Welcome to the ABRA BBS.

I know this isn't "real life," whatever that is. But I can't stay away.

Login. Password. Always the same. There's a certain satisfying ritual to it all. You hear horror stories about how computer chat lines are the academic death of college students. Like anything else, it's just a matter of self-control. I get straight A's. But, then again, I'm the baby girl of a mother who had one sister and no brothers. I read somewhere that this means I'm supposed to be well-adjusted and "normal." If this is indeed the case, I feel bad for everyone else.

The screen scrolls a list of the day's announcements. I've got mail:

Timothy and I have been talking for a long time now -- about four months. Whenever I feel low, he manages to pull me up. It's quite a feat, considering that we only converse by characters on a generic, blue computer screen. He's not like the others, and he knows it. The other guys are single-minded, salivating dogs, sitting before their monitors with erections. I can't help laughing whenever I think of them feverishly typing -- jaws agape, naked if private, or forever looking over their shoulders if in a public lab, making sure that others won't peek over the walls of their cubicles to glean the insincere expressions of affection they carpet-bomb on random females.

That's why Timothy's so great. That bit about being a sleazy swinger is totally his style and one of the reasons I adore him. Most ABRA frequenting males don't know enough to lampoon womanizers; it's like they can't get outside of themselves. All they want is a wham-bam-my-hands-are-soiled. They wouldn't even say goodbye. They'd merely logoff as if nothing happened, turn off the power switch, and collapse into bed. And the ones who aren't looking to get off are typically even more frightening. At least the libidinally challenged are acting on a human instinct -- however subverted and perverse that instinct may be. But I have absolutely no clue what motivates the others!

Timothy and I have never net-sexed, nor has either of us suggested it. What's the point? Stimulating the imagination is a great activity, and I'm all for it, but too much imagination can be a bad thing. The time you're able to have an orgasm on the Internet is the time that you don't need people anymore. Then again, I often wonder if the same holds true about having net-friends. As much as this hurts to admit, Timothy seems infinitely more real to me than the people I know at school -- and I've never met him. Somehow he seems ten times more intelligent and alive than anyone I know. Sounds funny, but I miss him whenever he's not online.

Everybody here at NDSU is so one-note. Mary, Allison, Swoop, Rob, Kate: They're always bitching about the same things. "My boyfriend, my grades, this microbrew's a cut below the standard, I hate this, I hate that." Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, blah. Enough already.

I hit the "p" key to see if Timothy is online -- or how long ago he logged off -- and also to see if he has, by any chance, changed his profile description. The familiar puma-quick beep is accompanied by a white ejaculation of text:

That's my Timothy. He's waiting for me just like he said he would. I punch the x key and that magical greater-than-sign, my cue to start typing, appears after I type in his codename, "Thundar."

And now the waiting. The human hand can only type so fast, and Timothy's are slower than most. Time wastes away between responses, yet oddly I never get bored while waiting for him to reply. I usually pass the time by fielding the messages that various others send to me. Usually, they are intrigued by my codename or by my profile, which cryptically -- and cheesily -- bears only the words, "I'm never gonna dance again. Guilty, feet have got no rhythm." The key to avoiding harassment in cyber-land is to do away with all suggestive references that could render you a cyber-strumpet. Still, every word known to humankind can be read as having some metaphoric sexual connotation, whether it be a flower, a window, or a roll of Brawny towels. Sometimes I really hate Freud. He started all that bullshit...

He's one in a million -- the effervescent, handsome, and clever Pierce Brosnan in a world full of weathered, dull-witted Charles Bronsans. And grammatically correct to boot. None of his X's bear the all too frequent misspellings, misplaced modifiers, split infinitives ... ad naseum of a great many other net-surfers. Besides cutting down on communication gaffes, this impeccable precision shows that he cares what I think, that he respects me -- or anyone else he may be talking to. With every sideways smiley face [:) or :D or :P], I know I'm in good hands. These tired, sadly-limited computer symbols actually mean something when he uses them.

