Farmboy - The Novel is a Dream Machine Site The Dream Machine --- The Imagination of the World Wide Web

The overcast in the sky was not entirely due to clouds. The pollution from far away power plants was doing its thing as well. New coal fired power plants in the Dakotas were the main cause. When Canada fell apart, environmentalists lost some of their loudest voices opposing acid rain. The new eastern states, which were made up of the old Canadian Maritime Provinces, were so happy to be part of the U.S. that they simply shut their mouths about deforestation.

Meanwhile, demand for electric power kept right on growing. The new electric cars didn't directly pollute the city air. But the power had to come from somewhere. That somewhere was the Missouri river basin for most of the Eastern U.S..

After feeding the animals, Michael returned to his computer room. It was conveniently located between the kitchen and living room. In there he could assume his electronic alter ego with a minimum of effort or strain. Once settled in at his console, he turned on the printer and the fax message deposited itself in the bin. He was surprised to find that it was from an old friend in Minneapolis, Bob Carlyle. Bob was wondering whether Michael still welcomed visitors during the summer months. He said that he and the family...Bob and his wife, Joan, had two children in their early teens...that he and they were thinking of visiting the country during their annual vacation, coming up soon. Although the message seemed unremarkable, the fact that Bob wanted to "come to the country", combined with the current rumors, left Michael feeling slightly uneasy. And why hadn't Bob just called or emailed him on the Net? He and Michael had worked together for many years. Furthermore, Bob and Joan had been as close to Michael and Miranda as anyone. Maybe Bob knew something that he didn't. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, whatever it was.

As long as he was in the computer room, he decided to do some of the maintenance chores he had been putting off. In the spring, while the weather was so stunning, it was hard to put in any time at all at the magic box. He had spent most of the long dark winter hours glued to the keyboard, hacking out systems' subroutines. He sold some of them to software houses in Minneapolis, adding just about enough money to his meager farm income to be able to afford to have the equipment around. This closed loop didn't bother Michael in the least. If he couldn't have afforded to buy the stuff, he probably would have stolen it. Before, when Miranda was still alive, she used to tease him about it endlessly. She said he was more addicted to the computer than any down-and-dirty junkie ever was to his needles and dope.

He would never forget what happened when he got his very first "micro computer." From the minute it came through the front door and was plugged into an electrical outlet, he had stayed put at his desk, pounding on the keyboard, fifteen, maybe twenty hours a day. After about a week of this, Miranda asked him cautiously when he was "going to let up a little?".

When he half jokingly responded, "Never fear, it will pass within a year or two.", he thought her jaw would hit the floor. It took him several hours to convince her that he was "only kidding". But he came close, that time, to losing her completely. Only to lose her, later, to a much more pointless and brutal twist of fate.

The afternoon sun beckoned him back out into the fields. If anything, the day was even more pleasant than Monday. The haze overhead provided just enough cover from the sun to keep the temperature perfect. When he gazed off into the distance, he felt as if he were on a far off planet, with a different kind of atmosphere. The three quarter moon rising late in the afternoon aided that illusion. It was a deep orange as it crept over the horizon. He could almost imagine that it was a second sun, perhaps a red giant.

Hunger finally drew him back to the house about seven o'clock. He arrived just in time to catch the beginning of the news hour. Tonight they were again talking about the South American food riots as well as some disturbances in the Eastern United States. The troops hadn't arrived in Ukraine yet, but the Commonwealth of Independent States' leadership was warning western powers to keep out of it. As always, "internal business" was the reason, the standard defense, the alibi. Still, Michael found himself wishing aloud that the U.S. leaders paid heed.

