Greta

It’s hard to describe a friend that you knew only through text on a computer screen, communicating through E-mails and message boards and instant messengers like high-speed pen pals. That world, the on-line world, is an interesting place where things don’t have to be as they seem, and one person can be three different people if they so choose— and none of them actually have to be who they really are. A fifteen-year-old boy could pretend to be something as simple as 18 or as strange as a 25-year-old woman looking for a boyfriend. Those are the simple lies, the ones that might make the frequent visitor to these places blink and scratch their head, wondering why their friend Tammy had lied to them for so long about being a boy named Nick. There are other things that you can hide in the world of the net: dangerous personality quirks, that you’re married, or that your some form of a predator. These dangers exist in that world, but not everything there is sand paper and saw blades and masks. Sometimes you’ll find yourself face to face with a diamond, uncut and unpolished, but a diamond nonetheless, a person who seems at any moment could surprise you with a shocking revelation about themselves because they just seem too nice to be real. Odds are that revelation will show up eventually. Everyone has those scratches and masks, but it’s in the on-line world where those clues your own body gives off without you being aware aren’t able to serve their purposes. So they maintain this odd sense of goodness that’s not quite right but not quite shakable either. Greta was one of those people, one of those eternal oddities.

It was a strange meeting, brought about by the culmination of various events. I had started to watch a show called “Tenchi Muyo,” a title which, if I remember correctly, meant “Nobody Needs Tenchi.” It was a bad show, but I liked it at the time. I was sixteen, fat, with a stupid haircut that always parted too prominently, and the fashion sense of a muskrat. I wore jeans and blank, black tee-shirts, not for any statement of emotional sadness, but because, at that time, once you reached a certain size, you’re choices in apparel dropped drastically. This show, Tenchi, was about that, in a sense. It was a show about a dorky guy, a loser, who suddenly, like a gift or curse from Aphrodite, had several women become interested in him. It was a romantic comedy at heart, and I enjoyed the sense of hope it gave me that one-day someone would like me. But, that’s only relevant so far as to connect one strange event to another. I never liked Greta in that way.

Through my various on-line connections I learned of another show, which I now view as equally dull, but at the time it was mentioned and later held my interest for a long period of time. This show was called “Ranma ½”. I had heard the name before, but until someone connected it to Tenchi, I had no desire to watch it. Ranma was a strange show, another romantic comedy, filled with martial arts and magical pools of water hidden somewhere in China that would curse people to take different forms depending on what temperature water they came into contact with. The title character, Ranma, a male, would become a female when splashed with cold water and revert back when splashed with hot. That was an interesting idea, but it didn’t really provide real reason for me to watch. And the first episode I saw was simply filled with the most arrogant and stupid people I had ever seen. The show bugged me, except for two characters. The near blind Chinese man named Mousse, and the rather angry Chinese lady, Shampoo. These names seem to sum up the randomness of the show.

So, my curiosity piqued, I sat down in my little red chair, in front of the computer and grabbed my mouse; the Internet was waiting. I typed the two characters’ names into a search engine, prepared to wade through all the pages on hair care and proper grooming, and though they came in pairs of twos and threes, it was still far easier to find a site on the show than I felt in should be. Second on the list, words blue against Yahoo’s white, a site whose name I cannot remember sat, it called out to me with its simple name (I do remember the title included the characters’ names), and there I was. The page had turned black with red letters, a gothic theme that fit my feelings of the show. The site was strange. There were stories here and art drawn about these characters. I explored the site, finding some interesting stuff in those pictures and stories. The site became on of the places I frequented often. It was through this site that I met Greta, but I can’t remember when I actually met her. Was it during one of the chats in the site’s chat room with Dana (The owner of the site) and her friend Lindsey (My eventual beta)? Or did our meeting wait until there was a message board that I visited often, where we all typed and talked randomly about the show, the fiction, the art, and our lives, on a board colored in pastel orange and green.

