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Chapter 3

OK, let's see what we got, Meg said to herself as she settled in at her computer the morning after dining and exploring with Brian.

It was barely the next day. She had fallen into the habit of waking at around 4 a.m. and couldn't break out of the rhythm, partly because she kind of liked it. If dawn felt like a really new day, then pre-dawn was brand spanking new and fresh.

Opening Gtalk, Meg noticed Brian was online and active. I'll wait until he pings me, she decided. I want to write down some notes about all this weirdness and see if I can pull some of it together.

She reached her mouse for the Word icon, then, on a whim, opened the OPML Editor instead. Brian had made her try it because it was a Dave Winer invention -- and because he knew her penchant for brainsterbating (Meg's term for brainstorming alone). He was convinced she would come to love putting ideas into an outliner. She hadn't warmed to it yet, but she couldn't say she had given it much of a chance yet.

Also, there was that remark from the fictional Charlie Eppes about replying in OPML, still a puzzler. Meg and Brian both intended to talk about that last night, but somehow didn't get to it. Maybe while she was in the editor she would get an idea of what that it might be all about.

How will I organize this, she asked herself while opening a new outline file. Be straightforward. Make a main node called "What happened" and list what happened in a list under it.

Almost in spite of herself, and almost before she realized it, Meg started enjoying the task, making subcategories under "What happened" like "At the Other Building" and "In Google," each with its own list and with links to the results page URL and to the local text file.

Pretty cool. Wonder how I can beep Brian in here. You're supposed to be able to collab--

Oh. That's what Charlie meant. I bet that's it. Where the hell is it? The collaboration part.

Meg buzzed through the menus of the outliner program until the word "instant" caught her eye. "Instant outliner." That might be it.

And sure enough, when she expanded the menu, among the options that flew out was "Open buddies." Buddies. That has to be related to the feature that works something like an IM client, Meg decided.

She selected the item called "Open buddies" and she was not altogether surprised (but she was a little freaked out) to find a listing of the real and dead and fictional so-called people who had surfaced in her Google searches.

- William Blake

- Paula Tubbs

- Jason Calacanis

- Charlie Eppes

"Oh boy," she said out loud. "Am I ready for this?"

The flash of freaking passed quickly; she was already on to more detective work. Something was wrong with that list. A name must be missing, because she'd had five responses from Google.

No. I've only had four. The one from Stewart Brand was for Brian. I'll bet Brand is on Brian's buddy list. I gotta call him.

First she pinged him on Gtalk:

Can you take a call?

The answer came right back:

give me 5 min

Meg glanced at the clock in the corner of her computer's desktop. 4:54 AM.

Cautiously, she clicked on the first name in the buddy window, William Blake. Indented in a single outline node was the same message produced by the Google search:

My Dear Miss Meg Harkin,

Our place is where our fellows dwell, and the degree of our acquaintance matters little.

Yours very sincerely, William Blake

Clicking on each of the other names had the same consequence; same messages she'd seen before in the search results. But the last buddy, Charlie Eppes, had written something new:

Meg, this might make things more clear. Click on 778.

She clicked, but it didn't clear anything up.

Brian checked the time: 5:50 a.m. He didn't feel like calling Meg, not right now. Maybe I'll tell her I'm going back to bed, he said to himself, trying out the escape option. Sounded reasonable. He typed an instant message:

sorry. got busy, then got sleepy. talk later this morning??

But Meg already had left the computer, and left a "Back to bed" away message herself. That worked out.

Brian really liked Meg; don't get him wrong. It was just that he had planned to get up early to make some extra time today.

He had to tend strictly to his list today, and not let his curiosity make him wander off course. That was Meg's trouble, he considered. She used to be efficient as could be when she was busy and working. These days she'd become a total airhead -- the opposite of the efficient project manager he met six years ago when they both worked at E.E. Platt.

They had become the most sought-after team for the tech consulting firm's internet projects, due to Meg's great client and organizing skills, to his programming wizardry and their synchronicity as a team. Once Meg and Brian dove into a project, it got done fast and right, so their reputation was earned.

Brian made the smart move once he saw he had some leverage, and worked out a contracting deal three years ago with old man Platt's son, the COO. His retainer paid the same as his old salary. No benefits, but he was obligated to a measly 35 hours a week for Platt, and he gained the freedom he craved to work on other things, or not. Meg was so bright; why hadn't she negotiated the same deal?<

Move on. What's next?

6:23 a.m. He could reach his client in Boston, who wanted to talk to him, but Brian didn't have enough to report. With any luck, he would have something to show by this afternoon, but he couldn't make himself begin the big chunk of coding ahead. He wasn't sure how to approach this piece of the web application yet, and really needed some time for the problem to stew. Maybe just start it anyway and something will reveal itself, he thought. Whoever said the independent life is carefree?

I'll just jot down in English what needs to happen. Haven't done that since school. What did they call that?

The project was a searchable directory of elearning vendors sponsored by Harvard's education department and a few other partners. Brian was acting as sub-contractor to a web design firm in Boston, and the experience had been frustrating.

He'd been assured by the firm that the app's specs had been drawn up in detail, the result of long hours of planning and consultation with the client at Harvard. However, as the work progressed, Brian found the spec to be closer to a wild-eyed wish list made by graphic designers, and he was doing more of the development planning than he'd bargained for. And they kept getting new ideas. That was going to have to stop.

Brian opened a new outline in the OPML editor. Before he could force himself to start writing down steps to be taken in the routine that would clone a record in the database, he allowed himself the distraction of opening the buddy window in the editor's instant outliner. He didn't check it very often because, although he had been able to convince a couple of acquaintances to install the editor and try messaging in the outliner, no one had stuck with it. It was like checking every few days to see if his shoe size had changed.

But today he'd made a new buddy: Charlie Eppes. Can't be. Buddies can't add themselves. I have to subscribe to their outlines.

Brian noticed the name was in boldface, which meant the outline had new messages. He clicked on the name.

Brian, I have two new neighbors who you and Meg, respectively, may be interested in: Blaine Davies and George Knightley. See the updated 778 outline.

778

William Blake 703

Brian shrugged off his incredulity and opened his own instant outline to reply. Time to engage these fuckers, he thought.

Adopting the format Charlie employed, he made a node in his own outline called "messages," and a subordinate one named "Charlie," indented once more and wrote:

dr. eppes, call me at 818-255-6588 or skype brianobrieno. or if you are too fictional to have a voice, just tell me what is going on. stop the coy routine. we are tired of it.

Guess he told him.

Who knows I collect Blaine dolls, Brian wondered, looking at the one seated on his router.

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Submitted by amyloo on Wed, 11/22/2006 - 17:21.