A Thousand Deaths (41 page)

As I read through the draft of the pages stored in the computer's memory, Charlie Edelman was nowhere to be seen; and this guy Jim Collins was having a hilarious time dealing with his new powers. It was a very funny story. It was even funnier than the way I'd written it.

Half the bottle of Guinness went down while I tried to understand what had happened. I had fed in the first part of the story yesterday, just as I had written it at my old typewriter. Then I'd gone through and made a few corrections here and there, nothing vital. Somehow I accomplished more than I realized: the story was fresher, tighter, funnier. I thought I understood what happened: without the tedious labor of retyping, I was inclined to do more polishing with the word processor than I ever did before. The damn machine was making a better writer out of me, as well as a more prolific one. I smiled and gulped the rest of the beer.

The name business still bothered me, though. I could take care of that easily enough; I consulted my operating manual and learned that I could change the name wherever it occurred in the story with a few simple commands. I ordered the computer to edit out Jim Collins and edit in Charlie Edelman. I called up earlier pages to see if I'd done that job correctly, and I was pleased to see that Jim Collins no longer existed.

I took a short break to crack another bottle of Guinness. In my mind I chose among the possible evil things I could put in Jim Collins's path—no, Edelman's path. I frowned. I sat down at the computer and stared at the last sentence of my story. The psychiatrist had spoken; what did Edelman have to say?

 

"Not long, Doctor," said Edelman. "I guess it all began when I made that foolish wish."

"A wish?" said the analyst.

"Yes. You see, I had been trying to work up the courage to ask

 

To ask what? I wondered. What did this jerk Edelman want: a raise? A few days off? His boss's daughter? I took a swallow of beer and realized that Edelman was, indeed, in love with his boss's daughter. It was hopeless, of course: the girl had been educated at the best schools and was already engaged to marry a prince from a tiny European principality. The only course open to Edelman was wishing and hoping. He was probably tossing pennies into fountains and scouring the evening sky for the first star. The whole point was that Charlie Edelman was a lovable loser, the type who might love the boss's daughter but who didn't stand a chance of winning her on his own. In the past, in more romantic times, the supernatural powers with which Edelman had suddenly been blessed would have led to an entertaining confusion, but in the end the ritzy girl would realize what a marvelous human being he was. Today, however, this was satire; Edelman would
not
end up with the girl. It would be a miracle if he even kept his job.

I paused to make a note of my decision. It clarified things even more. The story began to pour out of me. It was easy, even fun, to compose directly on the video display screen. I wasn't interrupted by the need to change sheets of paper. Writing had become a continuous process, a fluid, creative act. The story was paced better because it was one long, coherent piece, rather than bits of exposition strung together like beads on a string. I was startled to learn that writing could be so enjoyable again; it was like the feeling I had had at the beginning of my career, a joy that I'd lost somewhere along the way.

Nevertheless, there came a point when my skimpy notes did not offer me enough inspiration. I slowed down and then stopped, wondering what was going to happen next. It seemed that I'd written myself into a corner with no way out. It meant reading over the last couple of paragraphs, possibly throwing them away and going off in a different direction. That sort of thing was what the computer was for in the first place; I could wipe out those paragraphs and replace them as often as I liked, and I could save the discarded work in case I decided to go with it after all.

 

"Charlie," said Celeste, "what does this mean?"

"Oh, I've been meaning to tell you about it."

Edelman wondered how he would explain it to her.

 

Edelman wasn't the only one who was wondering. I finished my second bottle of stout and decided that it was time to take a break. With any kind of luck, there was a ballgame on television.

Yes, there was an afternoon ballgame on cable (the Braves at Chicago) and it went into extra innings. After the game, intending to go back to work, I opened my fifth bottle of Guinness and put it beside the word processor. I looked at the clock and remembered that there was some movie I wanted to see; I couldn't recall which film. I frowned at the glowing screen of the computer, which still displayed that last sentence I'd written. During the baseball game, I hadn't come to a decision about how Edelman was going to explain himself to Celeste. I let my breath out in a heavy sigh; I really didn't
feel
like working. I decided to let the TV
Guide
decide the matter. If it was a good movie, I'd watch it; if it was a mediocre or bad picture, I'd work. It turned out to be Paul Newman in
Cool Hand Luke;
there was no way I was going to miss that. I loved the way Strother Martin said, "What we have here is a failure to communicate."