Eventually, though, we did meet. I can’t remember mine and Greta’s first conversation. At the time, I don’t think I expected anything of it. I was sixteen, sullen, and secluded. I wasn’t prone to much more talking than was necessary, as if I were saving my words, a trait which has probably led to my wordiness now. Greta was fourteen, and lived in the Philippines, or perhaps she turned fourteen while we were friends. Somehow, the two of us ended up exchanging screen names for our Yahoo Instant Messenger account (a computer program that allows one to type back in forth in a conversation that mimics life). Emoticons, icons in the shape of smiles, frowns or other expressions of emotion, become necessary, and the clicking of the keys ^ _ ^ to form a happy smile became almost second nature to me. It was my nod, a way of saying I’m listening but don’t really have anything to say yet, which was a use that annoyed Dana to no end, but I don’t believe Greta minded.

Our friendship began like others, a short conversation here and a small one there. It was hard to find a time when we both could easily be on-line, because I lived in the United States and she lived half way across the globe in the Philippines. We were separated by a thirteen-hour time difference, which meant that when I was on-line she was either asleep or at school and vice-versa. But we would catch each other sometimes. During these conversations, we exchanged pleasantries. We talked about our schools and our workloads. I chuckled that I had such easier classes than she did, but perhaps that was actually a bad thing. We exchanged names. I gave her mine, my middle one since my father is called by my first name, and she gave me her nickname— Greta. It had been given to her at a young age, and the haze of my memory wants to say it was her grandfather that did it, but perhaps it was her mother. I remember that she hated her real name, and that she found it funny that her initials were DMV. She used to joke about that. This part of our friendship was that part that is the most obscured in the fog of my mind. I was very different then, and I can’t help but wonder what Greta is like now. I don’t even think I knew what she looked like, but I can imagine her. She would probably be shorter and a little pudgy but nowhere near fat. Her black hair would hang low, perhaps a little bit past the shoulder blades, up higher if she tied it into a ponytail. Her eyes would be dark, covered by (If I remember correctly) a pair of glasses. And her smile would be huge and bright. Those were simple ideas that came from my own simple, childish mind. But, they fit. Greta was a warm and friendly person, the one who was quick to complement and slow to show anger.

She loved Playstation RPGs and she was always talking about her father. He was in the American Navy and was often serving time overseas, generally being stationed in Japan. She missed him dearly, but he called often, and when he did finally return home from his tour of duty, he always brought the family gifts. He brought her anime (hand drawn cartoon television shows made in Japan) and those games she liked so much. Those very games were often the biggest topic of our conversations. I was, still am, a huge gamer. That’s a simple term given to one who plays games. A person who plays free games on-line or solitaire on the computer, or just plays rarely would earn the title of casual gamer. Greta fell into the third reason for being a casual gamer. Her schoolwork was tough and piled high almost the entire time school was in session. As a result, she had little free time with which to play, aided by the fact that her mother took the power cords and hid them during the semester. But even without the constant playing, we still had a lot to talk about on the games we had played. She told me often about the rampant piracy in her country as a result of the poor economy. And by that I don’t mean the average person on the street guzzles grog, wears a cutlass and ragged clothes, has an eye patch and peg leg, or even has a parrot that they would keep with them on wooden ships as they seek plunder by cannon point. No, the piracy she spoke of had more to do with culturally accepted, though illegal, back rooms, hidden in normal stores. Where a person could buy a burned, or copied, video game, CD, or movie. The games, which often sold for fifty dollars in the storefront, could be bought for five in these back rooms, and a CD might go for a buck or two. She as well, took part in this culture. It was the only practical way to have access to those kinds of entertainment.

But she had other ways of amusing herself during the semester. She was still allowed to watch her shows, but more importantly, she was allowed to write. And she did, she wrote several little stories for the fan site through which we had met. Dana, who I was talking to more and more at the time, had grown lazier (At least, in respect to that project) and had stopped updating as frequently. So, most of Greta’s stories appeared on the sites message board. There, many others and myself would discuss the little stories we would write. They were short; the chapters might sometimes only be a thousand words, two if the person was really in the groove, and there was no guarantee that the writer would even proof read the story for errors, which could lead to many sad but humorous mistakes (like, when one writer had a man take hold of a woman’s waste rather than her waist). Most of us who frequented the board at least, looked over it— once. I can’t speak for the others, but at that time, and even a little bit now, I was not ready for the rigors of writing and proofreading a piece to make sure it worked; worked right and worked beautifully. My stories were quickly placed on the page and quickly posted. I was seeking praise more than anything. But Greta really wrote. Her work lacked many of the errors of the others, and this made hers seem better by comparison. Soon writing, or rather, these fictions became the main topics of our discussion. I had no explanation for my own interests in these things yet, but she had a particular idea of what she most wanted to see happen between the two characters. She was a hopeless romantic, and most of her pieces were more about that than other topics. But even in that there was one thing she wanted. She wanted the man to be wounded in combat, and the lover, or rather potential lover, to nurse the wounded back to health. During this period, the two would fall in love.

