Network Psycho: The Bits Motel

The dark gothic inn had stood silently at the end of the road for more than 100 years. Travelers weary of long dusty days on horseback had once welcomed the sight of its sturdy wood and stone exterior. Many a famous pilgrim had spent a refreshing evening telling stories while basking in the warm glow of the huge fireplace.

With the passing years the wood had grown weary, losing much of its color and strength. Its surface had grown rough, leaving cruel reminders in any fingers careless enough to come too close. Many people believed that it had outlived its useful days. Lack of care, or perhaps merely the passing of the era to which the architecture belonged, gave the building a look that would be called desperation in a human being.

The car that stopped in front of the hotel was, if anything, in worse shape than the building, despite being 100 or so years younger. A young woman sat behind the wheel, looking at the building, then down to a piece of paper held tightly in her hand, and then back to the building.

Her eyes fixed finally for several moments on the sign that gently swayed above the door. Carved from a single wood block ages ago, the numbers "3174" marked forever the entrance to the establishment. Beneath the numbers she saw block blue letters, faded from years of exposure to the elements, that said "Bits Motel".

After checking to ensure that her car was properly parked, she turned the key and shut off the engine. Leaning forward and slightly to the right, she ran a quick brush through the thick black hair outlined in the tiny rearview mirror. Satisfied, the traveler opened the door, slid out of the car, and taking her overnight case from the trunk, moved toward the motel.

As she walked along the stone pathway toward the building, a puzzled frown spread slowly across her face. There was a six foot high white picket fence surrounding the motel. The stone path led up to the fence, but no gateway through it was evident. She stood a few feet from the rough wood posts and moved her small hands lightly over the boards, searching for a latch or hinges that might indicate an entrance.

Failing to find any, she slowly walked along the perimeter of the fence moving down the front, then the side, and around the back. The fence extended far enough to enclose the house next door to the motel as well. She swung around the side of the house, and to its front, still unable to find a way in. The house was newer than the motel, but its weather beaten exterior was no better maintained. The street number "3270" was drawn by hand in blue paint on four of the fence posts.

She stood again on the stone path were she had begun, shaking her head in disbelief. Several of the posts a few feet to her left were loose. She pushed them aside, ducked her head and stepped through the triangular hole she had created.

 Her feet once again found the stone path, her eyes confirmed that indeed no gateway pierced the fence. The stones merely passed beneath. The two buildings stood alone in their private world. She walked up on the porch, pausing only to give the old porch swing a gentle push. The screen door yielded easily to her touch and she was inside the Bits Motel.

The front desk was made of dark hardwood, carved with intricate designs. A tall, wiry, dark haired man stood behind it, polishing the smooth surface. He looked into her eyes and she shuddered involuntarily.

"May I help you?", his voice was infirm, as if he were as aged as the building itself.

"I'm One-ita Zero. I have a reservation for the night."

"Oh, yes," he smiled at her. "We've been expecting you. Please sign the ledger and I'll show you around. I'm Norman. Norman Bits."

"Nice to meet you."

She signed the old guest ledger with a quill pen as Norman stood by her side. He picked up her bag and made a sweeping motion with his hand toward a long staircase.

"I've put you upstairs in 61R. If you'll follow me."

Norman led her up the stairs to a small room that looked back out over the front yard, fence and street. He put her bag down on a wooden stand next to the dresser. "Will this be acceptable?" he asked, not really meaning it.

She was thinking about something else.

"Why isn't there a gateway in your fence? I found getting in here very difficult."

"Mother doesn't much like outsiders. She and I run this place and we're mostly happy as it is. If someone wants to talk to us, well that's in their hands. If they can get in, we'll take 'em."

She wasn't satisfied with the answer, but she didn't pursue it. She had noticed something peculiar about the room.

"Where's the bathroom?"

"Let me show you."

Norman left the room and One-ita had to move quickly to keep him from getting away. He unlocked a door down the hall, which opened into a huge blue tiled room. Norman's obvious pride in the bathroom overflowed. His face was aglow.

"We remodeled when we took over. Mother and I decided that the best thing for folks was one bathroom the likes of which they had never seen before. We've got more toilets, more mirrors, more of just about everything."

One-ita's eyes played around the source of Norman's joy. It was physically impressive. Row after row of stalls and showers, with ornate mirrors and racks of towels. Even the latest electric hand dryer technology was bolted to one wall. Then she noticed the one gigantic roll of paper, at least six feet in diameter, that spun on a single spool near the middle of the room. The paper rolled off and wound up, over, down and through each stall in turn. A complex cranking mechanism connected each cubicle to the gears that spun the Charmin. A giant takeup reel finished the process on the back wall.

"Don't you think," she paused for just a second, "that the users might be happier with their own bathrooms? It would give them privacy, their own paper rolls, let them make more of their own choices, and would surely be less trouble on you for maintenance."

Norman laughed at her naivety. "Regular folks don't have any idea what's best for them. It takes experts to show them the way. Why settle for plain distributed bathrooms when you can go in the world's largest?"

"That's a lot of crap."

"Yep. Which is why we have all that wonderful water piping."

Norman headed back to her room, One-ita following reluctantly. She was beginning to doubt her travel agent's sanity.

"Will there be anything else?"

Oneita sighed. "Where's the television and telephone?"

"Mother was born a long time ago, you know. I thought about getting me a telephone once, but mother wouldn't hear of it. 'We didn't need them in the old country, I can't support them now', she said. I knew she was right."

"Why would anyone want to be able to communicate easily with other folks?", he continued. "We're better off behind our fence. If we haven't needed it yet, why would we ever need it?"

One-ita laughed. At least she'd brought her radio with her.

"Thanks anyway Norman. I guess I'll be ok."

