The Name With No Man

You don't get far with a name like Arthur Noble, not in the dazzling world of cyberspace. When I first signed up and applied for a screen name, the e-mail server said, "Sorry...Arthur won't work; neither will Noble...how about ANob7782?" I asked Sylvia at the time, and she said, "No dice! What's with this ANob foolishness? Look at yourself -- do you look like an ANob? And that 7782 has got to go! Sounds like you're signing on with a Riker's Island calling card."

As usual she was right. A person's screen name should be an extension of himself. It should stand out bold and true. It should say, "This is me! Get out of my face! I am king of all I survey!" But who am I? In this fascinating electronic world where all things are possible, I really don't know who I am. Well, maybe I do, but I would rather not have you know who I am.

I have always been the shy type -- soft-spoken, you might say. I never duel for parking spaces at the mall, never get angry at the post office, nor get upset when my plane is canceled. I simply write these things off as unfortunate circumstances that must be endured in a budding technological world. Sylvia is quite different. She never drives around the trouble. She hunches her shoulders and plows right through it. We make a good pair as a rule; she provides me with the backbone I lack, and I keep her from making a fool of herself.

So she said, "You better assert yourself, ANob"...and I did. Within ten minutes I had three new names, none of them my own. As children assume names of sports heroes, ("Hey! looka me! I'm Willie Mays!") I chose names of people I wished I were but could never be. Let me explain.

I have always envied the kings of the road...you know the unshaven truck drivers with American flag tattoos. Now, when the spirit moves me, I can adopt the persona of a cigar-smoking truck driver with the name 'Semirig18.' I can talk like a truck driver, think like one, everything short of smelling like one. When I sign off, I am Arthur Noble again.

Sylvia often works late in her beauty parlor. At such times I take advantage of her absence, and like a cicada emerging from its chrysalis, I become 'cyberstud,' the mad stallion of the chat room, pawing at the paddock gate.

All men have a feminine streak, and I'd be the first to admit that mine is perhaps wider than most. I love to cook, and Sylvia has often said I hang out a lovely line of wash. For those times when the right side of my brain may be in the ascendant and in conjunction with a bad hair day, I adopt the name 'ToyBoy69,' to search for a kindred spirit.

The anonymity of cyberspace permits me to switch from Jekyll to Hyde at the speed of light. There are no physical changes to slow me down, and no one looking in on Arthur Noble in his sweatpants and T-shirt would suspect him of living three lives...well, four, if you count the flesh and blood Arthur. As you might suspect, not many people do. I cannot possibly take any of these characters with me into the physical world; they must forever live and die within the glass eye of my computer screen.

There are times when my personae overlap. It is usually my fault -- I may find myself in a situation on line when my response should be 'Semirig18,' but unfortunately I may be in my 'ToyBoy69' masquerade. The solution, if you can call it that, is to sign off immediately and, like a quick-change artist, reappear in a new disguise. Then I may be in my 'cyberstud' stage only to find I am alone in a chat room filled with giggling 14-year-olds. It can be like a game of charades played by the blind.

What would happen to me if I carried this deception into the real world? The possibility troubles me, for there I am simply mild-mannered Arthur Noble, smiling account executive for an insurance company. I would have to answer to Sylvia first of all, and that is easier said than done. Dear Sylvia is the owner and operator of "NuYou," an establishment dedicated to making women more attractive than they actually are. I am her trusted accountant. I have been slave to other people's problems, hers and those of the insurance company for more years than I care to count. The thrill of being someone I am not in the rarefied air of cyberspace is like a weekend pass from Fort Dix.

"Let me look at you," Sylvia said. "Are you up to something?"

I was doing her books that afternoon in her small office next to the ladies' dressing room. From there you can hear the secret confessions that ladies can't seem to hold back when they are being fussed over. Adrian, the star hairdresser, was in full falsetto and matching the ladies' revelations with those of his own.

"Of course not, Sylvia, I'm fine," I replied, "just fine. I always feel a little macho here in NuYou." I went on about my work, but I sensed a subtle change in me as well. It felt as though 'cyberstud' was in me somewhere looking for a way to get out. It was definitely 'cyberstud.' I know him. I could tell it wasn't 'Semirig18' or 'Toyboy69.' It must have been the presence of all the ladies.

I finished Sylvia's books, stuffed the notes in my brief case, and put on my coat. As I exited the shop, the 'cyberstud' phase wore off. A new feeling came over me, and I found myself walking like John Wayne through the parking lot, hands loosely dangling at my hips as though ready to draw. A queer, rocking sort of gait, which hardly befitted my gray tweed coat and black fedora. I reasoned that 'Semirig18' had taken over, and when I sat in the well-worn seat of the old Biscayne, I retrieved a forgotten dried-out cigar left in the ash tray from last New Year's Eve. I fantasized I was in the cab of an 18-wheeler as I backed into the street. I made a wide right at the corner so as not to hang up on the curb and drew to a stop at the light at the intersection of Lincoln and Jefferson.

When the light turned green, one of those brash Japanese horns squealed behind me.

"Smart-ass," I said to myself. Then I looked in the side mirror, and I see this young punk in glasses hittin' the horn wit da heel of his hand.

I opened the door wit my elbow and climbed down from the cab. Clamping the dry cigar in the side of my mouth, I walked menacingly toward this little runt in a Corolla behind me.

"You gotta problem witcha' horn, kid?" He locked his driver's door and gave me a nervous grin.

"Well, you're holding us up here, chief, and I'm kinda in a hurry."

"Whyn'tcha pop yer hood? I'll see what's wrong witcha horn."

As I look back at the situation, I can't imagine why the young man folded as quickly as he did. There I was, a pale, middle-aged, insurance agent getting out of my old dented Biscayne, dressed in a tweed overcoat and a black fedora. He had nothing to fear from me, and yet somehow, he, as I, had been mesmerized by the persona of 'Semirig18."

"I'll pull yer friggin' horn out by da roots and stuff it up yer ass...." I had just about blurted out these frightening words from behind my cigar, when Charlie Spangler, our local constable, tapped me on the shoulder.

"You having a problem here, Arthur?"

As though the air had been let out of my balloon, my mood changed instantly. I spat out the dried cigar and heard myself say, "Thweetie! I'm tho glad to thee you." What had happened to me? In the space of five minutes, I had become three different people. None of them were me, but I had fooled myself and others into thinking I was someone I wasn't. I had deceived people I knew and cared for. What would Charlie Spangler think? We had bowled together, watched Monday Night Football down at the Hollow Leg Saloon.

"You O.K. Arthur? Been drinkin', have you?" I assured him I had not. "Wanna get back in your car? Lookit the line of cars you're holdin' up here." We walked back to my car together, and I was aware that my walk had changed again. I was putting one foot in front of the other and twirling my car keys in my left hand. I didn't dare utter a word, but I could see Charlie looking at me strangely. "Now you go straight home Arthur. Don't stop fer nothin', y'hear? Just go straight home, get outta yer duds and put'cha feet up."

I did just that. The 'ToyBoy69' affectation had eased up a bit, and I began to feel a bit more like nobody again. What a relief! From where I sat, I could see the great, gray, blind eye of the computer screen looking out at me from the den. It seemed to beckon to me. Did I hear music? It seemed to me I could hear the voices of women...yes, of course! That would be my new name...Odysseus!