But, given the impersonality of it all, I wonder how incredible he'd be in person. Computer talk can be so frustrating -- even with Timothy. Asterisk hug asterisk ... *kiss* *wave* It's just not the same as the real thing. These symbols only force me to realize how much I really need to be touched, not screwed or licked. Touched. One human to another. There have been many moments when I was sharing a secret with Timothy where I just wanted to hold his hand. I wanted to feel his hand on mine.

You've got to be careful on here, or you could endure a few micromentary moments of heartbreak each time you log on. As a general rule, net-relationships are vulnerable to conflicting schedules. Most of the time, friendships quickly fade away. "Out of sight, out of mind," right? In order to avoid the endless repetitions of "User Not Online" that I frequently endured in my newbie days, and in to ensure that I will not let myself forget about Timothy, I generally don't scan the vast sea of names that flow in and out of here by the minute like I used to.

Is this for real? He's never done anything like this before. Will we even be able to function on the phone? What takes approximately 2 hours to talk about over an IBM will only take a matter of 10-15 minutes on the phone. Then what? Something tells me that this is a bad idea, but I have to admit that I'm curious. What can it hurt?

This will no doubt be interesting, but I'm a little scared. I mean, he seems so perfect. Do I really want to fuck up a fantasy? If he turns out to be like all the rest, will I subsequently settle for less? Is it healthy for ideals and dreams to be dummied-down?

And what is he going to think of me? I remember hearing in a psych class about how people generally associate with their own kind: attractive with attractive, bland with bland... Will he take one look at me and puke? God, I hope not. The impulse would be infectious and I'd have to tell my therapist that I fell off the bulimia wagon again. Close friends tell me I have a great personality, but nobody else realizes that when they see my body. I'm curvy, good for childbearing. I'm no Kate Moss, who, by the way, my sister thinks only gay men find attractive. It's like this Black guy once said to me: "Girl, you've got a black woman's body." That's me. "Baby got back."

Great personality. That about says it all.

Message from Thundar at 21:37

Love. Life would be so very beige without it. I've got a pretty large vocab, but no other words can really explain it. It's so all-encompassing. Love says everything, yet it says nothing. L-O-V-E. What do these four letters really mean? And how can you live if you don't hurt?

Ok ... what have I really got to lose? If we're friends on here, that friendship should be able to transcend the rigors of the "real" world.

I am stricken by the anticipation in his voice, a succession of short breaths, a palpable uh-uh-uh. The faint sound of saliva sloshing around in his constricted throat. "Hello. Is Maggie there?"

Jesus, I can't believe that I'm actually doing this. "Hey ... This is Maggie."

He begins to laugh. Apparently I'm not the only one to recognize the absurdity and awkwardness of the situation. Thank God! I follow his lead, letting out my trademark titter.

"How are you? ... It's good to finally hear you. But it's also kind of awkward. I'll admit, I never really thought about what this would be like."

"Yeah, I know. It's so strange to be talking to someone with a voice, who probably actually exists! This is really odd, but I think it's good."

"Think so?" Again he forges a laugh. It's a nice laugh. I want to tell him, but I don't want him to think I'm a ditzy, poof-haired mall rat.

"Yeah, of course." I can't think of anything else to say, and it doesn't seem like he's got a firecracker on the tip of his tongue either. Our silence is offset by a chorus of chuckles.

Finally, like a plastic night in Armor-All, he comes to my rescue, cheerfully uttering a few elongated filler words. "Soooooo.... Well.... Hmmmm...." Who am I to complain? It's speech. It may not be a carriage, but it's the only way we have to get home.

I feel a spurt of altruism surge forth and move to bail him out: "So Tim, what are people who don't know each other supposed to talk about?"

Without warning, he slips into a deep, dark Barry White voice. "I've got an idea. Let's make the beast with two backs AT&T style. . .Just breathe into the phone, baby. Breathe. I want to hear your soul." He laughs.

"That's it Now I know it's you." Laugh. I haven't been this giggly since the seventh-grade Hawaiian-themed dance when I was escorted by Danny Brothmeyer, a guy I was infatuated with for four years.

