(Photo: Ann Weathersby)

Abby Stokes
Computer teacher, 42; single; lives in Chelsea.

Soterios johnson, what does he look like? I could Google him, but that seems excessive. I’ve been listening to WNYC in the morning for fifteen years, and I wonder this every morning. Why screw up a good thing? Anyway, it’s time to get up. By which I mean turn on the computer and check on my clients, who my friends call “the wrinklies”: Some of them are just learning how to use e-mail. Such troupers! Mr. B is mastering attachments. A-plus, Mr. B! Francesca wants to cancel her lesson and—wow, Monday’s NYU class is a go with only four students! I better get the current version of Quicken to play with. Guess I should put some clothes on—but maybe food first.

Hunk of salmon, seaweed salad, and a glass of water—best breakfast on earth. My old Fire Island housemates are coming for dinner. Addison’s friend Rich had a seizure and died last week. Only 40! I’m 42. Addison flew back from Brazil for the service, so I rounded up the others. I want to use my mom’s special artichoke plates—wineglasses, napkins, forks . . . setting the table naked at 8 a.m. Is that weird?

Soterios says rain later, but I don’t believe him. No one ever sees me two days running, so I put on yesterday’s clothes: black trousers, white sweater, flat sandals, and out the door. Four flights down. Wow, perfect day. One long block to subway at 14th and Eighth, and there’s even a train sitting there. I hate rush hour. Plenty of room on that seat, except the guy has his legs spread like he’s riding a stallion. I’m sure you need all that room, honey, but would you mind just . . . ? Thanks. Okay, to-do list: Buy artichokes, get Quicken, oh, find someone to take Francesca’s slot. It’s always like this, but the referrals keep on coming. I started out as a closet organizer (well, after the shoe modeling and the puppeteering both went south). Then people wanted help organizing their computers too, and then someone sent me an elderly friend who needed to learn, and then I wrote It’s Never Too Late to Love a Computer, and now it’s my life.

Mr. B lives with his wife in a penthouse at 70th and Madison. There’s a butler, a maid, a secretary, and a chauffeur at the ready. He’s also got an office in midtown, where he makes the occasional emeritus appearance. Today, we look at refdesk.com—he loves the atomic clock. We synchronize our watches and he wants to reset the computer’s clock, too—down to the second. It takes eight tries. By the time he gets the numbers in, he’s off again. Finally we do a duet—I input the digits and he clicks apply. I’m not really teaching him anything at this point, I’m more like a coach. Perfect! I tell him. You get an A-plus, Milty! No I don’t, he says, I forgot the subject line in that e-mail. Well, okay, an A, then. The guy’s got to be 80 years old and he’s knocking down his own imaginary grades. I guess that’s how he got the staff and the penthouse. He pays me in cash from the safe in the bedroom—crisp $50 bills—I love that.

Check voice mail in the cab downtown—Francesca still wants her lesson. Call her back and tell her she must not use the mouse with a sprained wrist—but she’s afraid she’ll lose what she learned last week. No, no, you won’t forget. It’s like riding a bike, Francesca. Call me if you get scared. Don’t worry. End the call, the phone rings again: Addison. Can he bring a friend tomorrow night? Tomorrow night! Addison! The table is set, the scallops are marinating! Let me just make a call—I thought you said Thursday. Make that call, Addison—everyone’s coming to see you!

Mrs. Z’s building at 54th and Broadway is a mystery: cubbyhole mailboxes behind the desk and strange copper lamps that cast weak light. Some of the tenants look like former Ziegfeld girls who’ve been here since the lamps were new. Not Mrs. Z: I acquired her at a fancy party last year—I was the closest thing to an old showgirl in that room. Everyone else was a Kissinger or a Montebello or a Negroponte. The man seated on my right was recently bereaved, about 60. I figured my job was to charm him; I did my best. Three months later, the women all started calling me for computer lessons.

Today, Mrs. Z wants to try Amazon. Chooses $70 worth of books on tape but makes sure the shipping is free before confirming. She’s got four houses. Next, we Google a hairbrush she got in Europe last year: “Spornette.” She clicks sponsored links—can’t tell the difference. If I explain, it will only confuse her. Am I an assistant, a teacher, a servant? A month ago, she gave me a bathing suit she’d never worn—tags still on. Abby—did I break something? (It’s an infinite regression of pop-up ads.) No, no, it’s never you, Mrs. Z. Just drag until you see the close button—X marks the spot, see? She looks frightened. Don’t worry. They’re just ads.

Back outside, I check voice mail. NYU class is canceled. That’s one less errand, but the money! My sister says I should have a 24-hour cancellation policy, like a shrink. A shrink with no health insurance? Anyway, the illusion is that I’m a pleasant and helpful houseguest, and houseguests don’t have cancellation policies.

Guests trickle in between 7 and 8:30. Addison’s last—I guess he winkled in that other engagement—great to see him. We don’t talk about Rich, except to say how sorry we are, again. Then chat ourselves silly. Four totter downstairs at midnight, but Addison and Dan stay until two. I have an 8 a.m. tomorrow—but that’s another thing about my clients: No matter what, they tell me I look great. —Rachel Cline