Fiction: The Browser

In my college days, I was a student looking for a reason to drop out more than to struggle to graduate. Reading for my degree meant reading Hugo-nominated Sci-Fi novels I bought at the University Bookshop, 15 minutes’ walk from my flat.

Back in my room, a used 16-bit Acorn sat on my desk. I had been poking about its software, trying to harness its vectors. Tutorials and assignments lay strewn by the sides of the walls. Things I wasn’t much interested in.

One day, over lunch on campus, a friend said to me,

Have you heard of the Web?

No, is it new?

It came from a defense research project, used to be called DarpaNet.

Cool. What’s so special about this “web”?

Come and see. Tonight we’ll be downloading something: a full web browser -the first one.

I leaned against the wall of the dorm room as 20 guys and their girlfriends stared at the glowing monitor -as the bytes trickled in and an antique-green spoked wheel appeared. There was a name below the graphic, Netsc- the rest was obscured by the crowd.

Are you Asian? came a sharp and husky voice from below

Yes, but I’m more from Australia.

She smiled, and led me to her room upstairs.

~ 

Her breasts were full. They pressed and rolled against my chest as we made love sitting on her bed. Her hair spinning through my fingers like the strings of a harp, down her back, down its curved wood frame.

Have you thought of what you’ll do when you drop out?

No, to be honest. I’m a mess.

Unfazed, she pressed down on me hard and I orgasmed.

Afterwards, as everyone lay sleeping, I went down to the 386DX humming away. There was, still running, the web browser, “Netsc-“. Someone’s page on marijuana open. But a stubby arrow labelled “back” took me through “The Terrorist’s Handbook” to a search screen, and I hesitated over the flat single-line text input box, fingers poised over the keys. I typed “writing advice” and clicked ‘go’. It was 2am.

I never went home to Malaysia. I used my college money to spend summer with the short, husky-voiced blond. Then we went backpacking across America where we both found blue collar jobs. Around the time I realized we weren’t able to hold onto one another, I submitted my first manuscript to Partridge. She stood there with her suitcase packed as I read out the editor’s enthusiastic acceptance letter. Then she left.

The newfangled Pentium75 on my desk purred as I scanned through dozens of web pages. I was able to open 3 browser windows before the memory ran low and the disk groaned under its load.

What’s the best way to be a writer? I was asked at the book signing.

The Internet’s a wonderful resource, I replied as I signed my latest book, “Netsc: My Writing Advice”

But to myself I chuckled softly. More like blondes, marijuana and juvenile delinquent street smarts. That night, all those years ago, my search had turned up nothing but nothing.