Chapter 12 Second Life

You may be wondering, where is Second Life in all this? Where is escorting? What's all this about a lesbian love affair on yet another virtual site and an old gringo in Mexico who drinks Nescafe and reads the New York Times? Sorry. Sue me for false billing if you must, but in my defense, I would suggest that a story is only as good as its digressions. Look at The Odyssey and The Iliad if you don't believe me.
Besides, it's good form in this case. Second Life is now sandwiched between the past and the present, which is just where it belongs. I confess, though, that I can't quite decide how to tell the story. Chronological is so 19th Century, don't you think? And God knows what the 21st will bring, so maybe I should just settle for the 20th and bring things up as they occur to me, trusting my subconcious to provide the pattern. And my moods, which may amount to the same thing. If it seems interesting today, go with it. I'll have plenty of time to revise, not to mention check my spelling, in the afterlife. What's that? There may not be one? So much the better.
So, the first thing that occurs to me about Second Life is shopping for shoes. It may be what I miss the most. Sometimes I think I could have done nothing else and been perfectly happy. That's probably not true, but it's nice to think so. Trying on the samples was so easy, and since you could take them with you, you could try them with different outfits before you bought. I haven't added it up, but I'm sure I spent thousands of lindens on shoes, and now and then I would put on a new pair and go to a place with a lot of campers, just so I could feel sorry for and superior to all the poor girls who were making only a few lindens an hour. I made 2000 lindens an hour, and when I quit Second Life I was bringing in around 40,000 lindens a month. The cream rises to the top, don't you think? I started with nothing. I never bought a premium membership. I never spent a penny of my own money.
Hurray for me! Now for the Rosebud moment, you're thinking. Was she really happy? If so, why did she quit? Unlike Charles Foster Kane I didn't die, not exactly, but I suppose, as I was picking up all my stuff the day I quit, putting my house and its furniture into my inventory, telling my landlords I was leaving (yes, I had more than one place), I suppose I could have regretted leaving behind one precious thing, something that stood for happiness and lost innocence, and that contrasted bitterly with the second life I led, what I did to earn all those lindens. But I was no Charles Foster Kane. It would be a stretch to say I built an empire, and I was not unscrupulous in my business dealings. Quite the contrary, I sincerely believe. The one similarity, not unimportant, is in love. Welles' film character, poor thing, was so caught up in himself that he never learned how to love anyone. I plead guilty to that.
Sandals. Flat heels, leather, simple straps, plain as plain can be, in brown and black and white with silver or gold buckles. Free from Free Dove. My favorite footwear. I wore them as often as I could. I miss them terribly.