“In my dream, we went to MasterBlog, and she introduced me to her friends.”

“How?” It was the only thing I could get out, but the question it asked, spoke volumes.”

He let smoke breeze from his mouth, but didn’t say anything …

“Ego-One,” he finally said, sipping on his drink – “at the time they were the only ones that had it; our scientists were years away from developing it, and of course when they finally did, it was nothing like theirs. I’d heard of them of course, like everyone else. ‘MasterBlog, and their Ego thing’ was the rage at the time. I’d read extensively about both, especially the Ego thing, but I wasn’t consumed by it like some were, and whether to believe it or not - was unimportant to me.”

“So, I said, you didn’t dream about them; you actually experienced an event?”

“Why you?” I added when he didn’t say anything.

“Because we’re the same; I just came later.”

When he didn’t continue I recessed into myself, realizing that the music had stopped at some point, which made it easy to pick up on the conversation of the couple next to me, who were discussing the merits of an upcoming election; I watched four young women, very early twenties was my guess, move slowly by us, all with drinks and all laughing at something. Pretty normal stuff - which didn’t account for the surreal feeling I suddenly had; nor the equally sudden - calming one that followed on its heels.

“Another drink,” he asked me and as I was nodding, he was telling the bartender to “do it again,” waving his hand toward our glasses.

As the bartender set our drinks in front of us, wiping the bar with a towel, Frank said, “I’m from Mars, and in ‘phase one,’ but don’t bother to ask me what it means; all I know is what I know, and that is - that - I’m from Mars and in phase one, and C is in phase two.”

We both looked at the bartender, Frank’s gaze a wry observant one, my own a surprised one; the guy a solidly built man somewhere in his twenties never blinked, releasing the glasses in front of us with a smile, and like a liquid shadow, he vanished from our view.

“Why the ‘Mars’ remark, I asked, as I reached for my drink?”

“Just playing with him, seeing if he was paying attention to what we were saying.”

“So all that phase one, phase two stuff from Mars isn’t true?

“Supposed to be, least that’s what I’ve been told.”

“By C and her friends,” I asked?

“Yeah but you have to understand that - that type of talk isn’t something they’re big on.”

I nursed my drink realizing that I was on my way to getting drunk which wasn’t good; the Mars talk was not that much of a revelation to me, and I suspected that Frank had said it partly to get my reaction as well as the bartenders; anyway speculation about MasterBlog abounded everywhere, thousands of articles had been written about it. Everyone seemed to have a theory about them, and the most prevalent one was that “they had come from the stars,” more specifically… Mars.

“Stardust” – I said, finally putting a name to a vagabond thought in my head. Looking at Frank for a reaction I was a little surprised when he merely shrugged. Continuing, I said, “Stardust was what the bloggers were telling each other with the keyboard code, right?

“Yeah, Sampson and Micro-Burst kept working the code, and discovered that dust was being sent almost as often as star, thus, Stardust.”

“How did they connect it to …”

Picking up the ‘string’ Frank finished it for me, “to Ego-One?”

“Yeah,” I said, then after a pause, “that’s a big jump isn’t it?”

“Well for one thing,” he said, pausing to wipe some imaginary lint from the bar, “it took years to make the jump, there wasn’t anything instantaneous about it.”

The music started up again and the song that began playing was a familiar one to me, “In My Life, written and first recorded by the Beatles way back in the 1960’s, I said.” – pausing in my commentary, to take a leisurely sip of my drink.

Frank looked me and before my glass is to my lips he’s saying, “But this is Sean Connery’s version of it, the one where he ‘talked’ it. Done in 1998 or so I believe, a fantastic cut.”

“Are you a ‘Beatle’ fan, I asked while remembering the ‘wave of Beatlemanic 2’ that swept the country back in 2069, supposedly celebrating the 100th anniversary of one of their hits which would have been about the time of his encounter on the plane.

“Yes, but more in the ‘lyrics’ of their music than their singing, seems trite to say they were ahead of their time, but they were eons out in front.”

“Do you like this song for any particular reason?” I asked as the words began to roll over us, Mr. Connery’s voice rich and strong.