The only upbeat story concerned peace negotiations in the Middle East. The One Day War of 2005 had finally brought all the crazies together at the bargaining table. First, Israeli right wing fanatics launched a preemptive nuclear strike against Baghdad. It was "only" an atomic bomb. Not much larger than the ones dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki during the first nuclear war. The Iraqis retaliated almost immediately with a massive nerve gas attack against Tel Aviv from bases hidden in the desert. Tens of thousands of people died, on both sides, within minutes. The whole world stood back gasping for a brief moment, then everyone...everyone...put on the brakes. Overnight, militant Arabs and Jews became moderates. Almost everyone else had long since tired of the eternal warfare in that region. The U.S. Jewish community decided that it could no longer unconditionally support massive economic aid to a country that killed innocent civilians. Despite his own Jewish ancestry, Michael sympathized with this point of view. Israel had started the war by nuking the Iraqi capitol, effectively beheading the government. But, they had taken quite a few civilians along for the ride with the grim reaper. The fact that it was a relatively small faction within the Israeli hierarchy that had carried out the attack made little difference. Israel, as it was fond of reminding the Arab world, was a practicing democracy. No citizen of Israel could escape responsibility for the attack on Baghdad any more than the Germans of the forties could evade blame for the Holocaust.

Meanwhile, the former Soviet Union had long since ceased all aid to the Arab regimes. Iran wisely kept completely out of the melee, choosing to remain uncharacteristically silent. So, it was only a matter of time before some kind of peace plan was worked out or, rather, imposed upon the region. Today, Tuesday, had been the day, at long last, when everyone signed on the dotted line.

Also mentioned on the news was an unknown object, spotted by the Hubble space telescope, which was moving in the Earth's direction at a very high speed. It was too small to cause any problems, even if it hit the planet squarely. Only its great velocity caused any interest at all. It was still out well beyond the orbit of Mars, but would be within the vicinity of the Earth in a couple of days.

The news closed with a note about the extremely high pollution index in the Twin Cities. The very old and very young were advised to stay indoors for the next few days. "Tell me about it!", thought Michael, recalling the haze of the day.

That evening Michael got a call from Martha. Among the locals, she was known as his lover, his "main squeeze", even though they managed to get together no more than once a week. He found that his sex drive was much reduced since he had moved to the farm. Maybe it was the country. Maybe his work. Maybe he was holding on to his memories of Miranda too tightly.

At any rate, he tried to put her off this Tuesday evening. He knew she was pushing, ever so gently, for an invitation to spend the night. He refused to acknowledge it, to her or to himself. When she wouldn't relent, he made a date to meet her at a local tavern for a late evening drink. He could talk with her long enough to make a plausible retreat about eleven. He had to get up with the sun and so did she.

Later, when he saw her at Sam's Drinkery, he almost relented. Her gleaming red hair looked truly magnificent as the blinking neon signs brought out first one, then another highlight. He had to admit that she was handsome indeed. Stunning, with the rounded curves of a woman who has known childbirth, she glowed this evening with all the fires of spring. As they chatted about the day's events, both here and afar, he felt himself squirming in his chair.

"What in hell is wrong with me?", his thoughts demanded. "Here sits a beautiful woman who wants to fuck me and I'm making excuses and running away!"

It wasn't that he didn't like and respect her. She was over ten years younger than he, but she had raised a daughter to teen age as a single parent. She was certainly mature and wise enough for him. Her conversation, though not exactly scintillating, was way above average for rural Wisconsin. She was a fair to middling artist and could converse intelligently, if not brilliantly, about science, religion and philosophy.

Plus, she was a fabulous lover. Each time she lured him between the sheets, he found himself marveling at how well she made him feel. Like a god. Or at least a superman. But still he resisted, avoided, abstained.

"Damn my soul!" he muttered to himself as Martha excused herself to the ladies' room. "Damn! Damn! Damn!" But, the country western music on the juke box drowned out both his voice and his thoughts. It was "Play Another Somebody Done Me Wrong Song." An oldie, but a goodie. It hit the nail right on the head.

A couple more drinks and a bit more idle chatter damped down the fire in both of them. By the time eleven o'clock rolled around, they were both heavy lidded and ready for sleep. As he bade her good night, he found himself yawning while getting into his pickup truck. By the time he got home, he was more than ready to turn in.

He thought of Martha, then Bob and his fax message, then the news and finally, once again, of Miranda. But not for long. His concerns of the day had vanished completely by the time his lights went out for the night.

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