get my brownie nut cake -- thank you, Café Salay. I could have eaten that for dinner the last night, I suppose, and maybe an apple from my fruit basket for dessert. But the real solution came to me after dinnertime on my last day. I found myself chatting with a friend on-line, and he asked if there was anything he could do for me. Well, yes, there was, I said, feeling saliva pool around my tongue. There was a Bertucci's pizzeria not far from my hotel, I typed, before reaching for my wallet and credit card. Half an hour later came a knock on my door -- pizza, salad, the works. Was this cheating again? Well, yes. But it was a milder form. I hadn't left cyberspace; I had just sent an emissary to the real world.
OK, so I failed. Still, I learned a valuable lesson. Cyberspace is all right. But if you go, pack a cooler and bring some extra underwear.