Instead of answering me - he’s into the song, saying the haunting words almost in perfect unison with Connery…

There are places I remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends
I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all

Stopping, he brushes his forehead with the back of his hand as he says, “yeah, great song. You know, he continues, I could of lived in those times; the 60’s, 70’s, even up to the turn of the century, but it was right about that time that everything went to shit, especially after 9-11.”

“Crappy times I say, my knowledge of the early 21st century pretty ‘thin’ except of course for the infamous 9-11.

“Yeah, they were,” he said, “C called them the sundown years.”

I tended my drink, dropping into my listening mode, as I watched him light another cigarette. His hands were worn and wrinkled, something one just didn’t see anymore; I could see ‘new’ little bristles – in his beard - making their late evening entrance.

“Sampson and Micro-Burst, he continued, were pushing for the meeting, while C was just barely convinced one was needed at all, and the rest of their group were solidly unconvinced of it. Even between the three of them, they were divided on where to meet; Sampson wanted Chicago while C wanted Dallas or Oklahoma City; Mirco-Burst said it didn’t matter, just ‘have’ the meeting. The reality of it ever happening seemed pretty far fetched, especially since they couldn’t seem to generate any real support for it.”

Shifting on his stool, Frank laughed a little as he began to pat himself down, looking for something in his pockets, probably his lighter which was sitting on the bar next to his cigarettes. I was about to point this out when he pulled another lighter from his shirt pocket, and looking at me, said, “but then C got hit by lightning.”

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
But of all these friends and lovers
there is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more

As I sat on the barstool waiting for Frank, swishing my drink and eyeing the mirror, a wave of melancholy made its way through me. The ‘melancholy thing’ didn’t bother me, we’d been acquaintances for years, it was the ‘more you live the faster you die’ phrase that came with it that created the pause in my mind.  I caught the eye of the guy behind the bar and gave him the sign for another round; I wasn’t quite ready to leave I guess.

 

The drinks were on the bar by the time Frank returned; he never said a word about leaving, just raised the glass at me in sort of a toast and took a drink. Taking his smokes out and putting them on the bar, he said, “I love a bar you know, the booze, the smoke, clinking glasses, people talking,” his voice lowering an octave as he added, ‘women.’ 

 

Looking at him I smiled in silent agreement, my eyes focusing on my drink while he continued talking, as his voice, slow, and cadenced in that way of his got into my mind - taking me to a place in his.

 

“It was a routine flight,” he was saying, “I was flying Boston to L.A., she was sitting across from me, and although I’d spoke to her when I sat down, conversation was not what I was looking for; it had been a long week and being able to be home for the holidays was all I was thinking of, except for the pleasant fact that I didn’t have to be back in Boston for at least a month.”

 

Taking a drink he added, “I needed the break.”

 

“I was twenty-five and working my first real job, he continued, she seemed to be in her sixties, or maybe early seventies, it was hard to tell; ‘makeovers’ were real popular back then.  Later I would remember everything, the smell of jet fuel mixed with leather and plastic from our cubicle, the electronic whine of the engine, and the clatter and bustle of the other passengers, but at the time I was just plain tired, which might of caused my mood. It was a reflective mood, and as my mind languished in that land of inner perspective, I was thinking of a friend of mine who had died a few years previously. We had grown up in the same town and when graduation came and went, I ended up going to college while he decided to travel in Europe. He’d died there a few months later; skiing into a tree at top speed.” 

 

So, I wasn’t paying much attention; and at first I thought she was talking to someone else, until her gaze settled on me, and though I didn’t know what she’d said, I nodded in that condescending way, the young will do sometimes when talking to older people.”

 

Are you agreeing with me? She said, smiling.

 

“Uh, well actually I didn’t hear what you said,” I told her, noticing that she was an uncommonly attractive woman regardless of her age.

 

Looking at me he brushed his hand on the side of his face saying, “you know how it is.”

 

I just smiled, silently urging him on.