It was simple stuff, but it was what she enjoyed. She loved playing with thwarted pride, and watching the wounded man doing things because of his pride that made his wounds worse, and the worse the wound the better. Like at one time, she was reading a story about a man named Fei, who’d been slashed across the stomach. The woman, whose name escapes me, who was tending to him was a doctor, and had told him that if he moved too much his wounds would reopen. Fei did as she ordered for a few days, but eventually, the memory of his defeat had stirred his pride and his anger to the point where he could no longer take it. Greta told me, he went outside, trained hard, reopened his wound and collapsed. She had loved it. At the time, I had been confused. I commended his spirit, but there was still the confusion, not because of what he had done, but that a scene that seemed to have an ironic sense of power or deep emotional impact had been described in terms of how cute it was. The way she explained it then, always made it sound reasonable at the time, but soon I would forget how she explained it and return once more to not understanding why it was cute.

These were the majority of our first conversations— simple and easy. There was nothing life altering about them in any way, unless you counted the importance of making a new friend. But soon these conversations had run their course, and we found we had less and less to say to each other. We’d talked out the subject of our games, of our shows, of our societies, and of our stories, we even went so far as to create our own ninja clan. Greta loved ninjas. I mean she really liked them, which was something I was completely unaware of until she randomly asked me a question.

“If you were a ninja, what weapon would you use?” she typed.

“Katana,” I replied without thinking. “You?”

“A whip. :)"

“Uh,” I typed, trying to recreate a dramatic pause. “Ninjas don’t use whips.”

“Mine does.”

I shook me head at that, I’m sure of it, but I left it alone. That was the birth of the Phoenix ninja clan, lead by Crow (my chat name) and Greta. We had fun with that for a while, and it helped to slow the coming collapse of our conversational skills, but it could not prevent us from running out of things to say.

We always talked on Saturdays, and I can remember waking up at six in the morning, rolling out of my bed (Literally, since I slept by choice on just a mattress and box springs), grabbing my leopard print comforter, and plopping down in our ratty, old, red chair that sat in front of the computer desk. I would often see the dawn or at least the period right after in those days. I have always been more of an early riser, but it was more to talk to her than anything else that got me up that early. I enjoyed those early morning conversations; the glass of water, the early morning little snack, the cat curled up in a ball in my lap and a story of some kind to read. My mind worked best in the mornings then, much better than it does now. And even though our conversations were fading away, this ritual still continued. Our last topic had been her stories. She’d been wondering where to take it. I myself had stopped writing again. I had written two small stories and had just not found the act of placing my imagination onto paper all that thrilling. It was dull, slow work, hunting and pecking for the ‘A’ key among the myriad of random symbols, letters, numbers, and squiggles.  But we were still able to talk about her stories for a time.

However, one morning, we had nothing to say. There were long pauses and gaps in our conversation that made it awkward and my mind began to hunt rapidly for something interesting to talk about— But no topic chosen created more than a line or two of dialogue. It was a play whose actors had forgotten the lines, and I, like a fledgling stage presence, could feel the growing tension from the crowd of my mind. I knew I had to think of something. I just didn’t know what.

“Hey,” She typed, “tell me a story.”

I’m sure I was confused. I probably stared at the screen for a few moments, my head tilting to the side like a Great Dane. I know I would have raised my floppy ears up if I could, but my ears are not that long, so I just ended up squinting at the screen, reading the line over and over again, trying to come up with an adequate response.

“Wha?” was my snappy reply.

I wonder if she laughed at that, but I can never know.

“You’re a better writer than I am. J,” she typed.

I know I laughed at that. My confidence in myself has never been stellar and even if I thought something was ok, my self-effacing sense of humor did nothing to help that sliver of confidence shine through.

“You have read my stuff, right?” I asked. “You should know I’m about as good at this as a fat kid in a limbo contest.”

