Logging on to a virtual nightmare
by Beth Teitell

Wednesday, July 25, 2001

Ignorance of the law is no excuse. I know that.

But what about ignorance of an e-mail address?

Last week, I learned something disturbing: I had a Herald e-mail account I knew nothing about, and it had been active for years.

``Do you know how many messages must be waiting for you?'' a friend asked. ``You're facing weeks of work.''

She was right, but it didn't seem fair. It was as if a parking ticket had blown off my car's windshield before I'd seen it, and fines and penalties were accruing unbeknownst to me.

Society allows a year to give a wedding gift, but how long do you get to respond to an e-mail? Hi Leslie - Sorry I didn't get back to you earlier. Your Y2K-End-of-the-World-As-We-Know-It Party sounds great, but we have (had?) other plans.

When I learned of my e-mail account's existence (I won't bore you with the revelation's details), I went into denial. Keeping up with the voice mail on my work, home and cell phones and the two e-mail addresses I'm aware of (personal and the Herald's Talk Back feature) is time-consuming enough.

If this address came out of the woodwork, what else is out there? It's like they say about rodents: The one you see is just the tip of the iceberg. Am I receiving mail (or not, as the case may be) at some P.O. box in rural Ohio? Is there a phantom answering machine hooked up to an unfamiliar number with a cheerful message? ``Hi, this is Beth. Leave your name, number and the date of your call and I'll get back to you. Thanks!''

The virtual pile of long-lost e-mails scared me. Like the dentist, it had to be faced, but I'd be more confident if I'd been going for twice-yearly cleanings. Would I have to spend the rest of the summer clicking on flame after flame? Or, more darkly, would the e-mails be impossibly positive - but read too late to be of any help? ``Miss Teitell, we love your work. Would you be interested in writing the screenplay of `Gladiator'? ''

I knew I had to call the Herald's InfoTech department and get my password and log on, but first I called a friend for support. ``That's a modern nightmare,'' she said. ``It's the high-tech version of not being able to find the room where the math test is being given, or of going out without any clothes on.''

I guess I should admit that as the dread built, so did excitement. I felt like someone who's found something that's probably junk in her attic, but is headed to the ``Antiques Road Show'' just in case. Who knows, maybe it's an authentic Civil War-era ash tray!

``How many e-mails do you think I'll have?'' I asked the InfoTech man as we sat down at a computer. He mentioned that a colleague, a political columnist, was getting up to 8,000 a day during the election.

Eight thousand a day! Wow. I imagined how I could brag (while pretending not to) about that little measure of popularity. ``I'm so busy,'' I'd complain. ``I've got 2 million e-mails to read.''

My inbox appeared on the screen. As with my weight, I'd rather not go into specific numbers. Let's just say I know how Geraldo felt when he opened Al Capone's vault on live TV. He found moldy bottles, I got solicitations to interview a man who tastes ice cream for a living, or to write about Hollywood's sexiest single dad (it's Tom Cruise, with Bruce Willis a close second).

``It's not like I don't get e-mail,'' I found myself telling a friend, defensively, ``it's just that it goes to the Herald's Talk Back.''

``Sure,'' my friend said. ``It doesn't matter anyway.''

But we knew it did. It's one thing to hate hearing from angry or inane strangers. It's another to . . . not hear from them.