 

“She had a petite build which appeared firm, ink black hair a tad longer than fashionable for a lady of her age. Modern technology had erased any wrinkles she might of acquired in her life, and I remember wondering how much of her was anochrume and plastic.”

 

“Anyways, she just looked at me and said, What I said right before you nodded agreement, was that I – oh well, let’s forget what I said back there, flapping an arm behind her as if something was there other than the heavy-set man asleep in the seat. Then…. It’s in the past, not much we can do with it now - is there?

 

“No, I guess not, I told her,” playing along, as I reclined my seat getting ready for my usual flight-long nap.

 

Of course you know, the ‘past’ is all we have; seems a shame we let it go so easily.

 

I asked her what she meant by that, and she shrugged while saying, Oh I don’t know, it just seems that we humans are always looking toward the future, when actually our lives are embedded in the past, in fact, the ‘future’ just by being ‘in the future’ is nothing to us, while the past is ‘everything.’

 

It was then that I noticed for the first time a strange fierceness in her eyes; eyes so green I couldn’t believe I’d missed them before. 

 

We, she continued, fail to realize that all we have is what we have now, plus what we are left with when the ‘now’ is gone, which of course is the past.

 

I must admit now as I tell you this, that at the time my interest in the old lady was at a bare minimum, and all I really wanted to do was to get some sleep, so, even though I tried to be polite and listen to her, I drifted off to sleep and in no time it seemed I was awakened by the onboard announcement that we had landed and would be disembarking momentarily from the plane.  I did notice that she wasn’t in her seat but that wasn’t unusual since ‘assigned seats’ had long ago ended, and I never gave her another thought as I got off the plane and headed toward the terminal gate hoping that Suzanne, my girlfriend, would be there waiting for me.

 

He worked a cigarette from the pack, but didn’t light it, just turned it over and over in his hand, staring at something or somebody at the other end of the bar, while I remained silent, and expectant.

 

“It was odd,” he said, letting a couple of beats go by before continuing, “Susanne was a few minutes late but I didn’t care; we made it to her place in record time, had great sex and were asleep before midnight.”

 

When he didn’t say anything, I finally broke the silence with, “what was odd?”

 

Putting the cigarette in his mouth, he smiled at me, “that night was the first time I dreamed of her.”

 

“Suzanne,” I said?

 

“No…. I dreamed about the old lady on the plane.”

 

I just stared at him, not knowing exactly what to say.

 

“In my dream, we went to MasterBlog, and she introduced me to her friends.”

 

 

 

“Ever been off the Earth?”

 

“Neither of us said anything right then, but I swear in that moment – I felt the ground beneath my feet – shift.”

 

I said, “yeah, hasn’t everyone?”

 

Frank just looked at me and said, “hmm… are you kin to Prank?”

 

“No, but he's a friend of mine, do you know him?”

 

He studied me for a moment and then said, “kind of a funny sort of guy, reads and writes in code?”

 

“Yeah, that’s him, I replied.”

 

Frank just nodded, and said, “Where were we?”

 

“You’d just asked me if I’d ever been off the earth?”

 

“Yeah” he said, handing me a single-page brochure he had in his hand?

 

I took it, glancing at the bold letters which said, “Summer Moon Trip Special.”  Beneath those words were details of an upcoming Moon Trip that could be bought for $80,000 which wasn’t an outrageous price considering that five years ago the very same trip was going for over a quarter mill, but it was still too expensive for the average person.

 

Laying it down on the bar I looked at him and said, “no, I’ve always wanted to but never have been able to justify the expense.”  “How about you?”

 

He used the mirror behind the bar to look at me, and smiled as he shook his head in a negative fashion.

 

“For a moment I thought you might be proposing a trip somewhere off the earth,” I said looking back at him through the mirror.

 

When he didn’t say anything I turned on the stool and studied him for a second before asking him, “How old are you Frank?”

 

“Sixty-two,” he said.

 

“Well, I said, you hold your age well, you don’t look –“

 

“A day over sixty-two when you look closely,” he said, finishing my statement in a different way than I was intending to.

 

“Ok,” I said, and used the silence between us to motion to the bartender to bring another round of drinks.