"Are you glad I called? Was it a good idea for me to have called?" He delivers his words with a strangely compelling staccato rhythm -- Chicago style.

"Mmm-hmmm. This is, well, interesting." Laugh.

"Interesting?" Audible smirk.

"Don't think I'm a school girl, but I always thought you'd have a sexy phone-voice -- I loooove your albums, Mr. White." Giggle.

My roommate thinks I genuinely like her and long to hear her spiels about feminism which are unwittingly contradicted only a few breaths later by declarations of affection for Victoria's Secret products. And now she's giving me advice. I'll never understand how some people can blindly believe they are loved by all. God knows, I wouldn't be in her rusty blue shit-mobile if I wasn't getting a little quid pro quo out of the deal. Chicago, here I come.

She barrels down the freeway, vainly looking in the rearview mirror while trying to apply her Mary Kay lipstick. "Tell me again. You're going to meet who?"

"Kate, it's not a big deal. Just keep your eye on the road, will ya?" A clump of her big, black Mafia-Princess hair flops in her face. "That's right, just wear your bangs in front of your eyes so that we can make the evening news as Thelma and Louise wanna-bes." In a few moments, I am going to be confronted with a whole host of sneering angels asking me how I died, and I'm going to have to bite my lip and tell them that it was death by lipstick, coiffure, and purse. Twelve hours in the car with this!

I don't know if I ever really liked her. I was so vulnerable and lost that first day of orientation. I could not bear entertaining the thought that I might be looking at four years of college without a friend. The same thing happened to me the first day of high school. My family had moved to another town, and I became best buds with the first person I met there, too. Little did I know she'd turn out to be a full-fledged bi-polar freak. Mental note: Avoid making friends at orientation activities.

"I don't know, Mag. . .How are you so sure he's not a rapist? Or that he doesn't have mega-diseases?"

"Trust me, I know! I knew I shouldn't have told you!" She's the worst person in the world. Of course she assumes that I'm going to be intimate with him. God knows she would.

"You know? What? Computer correspondence, a handful of phone calls, and you know him? Over 80% of the rapes each year are committed by friends, relatives. . . . Hell, there's even a movie coming out about a man who stalks his victims through e-mail!" "Don't worry about it."

"OK, OK, but have you ever seen this guy? I mean, for all you know, he could be a male Kathy Bates. Eeeewww! Aren't you scared? And what are you gonna do if he's a dog?"

"Look: We're friends. And you won't ever have to see him. You're going to be busy visiting your friends at Northwestern, so don't worry about it."

"All right, so you're telling me you wouldn't care at all if he's ugly?" "Not in this situation. I'm telling you, I don't care what he looks like! We've got everything in common. ...I'm just going to visit for God's sake."

"You traveled twelve hours! Let's face it: You're looking for love ... You're in love with some guy you..."

"Fuck off! That's not it at all!"

"Maggie. . ." Her voice softens after a very long pause. "I just don't want you to get hurt." Excuse me for not wanting to see you disappoint yourself. Excuse me for caring." She sounds like a wheezing, ashamed puppy that's just gotten scolded. A blessing. Whenever she gets that tone in her voice she usually wallows in self-pity and shuts up for approximately fifteen minutes.

My mind drifts back to Timothy. What if this doesn't go well? I was talking to this ABRA girl, Pollyanna, and we've come to the conclusion that unless everything goes exactly as planned during an initial meeting, the two people never talk to one another again. The odds are always against things going perfectly. What if he's as annoying as Kate? There is little question that I'd cut him loose.

Or what if things end up going too well? A twelve-hour distance between Fargo and Chicago isn't necessarily conducive to a healthy friendship. His mind, his voice, his wit have already engaged me. What if I become too attached?

