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only way I know of not being constantly reminded of all the ways I’m alienated from society. That doesn’t mean I have anything against other people. Envy them? Of course. Marvel at them? Constantly. Secretly study them? Every day. I justdon’t get any closer to understanding them. And liking something you don’t understand, estranged from it without reason, longing to commune with it—who’d ask for it? I ask you, Betsy—who would ask for it?” “Are you quite finished now?” she’d ask. “This is turning out to be one of the longest ordeals of my life.” “But do you want to know what I don’t understand even more than I don’t understand the boating and the tanning?
Reading about the boating and the tanning online!
I was already at one remove before the Internet came along. I need another remove? Now I have to spend the time that I’m not doing the thing they’re doing reading about them doing it? Streaming all the clips of them doing it, commenting on how lucky they are to be doing all those things, liking and digging and bookmarking and posting and tweeting all those things, and feeling more disconnected than ever? Where does this idea of greater connection come from? I’ve never in my life felt more disconnected. It’s like how the rich get richer. The connected get more connected while the disconnected get more disconnected. No thanks, man, I can’t do it. The world was a sufficient trial, Betsy, before Facebook.” “I take back my suggestion that you have something against other people,” she’d say, “and I’ll never suggest a website or a Facebook page ever again.”
    I was a dentist, not a website. I was a muddle, not a brand. I was a man, not a profile. They wanted to contain my life with a summary of its purchases and preferences, prescription medications, and predictable behaviors. That was not a man. That was an animal in a cage.
    She’d say, “When was the last time you attended church?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “Never is not an option. Everyone has been to church at least once. Try being honest.” I’d tell her, she’d say, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. No one worships a little blue leprechaun. First of all, leprechauns are not blue. Second of all, you know as well asanyone that leprechauns did not make heaven and earth. I see no reason to believe in leprechauns and every reason to believe in God. I see God in the sky and I see God on the street. Can you really sit there and suggest that you do not feel God at work in the world?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “One cannot feel the work of the Big Bang. Why must you always bring up the Big Bang when we’re trying to have a discussion about God?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “But you can’t be good on account of the Big Bang. You can only be good on account of God. Don’t you want to be good?” I’d tell her, she’d say, “Metaphysical blackmail my patootie. I want you to answer me. Do you think you’re good?” I’d say yes, I thought I was good. And then she’d say, she’d think about it for a minute, and she’d say, her voice would drop and she’d put her hand on my arm, and she’d say, “But are you well?” she’d say. “Are you well?”
    Mrs. Convoy and I joined Connie at the computer station. Sure enough, up on-screen was a website for an O’Rourke Dental. So there are two O’Rourke Dentals, I thought at the time, and poor Mrs. Convoy is confused and will be disappointed. Then Connie clicked on the “About” page. There we were, the four of us: Abby Bower, dental assistant; Betsy Convoy, head hygienist; Connie Plotz, office manager; and me, Dr. Paul C. O’Rourke, D.D.S. It wasn’t a second O’Rourke Dental. It was
our
O’Rourke Dental,
my
O’Rourke Dental.
    “Who did this?” I demanded.
    “Not me,” said Connie.
    “Not me,” said Betsy.
    “Abby?” said Connie.
    Abby quickly shook her head.
    “Well somebody had to do it,” I said.
    They looked at me.
    “It certainly wasn’t