 

We didn’t say anything to each other while waiting on the drinks, so again I used the pause for something else, this time to scan the room and check out the people in the bar.  It was semi-crowded I assumed for a Saturday night, pretty much equally split between the sexes, and very few couples.  There was a ‘buzz’ in the room that hinted at something I couldn’t quite place, maybe excitement, or anticipation, I wasn’t quite sure.

 

It was a “Retro Bar,” which might of explained it a little, ‘Retros’ always generated more excitement than the modern ones, those with ‘individual spaces” of modern music where the selection and volume was controlled by the customers in their own spaces. In fact Retros were quite popular these days mainly because they didn’t have that feature, this one specializing in a mix of music from the 1970’s to the 2010 era, and although the volume was a little louder than I was used to, we could still carry on a conversation.

 

After the new drinks arrived, I said, “So, Frank, tell me more about ‘Sampson.’

 

He paused before responding, seemingly listening to the intro of a song that I placed to be from the 80’s or 90’s; “I Want to Shake you Down,” a song I really liked although I had no idea of who was singing it.

 

“Sampson,” he repeated, slowly, as if he was concentrating on making sure of what he was getting ready to say.  “Sampson was as I’ve already told you, a blogger who spent many hours on the blogsite, reading, posting and generally taking it apart and putting it together again; he was quite popular, although somewhat of an ‘eccentric,’ in that he did spend so much time on the site.”

 

Pausing to light a cigarette he looked around the bar for the first time, and motioned with his head toward a ‘fiery red-headed waitress,’ and said, “What do you think?”

 

I looked at her; she was hard not to look at, built really well, prominent breasts, long legs, and an attitude that spoke volumes about how much fun it would be getting to know her better.

 

I said what I was thinking, “be nice to get to know her better.”

 

Frank smiled as he dragged from the cigarette, “that was Sampson’s weakness he said.

 

“Women” I said, and then adding, “that was the original’s weakness too wasn’t it?”

 

He laughed and said, “no, it was his hair, remember?”

 

“But, I said, it was a woman who cut it.”

 

“He shouldn’t of let her cut it.”

 

I let it go; content to let the conversation go wherever he wanted it to.

 

“Sampson was in his forties, Frank was saying, when he discovered the code, had been retired for several years, and at the time he was in his ‘single’ mode.”

 

“Been married before?” I said.

 

“Yeah, several times, he always said he could only get along with a mate for a few years and it was time to move on.”

 

“Anyway like I said, he was well into his forties when the code thing came along, and it proved to be very frustrating to him at the time.”

 

I didn’t say anything, just sipped on my drink, thinking how relaxed I seemed without my ‘relaxation device.’

 

“You need to understand how it was back then, he said, glancing around the bar again before continuing, none of the bloggers really knew each other, only a very few had actually met.  Most of them referred to themselves as ‘electronic ghosts,’ and except for some ‘unity factions’ they really had no collective connections, certainly like I said, only a few reality relationships.”

 

“So, what was causing Sampson’s frustration? I asked.

 

“He wanted a meeting.”

 

“A meeting, I repeated?”

 

“Yeah, he and ‘Micro-Burst,’ remember the other blogger?”

 

After I nodded in the affirmative, he went on, “Well after the code thing they began to push for a meeting.”

 

I swirled the liquid in my glass, waiting for him to continue.

 

Finally he said, “but outside of themselves they only had the support of a few of the bloggers, - C, Dalcrest, Lingreen, and A Jones Kind of Day, were the main ones, all of them ‘originals,’ with the exception of Dalcrest.”

 

Well I said, you’ve got six bloggers counting Sampson and Micro-Burst along with the last four you just mentioned, all but one, originals, and most of them I imagine with large followings, I don’t see the problem?”

 

“The problem, Frank said, was that of the four I just mentioned, ‘C’ was the only one who agreed that a meeting was necessary, and she had reservations about it.”

 

Draining the last of my second drink, I began to wonder about the setting, “you want to go back upstairs,” I said.

