Book of Numbers: A Novel by Joshua Cohen Page A

gate, and we stopped. And I stepped out
     into the snaring web of a twentynothing woman, covered with spidery henna, her hands
     just slobbered with cobs—spinning me through the grounds to a lavish stucco
     cottage, unlocking the door, handing me the key, then sticking around spraddled in the
     doorway, one hairy armpit aired by the jamb.
    I’m proud of myself for not mentioning until now that she was
     Asian. She was. Now hatless. Braless vest and culottes.
    “It was you on the phone?”
    Nothing.
    “Or at the library—but isn’t there a library closer
     to home? Like in your lap or whatever?”
    Or in her vest. She took from its midzip pouch the house pda, a
     Tetheld.
    “Your guestwork is paltoguest0014,” she said. “For
     access you willhave to create a uname/pword, each a min of eight
     alphanumerics, the pword to contain a symbol and CAP.”
    “I’ll try,” taking the Tetheld from her, klutzing the
     keying, creating both out of my former accounts.
    Her Tetheld informed: that uname is not available, and I said,
     “That uname is not available,” and she said, “What does it suggest?
     Can you follow the prompt?”
    It suggested Jcohen19712, which was also to become my email.
    I chose the dollarsign to close my pword—$ finishing
     what’d been my pword for all.
    In other accommodations the bellhop points for his tip to the thermostat,
     or offers to lead you up the lilypad slates toward the saunas, but here the orientation
     was only: how to get online.
    She took back her Tetheld, “We have been instructed to apologize.
     Today will be busy.”
    “It will? What’s the schedule?”
    “Party prep. Invasion and occupation. Caterers. Florists.
     Amusements. Petting zoo.”
    “I don’t understand—party for what?”
    The face she purged was disgusted.
    “His birthday?”
    “His?”
    Principal’s, she informed me as she flicked, finalized my account.
     His 40th, tomorrow.
    Was I supposed to have mindread? or have been previously briefed?
    She had an @ bud pierced above her lip. Her Tetheld shook, “You are
     affirmed.”
    “Confirmed?”
    “Affirmative.”
    “Confirmative?”
    She buttoned again, “May we have a moment with your
     computer?”
    My computer—two years old? two generations and an operating system
     defunct? A present from Rach from my own birthday past, a generous provocation to earn.
     As I dug through my bag for my laptop, I considered the immediate gift
     politics—what to give a quadragenarianwho has everything?
     besides donating to a favorite cause? Besides myself, I mean.
    “We have been instructed to transfer everything—your .docs,
     your contacts—all will be the same.”
    “Why?”
    “There is a requisition order.”
    “Requisitioning what?”
    “A new laptop.”
    She left, I pottered, lasers raved across the windows and mariachis tuned.
     I’d only just unpacked and was resting on the cot when there was a knock at the
     door, and without me responding she entered, “We are sorry for keeping you
     waiting, Mr. Cohen.”
    I took the slab from her, “Thank you, Miss?”
    “You are welcome, Mr. Cohen.”
    “Miss?”
    “Myung.”
    She turned to go so I went grasping: “It’s
     smaller.”
    “.72″ / 1.8 cm × 12″ / 30.4 cm, ×
     8.2″ / 20.8 cm the depth.”
    “Lighter too.”
    “2.4 lbs / 1.08 kg.”
    “Brand?” because none was evident.
    “Tetbook prototype.”
    “You’ve moved into computers?”
    “No.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Prototype.”
    Drop it, rather—don’t, “But everything’s still
     on it?”
    “Everything.”
    “You sure?”
    “Even the apps you will never use are on it.”
    “Appreciated—but where’s my old unit?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Larger, heavier? My oldie?”
    That flustered. “Most guests do not want theirs back.”
    “Most everyone hasn’t a clue what they want.”
    “Please,” resetting herself, “you
     are also completely backed up to servers. Clouded. Nubified. Nephed. Your files are