Read Online The View From Penthouse B by Elinor Lipman - Free Book Online

yelled from down the hall, “Write something!”
    I typed Maybe he’s bribing the guards for better food!
    HardUp wrote w $$ he stol & hid!
    I could see that no one proofread what he wrote and there was a shorthand I should learn. A visitor named SadDad added a string of symbols that I took to be epithets, then exited, signaled by a cute little sound effect of a door hinge squeaking.
    Margot yelled, “You can leave now!”
    I typed, in the spirit and letter of the culture, have 2 go . But I didn’t leave. I kept reading.
    Alone @ last wrote HardUp.
    Anyone w/ u? Margot wrote back.
    Jess asleep was his answer.
    What about Thur? Margot wrote.
    Can’t wait HardUp wrote back.
    Who was HardUp, who was Jess, and who was Thur? I couldn’t ask Margot because she’d know I was spying and eavesdropping. But this much I could deduce on my own: HardUp and Margot met alone in cyberspace more often than I or any other chatter knew.
     
    Inevitable, I suppose, given the way romance germinates in this century, that Margot would attract admirers among her following. Luckily, she introduced the subject by asking the next evening, over turkey meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and carrot coins, if we thought it was a bad precedent to have coffee with a person she’d met in a chat room.
    “Depends on which chat room,” said Anthony.
    “Mine. Where else would I be?”
    “Man or woman?” he asked.
    “Man. At least I think so.”
    “Which screen name?” I asked.
    “HardUp.”
    “No clue there,” said Anthony, with a wink for me.
    “Does he have a real name?” I asked.
    “Roy.”
    “He asked you out for coffee in front of everyone else?”
    “He did ask, but in a private box. That thing that Anthony helped me set up.”
    “IM,” Anthony explained.
    “He could be a serial killer,” I said.
    “Thank you, Grandma,” Margot said.
    Anthony said, “You and I could go with her and sit at the next table like undercover agents.” He smiled. “Or we can sit in the squad car, and Margot can wear a wire.”
    Before I could think of a comeback that demonstrated I was less of a wet blanket and perpetual Victorian widow than I was being portrayed as, Anthony added, “It’s not too different from Match.com or Nerve or OkCupid, sending perfect strangers out into the world.”
    I said there were professional standards to consider. If the others found out Margot was dating one of their own, they’d think she was playing favorites. There might be some hurt feelings.
    “What dating and what others?” she asked.
    I reached back and came up with “SadDad.”
    “Hmmm. Let me see. HardUp versus SadDad?” said Anthony. “No contest.”
    Margot said, “I can see that no matter how many times I say ‘Roy,’ you two are going to enjoy calling him by his screen name.”
    “Which says a lot about a person,” I argued.
    “Have you ever laid eyes on this guy?” Anthony asked.
    “He e-mailed me a photo so I’d recognize him at Starbucks,” she said.
    “And?” asked Anthony.
    “And what?”
    “Good-looking?”
    “I didn’t form an opinion.”
    Anthony said, “Translation: butt ugly.”
    “I’m sorry I brought this up,” said Margot.
    “Did you ever talk to him?” I asked. “I mean live. On the phone?”
    “Once.”
    “Who called whom?”
    “He called me. But it wasn’t a personal call. He asked—sort of joking—if anyone in the five boroughs wanted to buy Girl Scout cookies, and if so, send an e-mail to thus and such address. I wrote him to say that I fully supported Girl Scouts and sold their cookies myself throughout my childhood, but it would be best not to use the website for commercial gain. He felt bad about violating the rule, so he called. I mean, I’m listed. You don’t need a gumshoe to find me.”
    “Why is he selling Girl Scout cookies?” Anthony asked.
    “His daughter is, so he’s helping. Nowadays, parents get involved. You know this phenomenon, right? Helicopter parents? Hovering over every little