 

“Yeah, let me hit the bathroom first,” he said, getting up and quickly walking away toward the bathroom I presumed; leaving me with thoughts of ‘Sampson, Micro-Burst, C, Lingreen and the other two.

 

 

Stardust…

 

“What exactly do you mean by that,” I asked?

 

Turning and facing the window he said, “are you familiar with the theory that life originated not on Earth, but from another place, most likely Mars?”

 

“Yes, I say slowly, Panspermia, I believe is what it’s called.”

 

Still talking to the window he said, “The basic belief is that tiny spores, literally well preserved seeds of living organisms, can be trapped in asteroids and comets from their place of origin, and deposited on the surface of our planet via meteorites.”

 

“But, I say, meteorite showers happen all the time, and if you’re trying to tell me that these inhabitants of MasterBlog were the product of organisms from outer space… well, I’d have to say you’re asking me to really stretch  here.”

 

When he doesn’t say anything, I continue, “and how come it’s never happened before, and if it did happen in this instance, why with just a few people, why not hundreds, thousands, or millions?” 

 

“Edgar.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What’s the purpose of this interview?”

 

Before I could form an answer to his question, he answered it himself; “to hear the story of how MasterBlog came to be.”

 

I nodded, but didn’t say anything.

 

“I’m giving you that story, and remember what we discussed earlier about believing?

 

Again I nod.

 

“You said you would believe what I said ‘until’ it was proven false, so can you prove that what I’m trying to tell you is not true?”

 

“Of course I can’t, but let me ask you a question?”

 

“Ask away Edgar, he says.”

 

“Are you going to prove that it’s true?”

 

Smiling, he rubs his eyes with a finger and thumb, and peering through his fingers, he says, “what proof would you need?”

 

“I’d want to go to MasterBlog myself.”  The request was one I’d already decided I would ask at the right time, I just didn’t know that the ‘right time’ would come up so fast.  I also knew that nobody had ever been to MasterBlog; it was off-limits to the world.

 

“Done,” he said, after about a five second delay.

 

His answer set me back, literally on my heels, and for once in my life I was really, truly speechless.  I just shook my head in disbelief, and for a second or two thought about a drink.  It was inconceivable to me that he had granted my request, the idea of requesting it - had been to gain leverage in some other area - after being turned down.  The dawning that was now rising in my brain, that I would be allowed to go to MasterBlog, was like looking directly at the sun.  

 

“Edgar, he says, I know you think that I’m one of the originals but I’m not, I came along many years afterwards, and like you I doubted the words I was being told.”

 

“Until they took you to MasterBlog, I blurt out, and made a believer out of you.”

 

“Yes, that experience was all it took for me, as it will be for you also.”

 

“I need a break,” I said, standing.

 

“I seen a bar advertised, he said turning his thumb downwards for emphasis, on the 30^th floor, McGinnity’s I believe is the name, how about a drink?”

 

“Yeah I said, a drink would be appropriate for me right now, and laughing out loud I added, maybe a couple.”

 

On the ride down to the 30^th floor we ‘small-talked’ the weather, and some local political news, while we both admired the lanky blond who was in the cubicle with us.  I briefly wondered if she would get off at the 30^th but she remained in the cubicle as we got out, and by that time the music coming from the bar had me in its grip, and as I allowed myself to be drawn into its smoky arena, I remembered all the reasons I’d spent so much time in places like it, in my past.

 

Sitting at the bar on stools not unlike those of a hundred years ago, I marvel at how in these times of change, some things never changed, like real grass, dirt, a bar, and the moon and stars.

 

Frank is sipping his whiskey straight, while I’d ordered mine with water, my favorite way to drink. 

 

“How old are you Edgar,” he asks as he looks at the peanuts in the bowl in front of him.

 

Which makes me think of the old joke about ‘peanuts in an open bowl at a bar,’ but I spare him of hearing it for probably the thousandth time, and looking at him ‘in the mirror that is facing us,’ I answer, “thirty-seven next month.”

 

“Ever been off the Earth?”

 

Turning on my stool, I look at him directly.

 

Neither of us said anything right then, but I swear – in that moment – I felt the ground beneath my feet - shift.

