Commodore Free 29/Commodore_Free_Issue_29_2009_Commodore_Computer_Club.d64/rise and fall 2

Text File | 2023-02-26 | 10KB | 343 lines

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*  THE RISE AND FALL OF THE PULPIT  *
*        by Lenard R. Roach         *
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        CONTINUED FROM PART 1

Keeping this person as a user on The
Pulpit and not just kicking him out
like other users insisted I should do
began to draw off members to the BBS.
 Calls became more infrequent to the
base.  I would check on some of the
other BBS where I knew some of these
users frequented and they all
basically said that if you re going
to keep that person  around on The
Pulpit, then they were not going to
call in any more.  I finally demoted
this user s access rating to the
lowest possible, leaving him a
private message explaining what I had
done and why.  A heated message came
back from him and he no more called
The Pulpit. I posted on the other BBS
 that the problem was permanently
solved, but the damage was already
done.  If this was how I was going to
conduct my church, then they wanted
no part of it.  Calls came almost to
a crawling halt.  The Pulpit was
dying.

To add insult to injury, one summer
day in July 1995, I got a knock on my
living room door while I was working
on some upload files to The Pulpit. I
got up and answered the door. Before
me stood a uniformed member of the
Kansas City, Kansas Police Department
and a worker from the Board of Public
Utilities. The officer spoke first.

Are you Lenard Roach?
I am, I answered.  Is there something
wrong?
May we come in?

Surely, I said.
I stepped away from the door and
allowed the officer and BPU worker
into the house.  The officer stood in
front of me while the worker
immediately went about the house
checking in each room.  He entered
the basement where I stored all of
the Commodore overflow.

What is this all about, officer?  I
asked.  At first I thought that maybe
my dog bit a BPU worker while they
were out to read the meter and they
were searching for the dog, but the
officer s words brought me to a total
loss.

Mr. Roach, are you aware that you are
using a lot of energy at this
residence?
No.  Now I thought someone tapped
into my power again, but the officer
continued to speak.
Mr. Roach, we have reason to believe
that something illegal is happening
in this house.
My jaw dropped. Like what?  I asked.
You tell me.
I have no idea.  I pointed to the
basement.  What does something
illegal have to do with the BPU?

Mr. Roach,  the officer began,
whenever the Board of Public
Utilities detects a spike in energy
use, they call us to come out with
them to examine the premises in case
they find any illegal activity.  With
their diligence we have shut down
many operations here in the area.

What kind of illegal operations might
I ask?
Portable pot farms.

I drew a breath in amazement.  Are
you trying to say that I have been
growing marijuana here and the BPU
can detect that?  How is that
possible?

Portable pot farms require a lot of
sunlight in order to make them work.
This sunlight can be artificially
created with sunlamps put in a damp
spot like a basement or crawl space
where marijuana can grow and thrive.
Sunlamps need a lot of electricity to
work.  This excess energy use causes
a spike in the customer s electricity
bill, drawing suspicion that the
resident may be doing something
illegal.  When that happens, they
call us and we come out with the BPU
to investigate.

So you think I'm growing pot, right?
Again, you tell me.

The BPU worker came up from the
basement and crossed the kitchen into
the dining room where the officer and
I were. I didn't find anything here
that looks like they had any sunlamps
hooked up to anything in the basement
or crawl space. The officer looked
square at me. Can you explain the
spike in energy use in your home, Mr.
Roach?
I turned to the BPU worker.  May I
ask when your department detected the
so called energy spike  in my bill?
About six months ago, he answered.
That s about the same time I set up
this.   I led the men to the computer
area where I was working earlier on
The Pulpit.  I pointed at the
Commodore 64.  I have been running an
online BBS that is like an electric
church.  Would you like to see how it
works?

That s not necessary, the officer
said.  The BPU worker got on his
hands and knees and looked at all the
power bricks that went to the
keyboard and various drives of the
unit.  After a few seconds of
examination, he arose and faced the
officer.

This has to be it, he said.  These
components are each pulling a
significant amount of power. Put them
all together and you have an good
power drain. I smiled at them both.
Really, I was trying to keep a civil
tongue in my mouth by not shouting
Retards!  Directly to their faces.

The officer sighed and hung his head
for a moment.  He looked up at me and
also smiled. We re sorry to have
bothered you, Mr. Roach.  Please
understand that this is all a
routine. Please accept our apologies.
 You have a nice day.  We ll see
ourselves out.

