[Cyber]Space Invader

Had I set out to stymie my [Cyber]Space Invader, I could not have orchestrated and executed a more effective-and confounding-plan, had my actual life depended upon it, rather than [just] my cyber-life. With irony thick enough to slow down a charging elephant, even though I wanted desperately to wrestle back my computer by paying $695.00 in ransom, I could not hook the invader up: I had already lost my actual identity. 

Exactly what does a cyberspace invader look like?

I can’t make this shit up…

Les incompetents might have been the term applied, were it not for the fact that one act of [apparent] carelessness, actually produced the startling effect of saving me $695.00. Make no mistake: I was palpably eager to lay out a huge sum of money to recover my computer/identity. 

I know. Delusional is as delusional does.

In that vein I opened up the negotiations with Mark Vader by asking, “So, what’s next? How can I help get my identity restored? Obviously, you have me over a barrel.” Yeah, well, maybe “negotiations” might be overstating matters slightly.

Great success! Am I The Man, or what, gettin’ ‘er done in a timely manner? Achtung, Chucko! You’ll separate that shoulder, patting yourself on the back.

For the third time Mark verbally stumbled, obviously not accustomed to having his lunch not only delivered, but on a silver platter. “How can you help… ah, yes, Sir, I see, Sir, not a problem Sir, not a problem.” And here came the magic words, “Do you have a credit card, Sir?”

“Oh, rats,” and if you think that is the  expression I employed, you are at the same level as me on the gullible-meter. “I don’t. I lost my wallet a couple of months ago with all of my credit cards, my driver’s license and everything else I had in it.” 

I saw no valid reason why Mr. Vader needed to know that “all” of my credit cards consisted of one B of A card, obtained somewhere around 1982, with enough money on it currently, to get me into Who’s Who for a very dubious reason.

The last time I actually had my wallet in my hands was at Safeway, in Willits, sometime in early-mid January. I know because that was the last stop before getting into the Subi and heading back up on the mountain. I didn’t even discover it was missing until a few weeks later, upon the occasion of my leaving the mountain once again. Otherwise, why would I need to consult my wallet?

And yes, the astute reader has gleaned
that this is a photo of the author of
Mark's Work, which explains much...

I dutifully-if not immediately-gave the nice folks at Safeway a call, and inquired whether some kind soul had turned in a wallet at the Lost and Found. After the nice lady had regained control of herself (I didn’t think it was that funny), I described it as black with a prominent orange SF on it, a gift from a sweet woman once seeing SmallBoy, and a fellow fan of the Giants.

Right, Bro. Someone found your wallet with a wad of cash, and then raced to turn it in to the Lost and Found. Hold off on that bong for a minute or so; you’re good to go.

Lest you think it is awfully PollyAnna-ish of me to think that someone might have turned in a wallet with loot in it, I can only say simply enough, that had I found a comparable item, I would have turned it in. I could no more have kept it-and the money-than I could have donned wings and flown around above Oracle Park, no matter how high I get off of the Sour Strawberry I have been hammering all morning.

Sadly, no such item had been turned in, leaving me to surmise that I had dropped it in the parking lot, a most fortuitous turn of events for some transient. I can at least say I did my part to help out those in need this winter, regardless of the circumstances leading up to my generosity. 

Luckily, in light of subsequent events, I can now think of the loss of my wallet as a well-timed investment in my own needy status. Rather than losing three hun from my wallet, I was gaining $695.00, putting me clearly in the black.

Presently, however, I was close to getting seasick from the carnival ride Mark Vader had me on, following his dizzy cursor, while performing tech tasks that defied explanation. At least, at that moment, they defied explanation. I would find out the sad truth a little later on from Joe, my DH, or Designated Hero. 

Meanwhile, Mark had me open Safari, not my normal mode of transportation, and then directed me to perform a series of tasks that conveniently locked him into the driver’s seat, even more solidly than ever. I was merely a tool in his hands, the paint brush with which he used to create his corrupt canvas. 

I should have taken my Dramamine…

“You have no credit cards, Sir? Not a problem, not a problem, Sir. Do you have a bank-withdrawal card, Sir?”

Ha, ha. Are you out of your fucking mind? Ha, ha…

“I don’t. Dang.” I did not go into the sordid history of why I did not have a bank card; whose business was it, anyway? Besides, I still maintain that none of that mess was not my fault-well, not completely, anyway. And even if it was my fault, and I’m not admitting anything, it was none of Darth Mark Vader’s business. 

Mark pressed on, valiantly, “Not a problem, not a problem,” he assured me, obviously unaware of exactly whom it was that was on the other end of the phone. His assurances sounded sincere, especially to my naive ears. Luckily, once again, I saved him face by informing him that my wife had a credit card, and that moreover, she had a bank withdrawal card too. 

I could feel Mark’s bonhomie bounce back, and rejoiced for all of two seconds, until he asked, “Can you get your wife’s credit card?”

“Dude, sorry! She’s not here.”

“Not a problem, Sir, not a problem. Can you call her and get the number?”

“I can’t; she’s in the hospital over in Sacramento. There is no way I can get ahold of her until tonight,” I explained, starting to worry that I was going to drop the ball. 

“I see, Sir, I see. Not a problem. You have no license, no credit cards, no bank withdrawal card and your wife is not available.”

“That about sums it up,” I agreed.

“Can you borrow the money?”

“Well, sure I can borrow the money. What then? I still don’t have a way to get the money to you.” What did this guy want me to do, drive an hour to Willits?” Laugh the fuck out loud.

“You could get in your car and drive to get a money order.” 

SAY WHAT, MOTHER-FUCKER?

“Dude, that is never going to happen. I do not do cars. But I know we can make this happen-we have to!”

We just have to think. That, and maybe pack the bong with a little Ogre Berry, for inspiration-I mean, of course, for clarity’s sake.

Next: The Designated Hero