OK, let's think like shallow Kate for a moment. What if he is gorgeous? I wouldn't complain. I can't deny who I am. I belong to a subset of the human race which has continually set its fight for equality back about 20 years by the bible-paper-thin waists and blue-eyed grins of the Brad Pitts, Jeff Bridges, and Rob Lowes of the world. Timothy does have promising vitals, at least as they're listed in the profile, and he often makes reference to petite ex-girlfriends, so he's bound to be at least somewhat marketable, even if he isn't an Adonis. Looks do not have to be the driving issue in a relationship. Besides, who am I to talk?

I just want a friend.

This is what I've come for. The prospect of actually meeting Timothy has been in the back of my mind ever since he made that first phone call. I never really took these thoughts seriously though. But, with yesterday's confirmation message and my current excursion to the rendezvous site, it is officially going to happen. Jesus. It just fully dawned on me: I've come all this way to meet a stranger!

How will I even know when I see him? I'm supposed to look for a black-haired, blue-eyed Caucasian, but that hardly narrows things down. I'm beginning to regret not giving into the ABRA cliche: Why didn't we exchange pictures through snail mail? He said he'd be wearing a weathered, blue windbreaker with a Skelly emblem over his left breast. Other than that, I'm on my own.

He's going to have an even tougher time. A few precursory details I gave him online aren't going to help that much. Hair and eye color, height, weight, and likely clothing choices only go so far. If objective characteristics were all a person had to go on, it would be fairly easy to confuse Donny Osmond with Marie. And that's precisely what we're dealing with here, since barely anyone I know, except maybe Kate, would have enough immodest gall to call herself a "hottie." At the same time, nobody really wants to admit to themselves that they're butt, even if they are. I say I'm fat and ugly just as many times as other women, but, no matter how true these statements may be, I guess I say them to get a reaction, a positive reaction. A reassurance that I'm OK. Whatever.

My body heaves forward and slams against scuffed black vinyl as the "Yellow and Black" comes to a halt. The cabbie leans back and cocks his chin stubble toward me. "State and Grand."

"Is there a bus stop around here?"

His finger points out over the wheel at a large glass box that's filled with a horde of humanity.

I send the money over the seat, shut the door with a whip-crack of the wrist, and walk over to the bus stop. I'm nauseous and don't know why. Is this longing or fear?

It must be about 1:00 or so. How am I ever going to find him? A motley assortment of people sits, stands, and cowers in the glass hut. Others stand outside of it, perhaps waiting for the bus or maybe taking a brief break from the urban hustle and bustle. Half of them are Caucasian, and almost all of them conveniently happen to be wearing blue. Why didn't we decide to meet at a restaurant with formal reservations and no confusion?

Taking a seat on the slatted bench against the back wall, so that I can look outside the public transit terrarium for Timothy, I survey the inhabitants of the scene. A group of three young Black men cackle amongst themselves, motioning wildly. A woman with a wan, detached expression and deep-set wrinkles, gaze fixed on the ground. A Causcasian man in a work suit, replete with name tag. A pierced, tattooed, young chick. A Black man wearing a leather bomber jacket. A navy-suit-donning Bohemian, pince nez glasses.

I inadvertently look to the left, through the window. My lazy eyes gradually re-focus and catch a dot of black -- black hair. A youngish looking man with a bouncing strut comes my way. Cropped hair, medium build, a blue jacket with what looks like a patch ... Coming closer, closer. . .Closer

Bingo! We have positive Skelly patch ID. Shhlump, Shhlump, Shhlump. Like a madman in a slasher movie, his gait is relentless. Maybe anyone's walk is capable of being identified as threatening when one is in a position of perceived peril. I feel sick.

My stomach churns. Shhlump, Shhlump, Shhlump. All those things we've talked about over impersonal technology, things which I haven't told anyone else. This guy knows when I lost my virginity, the circumstances surrounding the first time I touched myself, how I puked up half the things I ever ate, how I hate my friends. He even knows my mother's maiden name. Is this a bad idea? Is this whole computer chat line phenomenon somewhat like intimate airplane conversations between two strangers? Is it inherently set against extended friendships? Stresses, trials, tribulations, and discomforts spilled from our lips, and we were there for each other. But can this last? Do I really want to develop a "real" relationship with a person I told all my deep dark secrets to whilst riding a cyber-jumbo jet?

