2013 QBN Story Time
Out of context: Reply #8
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BY ED PARKYou cycle through your passwords. They tell the secret story. What’s most important to you, the things you think can’t be deciphered. Words and numbers stored in the lining of your heart.
Your daughter’s name.
Your daughter’s name backward.
Your daughter’s name backward plus the year of her birth.
Your daughter’s name backward plus the last two digits of the year of her birth.
Your daughter’s name backward plus the current year.
They keep changing. They blur in the brain. Every day you punch in three or four of these memory strings to access the home laptop, the work laptop. The e-mail, the Facebook, the voice mail. Frequent-flyer account. Every week, you’re asked to change at least one, to increase the security. You feel virtuous when the security meter changes from red to green.
Your home town backward.
Your home town plus the year you were born.
Your home town backward plus the year you were born.
Olaf Fub 1970.
There are hints when you forget. Mother’s maiden name. First car, favorite color, elementary school.
First girl you kissed—that should be one.
First boy.
Can the hints just be the passwords?
Stop stalling.
First sex. You remember the day, month, year. The full year or just the last two digits?
First concert you attended.
Name of hospital where you were born.
You wonder who writes these prompts. Someone has to write them.
Tip: Never use the same password for more than one account.
Last four digits of first phone number.
Last four digits of first work number.
Your daughter’s best friend’s name backward.
Your boss’s first name.
Your first boss’s last name plus the year you were born.
If you could type out all your passwords, their entire silent history, they would fill a book you could read in a minute.
Last four digits of your cell backward.
Favorite sports team.
Favorite sports team backward.
Serbas.
Pet’s name.
You knew a guy who had a dog named Serbas. You knew two guys with dogs named Serbas. They didn’t like each other. The guys, that is. The dogs, who knows. You’re pretty sure one was female, the other male.
Pet’s name backward plus current year.
Favorite sibling—sibling who never let you down—plus last two digits of current year.
Mix of capitals and lowercase.
Six to eight characters long.
Ten to fourteen.
Stop stalling.
Mix of numerals and letters.
At least one symbol: #, %, *, !.!
Father’s home town.
Mother’s maiden name backward.
The girl at work you can’t stop thinking about.
The girl at work plus current year.
The girl at work backward.
The girl at work backward and lowercase plus last two digits of current year.
Passwords mean nothing to the machine. The machine lets you in to do what you need to do. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t care.
Your password appears as a row of dots.
“Vertigo.” “Groundhog Day.”
Favorite actor.
Actress who first made you hard, backward, plus current year.
Best friend from high school.
Best friend from college.
Stop stalling.
Year you last saw your daughter.
Year you last saw your daughter plus her name.
There’s a file on your work computer called passwords. But what if you forget the password to get into your work computer?
Her favorite toy.
What she named her bike.
First girl you dated in college backward and lowercase.
“The Shop Around the Corner.” “Buffalo ’66.”
Date of first death in the family.
Grandfather’s name backward plus birth year.
Year you finally started getting your shit together.
“Citizen Kane.” “Ace Ventura: Pet Detective.”
Year of First Communion plus name of priest.
Stop stalling.
Favorite author backward and lowercase with middle letter capped for no reason save randomness.
Street address of the house you grew up in.
Sibling you don’t talk to.
Spouse of sibling you don’t talk to, whom you text when you’re drunk.
Stop stalling.
Your last name backward plus the day, month, and year you find yourself at an A.T.M. at the ass end of Hertel Avenue with the tip of a gun pressed between your shoulder blades, the gun in the hand of the guy who followed you from down the street, affecting a limp, a big guy in a black windbreaker and a Bills Starter cap, who stepped behind you, quiet as a shadow, the big guy with dead eyes behind five-dollar sunglasses who already has your phone and wallet and the bottle of wine you thought it would be a good idea to run out and get, at ten in the evening, she said she’d stay inside and you said you would hurry, and it was a good night for a walk, so, while you’re at it, taking in the cool night air, why not get some cash for the week to come?
The big guy with the very hard gun who is saying Password and Right now and Stop stalling. ♦