 

After getting a small bottle of “Quista,” and returning to my chair, I’d put some music in the air; ‘Mr. Bojangles,’ an ancient track by the ‘Nitty Gritty Dirt Band,’ - music that most of my contemporaries didn’t listen to, had never listened to.  ‘The Nowhere Man’ had remained seated in his chair, declining my offer of something to drink, just smoking his cigarette and staring off into space.

 

“Do you recognize the song,” I ask him?

 

“Yeah, I remember it, he said, without looking at me, didn’t Dylan write it?”

 

“Maybe he did, I answered, all I know is that the “Nitty Gritty Dirt Band” made a fortune from recording it.”

 

“Is that who’s singing it,” he said, finally turning in my direction?

 

“Yeah.”

 

The silence between us stretched to almost a full minute before he said, “you can call me Frank if you like, instead of all that nowhere man stuff.”

 

“Frank” I repeated, looking at him inquisitively.

 

When he didn’t say anything, I shifted a little in my chair, sipping on my drink.

 

“Yeah, he said, returning his gaze back to the empty space, that’s my given name, ‘Kysar’ was my last name, never had a middle one.”

 

“So,” I say, emphasizing the ‘so,’ - “why all of sudden did MasterBlog allow this interview?”

 

“I don’t think we know actually,” …his voice trailing off to silence.

 

More silence.

 

“You know, he says, the connection between the keyboard thing and what happened, really turned out to be significant.”

 

When I didn’t respond, he went on, “it was the beginning of the group mentality thing."

 

“Ego-One,” I say, referring to the well-known process of combining many individual personalities into a single group mind, which MasterBlog had originated, and which to this day remained un-duplicated in it’s strength and ability to withstand any assault known to man.  “Untouchable” was the term used to describe MasterBlog’s unique version of Ego-One. 

 

“Yeah, he said, looking at me directly, the difference between our Ego-One and the others is the ‘link’ the world craves with all its might.”

 

“And you,” I begin…

 

“We know that is the purpose of all the interview requests, and I guess the reason we’ve agreed to this one, finally, is to try and put it to rest.”

 

“Can you blame us, really, I say to him, staring directly into his eyes?”

 

“Perhaps not, but at the same time, I know that if the world could – it would kill us all, and rob us of the gift.”

 

“You call it a ‘gift,’ yet, we know nothing about it, and as you say, the world seeks it, always has I might add, even before it was known that MasterBlog had it, so why is it that you can’t share it with the world?”

 

“The reason is in what you just said,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders, “it was a ‘gift’ and since we didn’t create it and can’t duplicate it, then it follows that we can’t share it, even if we wanted to, which we don’t.”

 

“Which, I say, is where the problem is, for the world doesn’t believe that.”

 

“Do you, he asks?”

 

“I don’t know, it’s like an enigma, there isn’t an answer that I could give for that question.”

 

“But, he says, holding up his forefinger, and waving it slowly in front of my eyes as if trying to hypnotize me, if your life depended on answering it correctly, what would you say?”

 

“Why is the answer to that - so important to you, I ask?

 

“What you believe is important to me, to this interview.”

 

“Does it, I say slowly, give credibility to the interview, perhaps a reason to continue it?”

 

“I will terminate this interview if your answer is - that you don’t believe what I tell you.”

 

“So, any doubt on my part is reason to terminate?”

 

“Yes, but that’s not as dictatory as it sounds, for your reward is the story, which is what you want, right?

 

“The end justifies all,” I say, as I roll my finger across the ‘relaxation button,’ while watching him watch me do it.

 

We stare at each other, and I can tell that he’s waiting for me to speak.

 

In my mind I know that the answer he wants me to give is rooted in a deeper meaning than all of this word play, and suddenly I realize that it will, indeed, determine whether or not the interview continues.

 

“I will commit to believing what you say until - when and if it’s - proven to be untrue.”

 

Nodding slowly, he leans back as if he’s digesting my answer, and then as if a decision has been made, he stands and walks over to the window in the corner, and says, “do you believe that the inhabitants of MasterBlog sprang to life from stardust?”