"I can see that you and I agree totally on this. It's so nice to hear you say that I'm doing the right thing. You see, I do know what's best for you."

One-ita wondered what planet this guy was from.

He smiled that happy smile and left her alone. She watched out the window as he left the motel and walked, eyes cast down, to his mother's house. She thought about how old he was to be living with his mother, and how trapped he was by thoughts and whims not his own.

She plugged in her radio and danced around the tiny room unpacking her bag. When she finished fighting clothing wrinkles, One-ita grabbed her shower gear and flopped down the hall in her shower clogs and bright yellow cotton bathrobe.

She put the radio on the smooth marble counter nearest the first shower and turned the music up high enough to be heard over the roar of the spray. Some distortion accompanied that volume, but she thought she could live with that. The water controls were sticky, as if they were rarely used. After a few minutes work, however, she had a fine steamy stream going and gratefully stepped in.

She let the water bite into her, driving away a long day on the road. The touch of the soap smoothed her skin and One-ita reveled in the feel of it. She didn't hear the door to the bathroom open, lost in the pleasure of the water as someone walked toward her.

His shadow crossed the shower curtain. It outlined a full length silhouette, the right hand raised high over the head, a huge butcher knife grasped therein. The knife plunged downward, tearing the shower curtain and ripping into One-ita. The steamy stream shifted scarlet. She screamed, sinking slowly, scarcely sentient. Seconds subsequently she succumbed.

Norman raised the knife and struck again.

"All men are islands!"

The knife flashed a third time.

"Users aren't competent to judge!"

The right hand flashed up and down in time with the music still blaring from the radio. The floor was covered with red.

"Bigger is better!"

Flash.

"Control! I must have control!"

Flash.

"There's no one out there worth talking to anyway!"

Norman's arm had grown tired. He tossed the knife into the crimson-stained shower and turned to leave.

"Have a nice day."

* * *

Assistant fire chief Stan Derds hated his work. Every day he walked the city, trying to make people conform to the code. "Its an extension" they'd say. "It's completely compatible". "I don't need to use standards, I'm protocol independent". He'd used that last line on his girlfriend. Three months later they had to get married. Stan Junior was four now.

The skinny guy in front of him was one of his toughest cases. Norman wore the same white shirt every day, with the same grey suit. And the blue underwear that peeked out whenever he bent over. Why was it that someone so compulsive in other ways couldn't see the value in Stan's rules? "Mr. Bits, we've asked you time and time again to open a gateway in your fence. It's a hazard. What would happen if your hotel caught fire and the guests couldn't get out?"

"My guests don't want to get out."

"Now I'm sure you're exaggerating just a little bit there."

"Nope", Norman smiled knowingly, "We all agree completely on that."

Stan gestured to the uniformed policeman at his side.

"I'm sorry it's come to this, but this officer and I are going to make a full inspection of your property under the IEEE. We'll give you 90 days to comply to our list of changes. If you don't we'll shut you down."

The cop moved toward the motel, with Stan and Norman arguing behind him as they walked. The first floor inspection revealed nothing untoward. They started up the stairs. Norman followed, grinning from ear to ear, a bad poker player giving away a sure winning hand.

Splashing water caught their ears, as did the steam escaping the open bathroom door. Stan pointed.

"Let's check that out first."

Norman's smile grew larger. "Now you'll see that I'm right. That's Miss Zero."

The cop had passed through the door. Stan heard a muffled expletive and a brief consultation with a deity. He ran into the bathroom and repeated the officer's exclamation. They turned to Norman as he came in quietly behind them.

"See. I told you. She agrees with everything I've said. We do everything my way and she never complains."

Both uniformed men stared at him. The policeman began his benediction: "You have the right to cease transmissions, anything you transmit can and will be used against you, you have the right to...." He took out his handcuffs as he spoke and moved toward Norman.

"What's the matter?" Norman was puzzled.

"She's dead." Stan said it without taking his eyes off the body.

"No, she's not. Hell, she's my best user, maybe the best I've ever had."

The handcuffs were on.

"Mother's not going to like this. She can be very cross."

The officer held Norman from behind. "Your mother knows about this? Where is she?"

"Of course she knows. I don't do anything without checking with her first. Why she owns this motel and our little house."

They shoved Norman toward the door. "Move," the officer barked.

Norman walked spritely toward his mother's house. He knew she would make these people realize the truth. She could make them go away. They opened the door to the house and entered. A pungent odor made them curl their noses in disgust. Grey hair showed over the top of a heavily cushioned blue chair across the room.

The three men reached her side, and Norman started talking. "Tell them the truth, Mother. Tell them I'm a good boy. Tell them we know what's best. She wanted to ask questions. She wanted to know what we were doing. She wanted us to open our world to outsiders. She would have brought chaos down on us. Why can't those people leave us alone? Tell them what you always tell me. The only good user is a dead user."

Mother didn't speak. She had become a very good user herself sometime ago. Unfortunately, someone had forgotten to tell Norman. The policeman took him by the arm and led him back outside toward his car.

"It's time we called this one in." The cop jarred Stan from his thoughts. The sights he had seen overwhelmed him. He saw the world from its broadest perspective. He knew that connectivity was strength, that interoperability was a divine right, or at least a constitutional one. Wasn't that what the First Amendment was really all about? He looked over at Norman, sitting in the back of the squad car. The distant sound of sirens rose above the din of passing traffic. The officer had been busy on the radio. He marveled that dinosaurs still existed, that the ancient rites of proprietary systems were still practiced.

Sure, in the old days the secretive rituals of DP, practiced by white-coated COBOLogists, mystified users. We've outgrown that haven't we? Stan wasn't so sure anymore. He sighed and trudged down the smooth stone path. At least I've got job security, he thought.

* * *

The Bits Motel. Bits check in, but they don't check out.