After the officer and BPU worker
left, I sat down in the computer
chair and faced the Commodore 64; a
rude user, no callers, and now this.
I looked up at the ceiling to address
God.  I'm sorry, sir, I said, This
just isn t worth it.  I hopped online
and posted at several different
boards that The Pulpit was going to
close its doors by the end of next
week.  Thanks for everyone s support
in this endeavour, but I feel it
necessary that due to circumstances
this ministry should shut down.  I
got some congratulations for a job
well done, and some sorry to see it
leave messages on the other boards,
but nothing came to The Pulpit s
boards directly.  By the end of the
week, I pulled the plug on what once
started as a great idea.

Six months passed

Lenard, what are you going to do with
all this Commodore junk?  Alana asked
in January of 1996.  If you re not
going to do that computer thing that
you were so hopped up to do last
year, then do something with all this
stuff.

She was right.  All I was using my
Commodore for now was writing, BBS
calling, and the occasional game
play.  I needed to clear some of this
equipment out of the office and put
it somewhere other than the basement,
where the load of Sgt. Butch s
Commodore machines and disks still
remained.  My glory days of making my
Commodore out to be something were
all gone.  As a matter of fact, with
the introduction of this thing they
were calling the internet,  BBS were
shutting down by the dozens.  There
really wasn't much thinking about
what should be done.  The Commodore
was still great, but there can still
be too much of a good thing.  This
was it.  I stepped over to the phone
and made a call

It was a clear and cold night.  I
awaited by my Chevette for his
arrival behind the 7-11.  I didn't
have to wait long to hear the
familiar sputtering of the Toyota.
Behind me he parked and got out.  The
five foot fuzz ball that was The
Great Hairy One stepped out of his
vehicle and approached me.

Your post said this was something
worth my time, he said in his
gravelly voice.  What have you got?

I opened the hatchback of the
Chevette and showed him the plethora
of Commodore hardware, disks and
magazines I loaded up before the
trip. He examined the merchandise
carefully.

I remember a post you made to The
Temple of Doom  BBS some time back
saying that you would love to have
gotten your hands on whatever Sgt.
Butch  had hidden in his garage that
he wouldn't sell to you. He sold it
all to me and here it is.

If he had eyes, I think they would
have brightened by then. You re
kidding?  he asked me.  This is Sgt.
Butch s Commodore stash? I nodded.
He literally jumped into the tail of
the car and started digging through
the material like a ravenous beast.
I stepped back to stay away from any
flying debris as he pushed away
hardware and software to find the
bits he always wanted.  His fur, like
tentacles, was holding several pieces
of software and equipment in the air.

This is glorious, he said.  I heard
rumour that he had this stuff, but I
could never see it for myself.  Some
of this stuff will give me a pretty
penny on the open market.  How much
to you want for the lot?
Nothing, It s all yours.
The material he was holding fell to
the ground.  I think he was staring
at me in disbelief.
I can t do that, Captain, he said.
It wouldn't be right.  I've got to
give you something for a haul like
this.
You d be doing me a favour by just
taking it off my hands,  I said.  It
s starting to clutter up the basement
anyway.  You d be making the wife and
I very happy if you would take it.

The Great Hairy One took a step
forward.  Captain, I'm really sorry
about what happened to The Pulpit.
It s a great loss to the BBS
community.  You know I enjoyed
visiting your board, but that s no
reason to be giving all this stuff
away.  Please let me give you
something for it.
Like what?
From under a tuft of fuzz came a
crisp $50 bill.
Take it, he said.  Consider it a
final donation to a once worthy
ministry.
I hesitated for a moment then I
reached out and took the money and
stared at it.  Already The Great
Hairy One was loading all the
equipment into his Toyota.  In mere
moments, the Chevette was empty and
his car was full.
I climbed into the Chevette and
awaited The Great Hairy One to pull
out so I could leave, but instead he
met me at the driver s door.

Captain, he said, thanks for
everything.
I reached out and petted his massive
hair.  Thank you.
What will you do now?
Don't you worry, I said as I started
the engine, I'm not out of the
Commodore business yet.  I've got one
program published and I'm working on
another.  A sequel, who knows?  Maybe
I'll write a book about working on
the Commodore.  I don t think anyones
ever done that.
Give me a copy.
Better than that, I'll let you
proofread it and I'll put whatever
comments you have about it on the
back of the book.
Done.
With that, The Great Hairy One got
into his vehicle, backed out, and
left, leaving me to ponder my
Commodore future

ROACH, The Rise and Fall of
 The Pulpit

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