It's Not a Teen Drama, I Swear
Jul. 25th, 2003 11:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ursulaMore about Johnny Wu. Strangely teenage, but I suppose hacking has never been advertised as the road to quick maturity. I am stealing from William Gibson by stealing my heading from the Velvet Underground.
Johnny Wu's grandmother came to America when she was nineteen, a couple of years after China finally decided to demonstrate that it was more of a bitch than the US could ever be, no really, and invaded Taiwan. She ended up on a hippie commune in Montana. Johnny has never been sure why. That is, he understands the Montana part just fine: everyone knows the United States has a concerted policy of shipping refugees to places no actual American would ever want to visit for more than two weeks of scenic vacation. (Or not so scenic. It could have been worse. It could have been Kansas.) Anyway, Johnny has never known what to think about the hippie bit. Sometimes he thinks his grandmother was impressed that some long-haired American chick could quilt and bake bread. And sometimes he wonders if there was a long-haired hippie who was into Zen, maybe picked up some Chinese somewhere. Certainly his grandmother talks way more about yin-yang and cosmic balance in English than she ever does in Chinese, at least as far as he can tell with his seriously fourth-grade comprehension level, which is not at all bad for some third-gen kid with the tips of his hair dyed silver, but not nearly enough to know what his grandmother is yelling about half the time.
Johnny is thinking about this, because he is hunting for red lacquer boxes. The virt kind, not the real kind. He is planning to make a whole long nested set of them, and then post really arrogant remarks about the Secret Inside on some messageboard or other. The arrogance is crucial. Johnny has heard that one of the best ways to find an AI is to act like you think if one existed, it would have the brains of an autistic two-year-old. Then it will get all pissed (or competitive or however it is AIs get) and try to show you up.
But it has to look like a real puzzle. And part of that, in this sorry overengineered age, means super-realistic graphics.
Johnny is trying to rub a nick in the edge of a floating lacquer box when he hears a bing! His system is trying to forward him an honest-to-goodness phone call. He hopes this doesn't mean he's forgotten about one of those damn tuition loans, or something. Johnny is not accustomed to phone calls. He sighs and reaches for the blue frog icon.
"Yeah?" he says.
"Look, I'm really sorry about this, but . . ." It is a girl. She is breathing in that super-fast raspish way that means she is about to burst into tears.
"I think you have the wrong number?" says Johnny.
"Uh . . . This is Johnny, right?"
"Yeah."
"This is Mandy. You remember . . . I'm so sorry about this, but is there any way I could crash at your place tonight?"
"WHAT?" says Johnny.
"I have a sleeping bag." She sniffs. "I won't be any trouble."
"You can't! I live in a box!"
"That's OK, really. It's . . ." and now she is crying for real. Johnny is surprised his icon has not become damp and slobbery. "I just got home, and . . . Darren was here with Sammi. Doing . . . stuff. Sammi's supposed to be my best friend! And I don't have anywhere to go!"
Johnny is not sure why this is his problem. But it is a girl crying at him. He is sure that in cases like these you are supposed to make tea and pat them on the shoulder or something, not let the squirming blue frog hop away and stare at red boxes. Which is too bad. Johnny likes boxes.
"OK!" he says. "Just . . . I'll meet you at the bus stop, OK? Number 577, at 28th St."
Mandy sniffs. Johnny hangs up, and lets the boxes slide together, and jacks out. His box seems dull and dark, even with all the shiny foil.
Johnny wonders what will be worse, explaining his grandmother to Mandy, or explaining a girl to his grandmother.
Johnny Wu's grandmother came to America when she was nineteen, a couple of years after China finally decided to demonstrate that it was more of a bitch than the US could ever be, no really, and invaded Taiwan. She ended up on a hippie commune in Montana. Johnny has never been sure why. That is, he understands the Montana part just fine: everyone knows the United States has a concerted policy of shipping refugees to places no actual American would ever want to visit for more than two weeks of scenic vacation. (Or not so scenic. It could have been worse. It could have been Kansas.) Anyway, Johnny has never known what to think about the hippie bit. Sometimes he thinks his grandmother was impressed that some long-haired American chick could quilt and bake bread. And sometimes he wonders if there was a long-haired hippie who was into Zen, maybe picked up some Chinese somewhere. Certainly his grandmother talks way more about yin-yang and cosmic balance in English than she ever does in Chinese, at least as far as he can tell with his seriously fourth-grade comprehension level, which is not at all bad for some third-gen kid with the tips of his hair dyed silver, but not nearly enough to know what his grandmother is yelling about half the time.
Johnny is thinking about this, because he is hunting for red lacquer boxes. The virt kind, not the real kind. He is planning to make a whole long nested set of them, and then post really arrogant remarks about the Secret Inside on some messageboard or other. The arrogance is crucial. Johnny has heard that one of the best ways to find an AI is to act like you think if one existed, it would have the brains of an autistic two-year-old. Then it will get all pissed (or competitive or however it is AIs get) and try to show you up.
But it has to look like a real puzzle. And part of that, in this sorry overengineered age, means super-realistic graphics.
Johnny is trying to rub a nick in the edge of a floating lacquer box when he hears a bing! His system is trying to forward him an honest-to-goodness phone call. He hopes this doesn't mean he's forgotten about one of those damn tuition loans, or something. Johnny is not accustomed to phone calls. He sighs and reaches for the blue frog icon.
"Yeah?" he says.
"Look, I'm really sorry about this, but . . ." It is a girl. She is breathing in that super-fast raspish way that means she is about to burst into tears.
"I think you have the wrong number?" says Johnny.
"Uh . . . This is Johnny, right?"
"Yeah."
"This is Mandy. You remember . . . I'm so sorry about this, but is there any way I could crash at your place tonight?"
"WHAT?" says Johnny.
"I have a sleeping bag." She sniffs. "I won't be any trouble."
"You can't! I live in a box!"
"That's OK, really. It's . . ." and now she is crying for real. Johnny is surprised his icon has not become damp and slobbery. "I just got home, and . . . Darren was here with Sammi. Doing . . . stuff. Sammi's supposed to be my best friend! And I don't have anywhere to go!"
Johnny is not sure why this is his problem. But it is a girl crying at him. He is sure that in cases like these you are supposed to make tea and pat them on the shoulder or something, not let the squirming blue frog hop away and stare at red boxes. Which is too bad. Johnny likes boxes.
"OK!" he says. "Just . . . I'll meet you at the bus stop, OK? Number 577, at 28th St."
Mandy sniffs. Johnny hangs up, and lets the boxes slide together, and jacks out. His box seems dull and dark, even with all the shiny foil.
Johnny wonders what will be worse, explaining his grandmother to Mandy, or explaining a girl to his grandmother.