I was fat at the time and unhealthy, and had taken part in a limbo contest when I was younger. It was another jab at myself, but only I could know that.

“You can come up with ideas much quicker.”

I had no argument to that. I did often come up with little ideas for her story or one of my own little mental projects often on the spur of the moment. I probably typed what I’d hoped was a muttered and subdued ‘Yeah,’ but there’s no way to convey that in text.

“So, tell me a story.”

“Right now?”

“Yep.”

“Ok.”

It took a moment, and I began pulling things from everywhere. I remembered in that instance a character from a game I loved. His name was Rei. He was a thief who dressed in an Arabian style and fought using twin daggers and his speed. I loved the name. I had looked it up once and found out that the name in Japanese meant ‘ghost’ or ‘nothing.’ I was tempted to use that kind of character, but as much as I loved thieves, this story was not for me. I was telling this story for Greta, and I wanted her to enjoy it. So, I began taking the things she loved and rolling them into a narrative. I still kept the name Rei, but he wasn’t a thief— he was a ninja. This choice was made in the blink of an eye because of Greta’s love for ninjas. It was often a ninja who played the main character in those wounded stories she loved so much.

The story started out simple enough, and to tell the truth, I really didn’t expect this to be more than a one time thing, so I didn’t bother thinking about clichés or continuity errors. The story started in the middle of the action, and if I had to set the stage, it’d be 30 miles south west of Edo in Japan during the warring states period. The scene was a road running along a rice paddy. It was near dawn; the first rays of the sun were just beginning to make themselves known. These were details that I gave to myself later to make sense out of the first scene. The true beginning had nothing to do with the scenery and was concerned more with action. It was a bandit raid. They had appeared suddenly, launching a volley of arrows at a passing convoy, before charging in. Rei was one of the main guards. He fought hard, his katana (though I now know that that is not the sword of a ninja) glimmering in the morning sun, but he could not protect his objective, his princess. When I first told the story, I didn’t have a reason for where the princess was going or why Rei was her guard. It wasn’t really important at the time. The importance was that Rei loved her, had failed to protect her, and had been wounded badly in the process. I can remember he struggled for a while after the bandits had fled. Gasping for air and clutching at the slash across his chest, he stumbled towards her dead body, his vision fading in and out, until finally, he collapsed into the mud.

Soon, he was found by a farmer’s daughter who brought him back to her home. Her name was Sakura. It was a name Greta and I argued over. I wanted the name because I liked it, and she didn’t because it was too normal a name in Japan; it was like naming a boy John, she had told me, simple and there were countless others. I’m sure she won the argument, but I can’t remember the new name. So, she was, and always will be, Sakura. It was just the kind of story Greta wanted. Rei was prideful and dark, thirsting for vengeance against the bandits that had stolen from him the woman he loved.  And Sakura was warm and nurturing, and very, very patient.  

I had expected that to be that. One quick, thoughtless story, spilling out in an instant from keyboard to our screens and taking up space in the Instant Messenger box, but more and more Greta began asking me to continue the story from where I left off. Every time, we talked was now a story time and I was the old man sitting on the log, propped up against his cane, while she was the children, gathered around and listening to me.  It was strange, actually having someone listening, or rather reading, what I was writing, giving some form of feedback, but mostly just enjoying what I was writing. It was strange, and for the first time, I was actually enjoying what I was writing, because I was enjoying writing. I began to look forward to those chats, and plan ahead. The story became less and less simple, as I added more and more pieces to the puzzle. I planned out the back-story, I wrote some on Rei and the Princess’ life together as kids. I changed the bandit raid from a simple attack to a planned attack designed to spark a war. Eventually, I didn’t even need to be chatting with her to write. When I went on vacation I would write in the mornings on my laptop, even though I had no way to show it to her until I got back.

This was the last period of our friendship. It wasn’t because we had a falling out. No, it was that after several months, one of my good friends, Dana wanted me to start using a different Instant Messenger service. So, I switched, and less and less did I talk to Greta. We exchanged e-mails a few more times, but soon even that stopped. Perhaps, she’s forgotten me now, and truthfully, I wouldn’t blame her if she had. It was a friendship that lasted only a few months, but it was one that meant the world to me, because it was Greta who taught me that writing was fun, and that through my stories I could bring some form of joy to others. And that’s why I really started writing, truly writing, in the first place.