Free Notes From the Internet Apocalypse by Wayne Gladstone Page A

find dirt on me in my altered state, they lost. For three days, it’s been just me, the Hustler, and order-in food. Except once, I did leave to hit the corner liquor store for more Scotch. And even though the dude behind the counter asked if I was all right, I think the effects of the government’s drugs have worn off by now. I think it’s safe to look for Oz without compromising our operation. And even if it’s not, I can’t be alone any longer.
    I figured if she were free, she’d be looking for work, and that would narrow the search, that is, unless she’d found that friend she was looking for, but I didn’t know who that could be, and I couldn’t think about that. I showered and shaved, but I still couldn’t rid myself of the Hustler Drakkar Noir samples that had entered my pores by osmosis. I wasn’t worried though. There were worse smells in Times Square.
    DAY 31–37. PORN IN THE APOCALYPSE
    When you manage worker compensation claims for over ten years, you start to know people. Which wounds can heal, and what breaks someone forever. I said from the beginning that losing the Net wouldn’t mean returning to a simpler time. Shatter both of a man’s kneecaps in an industrial accident, he won’t take comfort in crawling. He’ll undergo extensive surgeries, splints, physical therapy, and, ultimately, walk with crutches if that’s the best he can manage.
    And it’s the same with porn. We need it back. But not the peep shows and smut peddlers of the ’70s and ’80s. We want all the ease, variety, and anonymity of the Internet. So sure, within weeks all the DVD and sex toy stores that Giuliani had pushed to Ninth Avenue in the ’90s crept back to Times Square proper, but there was more. Capitalism has risen to the challenge of creating Internet porn in the real world, because drunken frat boys and men in raincoats will always buy movies and mags from smiling Pakistanis in brightly lit stores, but the real money to be made was in servicing the millions who indulged in the privacy of their homes.
    In addition to the proliferation of standard porn stores, a surprising number of costume shops have popped up. Seemingly legit Halloween stores, but since this is June, it doesn’t make sense. And though I was supposed to be looking for Oz, I had to investigate. I walked inside one on the corner of Forty-third and Eighth and was struck by its size. There were a few anemic shelves with cheap masks, despite the handful of quality costumes that had been in the window. An Orthodox Jewish man purchased a pirate disguise, and then a business-casual dude bought a plastic Spider-Man mask held on by a stapled rubber band. But instead of exiting with their purchases, both men headed toward a back door. The Jewish guy removed his yarmulke with one hand while reaching for the door with the other. I followed.
    “Sir, you need a mask?” an employee asked.
    “I’m not sure.”
    I caught the door before it closed and ventured inside only to find a much bigger pornography store filled with men of all shapes and sizes. All wearing masks, and free to peruse the aisles without any fear of being seen or recognized. And if they’d been caught in the store’s antechamber before purchasing their disguise? Well, the shops were still good enough for plausible deniability.
    Other than that, though, the store was pretty standard. Movie aisles were separated by categories. Big circular antitheft mirrors hung in the corners next to surveillance cameras. Aside from the masks, the only other difference I noticed was the proliferation of fetish porn and the disproportionately high clusters of men in those aisles. Businesses were adapting. Anonymity was profitable, and the more I cruised, the more women I saw too. All in disguise. After a few hours and several visits to similar stores, I went home—without Oz, but with several cheap masks and a variety of porn I would never admit to purchasing in real life. I almost wrote that down as