Mo flopped down into JonÕs very expensive, very comfy, Italian- designed leather swivel chair and started clicking through directories on the G3. He opened the Extensions folder and looked for the Ethernet (Built-In) Extension. It was version 2.0.1.

Back down the hall again and he plunked down into the twin of the comfy chair. I really must have one of these. He pulled up a web browser and navigated to the Apple Tech Info Library and typed in a search command. After an infuriatingly long wait, during which he chanted "Apache, Get Apache," he got a list of relevant articles. Sure enough at the top of the list, dated May 20, 1998, was a notice of a new G3 Ethernet upgrade, version 2.0.4.

The article stated that some G3 Macs could lose network services using the built-inn Ethernet interface versions, 2.0, 2.0.1, 2.0.2, and 2.0.3. Mo had been aware of this problem in general but had never seen it in the field. Below the article announcing the 2.0.4 driver release was the original article stating that the 2.0.1 release had fixed the problem back in February.

"Apparently not yet."

Mo began to download the 2.0.4 driver. As he sipped at the beer, praying that this, indeed had been the problem all along, his cell phone beeper went off. An unfamiliar number appeared in the display. Mohammed dialed with apprehension. He was finally (he hoped) on top of the problem that had eaten up the better part of his afternoon, and he didnÕt feel like dealing with any new shit today. The phone on the other end rang twice, a womanÕs voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Mohammed Chang here. Someone paged me?"

"Oh, hi!. This is Moira Scanlon. We met at HarleyÕs party a couple of weeks ago. Remember, IÕm a bike messenger and we talked about how you used to ride in Washington, D.C?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Whassup?" Mo remembered her all right. Mostly he remembered her bikerÕs thighs, tanned skin and piercing blue eyes beneath auburn hair. The conversation he was hazy on, as he and HarleyÕs wife, Katarina had absorbed the better part of a bottle of vodka over the course of the evening. Mo couldnÕt remember giving this woman his card, but he congratulated himself on having the presence of mind to do so.

"You fix Macs, right?" She said in that oh-so-annoying way that young women of a certain age seemed to have these days of ending every sentence with a question mark.

"I fix lots of stuff. Best damn cyberplumber in Chicago, Moira. WhatÕs bugginÕ you?"

"Well, itÕs the end of the semester and my honors thesis is due Monday, right? And I was getting rid of a bunch of stuff off my hard drive, Ôcause all I have is this old 6100, OK? I put all these old notes and stuff and then emptied the trash. But I found out I stuck my thesis in the trash too and now itÕs gone. Can you get it back?"

Mo smiled. "One question: Have you put anything new on the computer since you emptied the trash?" Mo spoke as he strolled down the hall to the G3 and slipped in the disk with the updated drivers and ran the installer.

"No, I just did it a few minutes ago. I was terrified to touch it again. Can you fix it?"

"Excellent. No problem. I can get it back. Just donÕt touch it until I can get there." There was something else about this girl that he dimly remembered from their brief, drunken conversation three weeks ago. Some other reason besides vodka and her thighs why he would have broken out of his shell to give his card to a girl eight years younger than he.

"Oh wow, thatÕs awesome! When can you come over?" She piped.

"Well, IÕm tied up right now up near Diversey and Addison. Where do you live?"

"In Wicker Park at 2507 Potomac. You know where that is?"

"Sure, I lived over on Oakley there for years," Mo said as he restarted the G3. "I have to run back to my digs up by Wrigley, but I could probably swing by your place around five or so."

"Oh cool. Um, just one thing. Uh, how much do you think this will cost?" Moira had such a sprite-like voice that Mo could not tell if she was being coquettish or not. Mo decided to play it straight and level.

"I charge eighty bucks an hour. This is a pretty easy job though, shouldnÕt take more than half-an-hour, forty-five minutes. Tell you what, buy me a couple of beers over at the Inner Town Pub afterwards, and weÕll call it even." Even with such an obvious opening, MohammedÕs lifelong tentativeness with women made his gut twist a little as he waited for her response.

"I love the Inner Town. That sounds fine," Moira said not quite as enthusiastically as Mo had hoped. "Oh wait, I know! Some friends of mine are playing at the Double Door tonight. You ever heard of Motorhome?"

Mo couldnÕt believe his luck. As a thirty-something, this was one of the only local up-and-comers that he had ever heard of in the first place and second of all, actually liked. A lot. "Oh man. IÕve been into them for a couple of years. You know them?"

"Sure, I went to high-school with the base player. Tell you what Mohammed, you retrieve my paper on superconductivity and IÕll treat you to dinner and dancing," she said, suddenly sounding a bit more mature.

Mo shook his head. Now it came back to him. The Whole Package. She was a senior physics undergrad at the University of Chicago and bike-messengered part-time. The brains AND the bod.

Mo brought up the Chooser and clicked the LaserWriter icon and the two printer icons popped up immediately. "ThatÕs a deal I canÕt refuse," he smiled. "Why donÕt I drop buy about six or so to deal with your physics thesis?" he said a suavely as he could manage.

"All right then, IÕll see you at six. Thanks. Mohammed."

"Call me Mo," he replied.