I don't want him bringing those things up -- not in person. This is wrong. I don't want him to judge me. Christ, I don't want to judge him. But I've already started. In a matter of seconds both of us will be stacking the realties of each other up against our hopelessly deluded wishes! It's inevitable.

What the hell am I doing here? I want to cry.

Looking down, my ears trained on the sound of his ever approaching feet, the Shhlumping stops. He stands on the curb. That's Timothy? A goth-rocker, who, as far as I know, doesn't listen to goth-rock. He wasn't lying about the Shields and Yarnell reference in his profile. He's paler than a mime. He does have chiseled cheekbones, but then so does a skeleton. This is not right. He walks toward the shelter and enters. I avert my gaze and hear the cruel sound of small pebbles crunching into cement as he commences movement. The all too familiar shuffle returns. My entire body painfully tingles like a foot that's asleep. I don't want to be here. I make a tight fist and hope that he'll walk past me.

"Maggie?"

I look up for a second, making contact with his blue eyes couched in a truly emaciated face, and proceed to stare at the floor. "Maggie, is that you?"

I raise my head in faux-surprise and squint, reflexively shrugging my shoulders.

"Sorry. Thought you were somebody else."

I need to get out of here. This isn't working. Bad, bad idea. What was I thinking? I get up from the bench and slowly yet determinedly make my way down the street. What am I going to tell Kate? Definitely not the truth -- I don't want to hear her bray "I told you so." I can't stay here; I'll just have to make something up. . . .

As I leave, I take one last furtive glance at Timothy. Why had I once felt so close to the man stalking the hut in his tattered blue jacket? Visibly frustrated, he squeezes his chin and taps the shoulder of an unsuspecting person with long blonde hair, a "swimmer's body," and brown eyes.

Everyone keeps talking about how Jamaica, Miami Beach, or South Padre was so great. Me? I got to go to Northwestern and chatter with the get-along gang. I got to see Kate swivel her hips and do her patented "hair-flip-with-a-giggle" routine in the presence of virtually every male she encountered. What a nightmare. I would have rather stayed in Fargo and gotten homework done.

Message from Thundar at 17:24

I've never been completely satisfied with anything. Not myself. Not my interchangeable acquaintances. Not my life. I've never really felt at home anywhere, my family moving every year or so from age three on. But maybe we're never supposed to feel comfortable. Maybe the human condition requires that we continually strive for something we'll never achieve. Look around: A mere observation of everyday life offers all the answers we'll ever need. TV shows, pop singles, and movies come and go like pimples, friends seldom last beyond a few years, and if they do, you rarely see them, only once in a while on a business basis or four times a year. Recycling was around long before Earth Day.

People are born and die.

Yet, for all the ephemeral insignificance, you can't accurately predict their moods, their behavior. You don't know what makes them tick or when they're gonna kick. There's no fixed pattern to anything. Psychology is bunk. Even the livelihood of an otherwise predictable organism like a tree is ruled by kismet -- no one knows exactly when a mighty Oak, for example, is going to contract Dutch Elm's disease. Things always change. They're either growing, or they're dying. It's ultimately not your choice. It's not yours to say which portion of the life cycle you might be in.

I feel like something has died. But how many times in our life, looking back at death, at pain, have we seen it was birth pains? I often wonder if women giving birth feel like this. "I didn't think it would be this bad," I see them saying. "Not this. Anything but this. Take it away. Although I wished for it. Take it away. This is not what I meant." Is this death or birth? I can't tell. Maybe it's both. In the end, nothing is real. Never forget that.

Here we go again. . .

Hey, it could be worse. He thinks net-sex is lame, and seems to have a sense of humor. Besides, I'm just looking for a few minutes of conversation, and I can always logoff if he proves to be a 21st century guttersnipe. What have I got to lose, right? To quote Aldo Nova, "Life is just a fantasy."