So after the movie I watched the local news and the network news, and then I watched the
Solid Gold
dancers, which led right into my eighth beer and a
Muppet Show
rerun, my ninth beer and
Dynasty,
my tenth beer and some country-music awards show. Then came the news again and a
Rockford Files
rerun, and it was too damn late to work, and besides I was running out of beer. I watched a movie in which George Peppard had amnesia, and another put together from episodes of the old
Lone Ranger,
because I loved Clayton Moore's voice. I swallowed the last mouthful of the last beer, and then I congratulated myself on my perfect timing: it was now time to go to bed. Being a writer wasn't so bad. After all, I got to make my own hours. I staggered only a little as I felt my way down the dark hall to the bathroom. I would lie awake for a few minutes, thinking over the hitch that had popped up in my story; my subconscious would probably solve the problem by morning. I would begin the day ready to tackle the rest of the story. I could have the whole thing finished by lunchtime, and the word processor would type it out in minutes. It would be in the mail Thursday afternoon.

I woke up Thursday morning refreshed after a sound night's sleep. I went to the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I decided not to bother shaving; I wondered if the great writers of modern literature started their days like this. Did Graham Greene look for excuses to postpone his work? Did Thomas Pynchon watch the
Solid Gold
dancers? Did John Updike shave every morning?

I went to the refrigerator and remembered that there wasn't any beer; I'd have to skip breakfast. I'd run out at lunchtime and buy a couple of six-packs. I rubbed my face with one hand as I slowly eased my way toward the office. The damn computer was still there, and I regarded it balefully, the way I used to regard my dormant typewriter. "It's magic time," I muttered. I dropped into my chair and read what was written on the screen.

 

"Oh, Jimmy," cried Celeste, "you won't ever have to wish for anything again!"

 

That didn't sound right. The line didn't even ring a bell with me. I was sure that I'd left my characters in some kind of painful dilemma. That's why I'd wasted the whole previous day, because I didn't know how to fix it. Of course, I'd been a little drunk when I went to bed; it looked as if I'd gotten up during the night and finished the story in a burst of energy and creative brilliance. Maybe I should consider working drunk more often.

I was just a little annoyed that my inebriated self had changed Charlie Edelman back into Jim Collins. I repeated the editing procedure I'd learned the day before, and once more Charlie Edelman was the hero of the story. I ran it all back to where I'd abandoned it during the afternoon, and read everything that I'd done during the night. It was now a terrific story, and Steinschlager would be pleased. Of course, it was a different story than the one I'd foreseen: it went in an entirely different direction. My drunken self had evidently become romantic; in the finished version, Edelman won both Celeste and a better job from her father before he lost his supernatural powers. It was a very amusing story, if obviously derivative. It was no longer a satire of Wells's story, but perhaps neither Steinschlager nor the readers would be familiar enough with the original to complain. By the end of the piece, I had a clear picture of my protagonist: he was the young James Stewart. To make it perfect, Celeste was the young June Allyson. It would have made a great Frank Capra movie.

There was nothing left to do but direct the machine to type out the pages. I loaded white bond paper into the tractor feed, entered the appropriate commands, and the printer began chattering to itself. It would be finished in a few minutes; time enough to run to the store for necessary supplies. Beer, that is, and a couple of frozen pizzas.

When I returned, there was a message on my answering machine. It had been Steinschlager again, calling from New York. I looked up his number—editors always assumed I knew them by heart—and called back collect. "Hello, Rocky," I said. "The story's done."

"I'm glad to hear that, Sandy. Listen, did you write it on your new word processor?"

"I started it on the typewriter, but I finished it on the computer. Why?"

There was a brief pause. "Do you have a modem?"

"Uh huh." A modem is a phone coupler that hooks a computer up to another computer. I can use databases all around the country that way, so I don't have to run down to the library to look up every single fact.

"Good," said Steinschlager. "You know, you don't have to print the story at all. You can use the modem to deliver the story to our computer over the telephone lines."

I was suddenly struck by the possibilities. Thanks to the science fictional marvels of electronics, a story might never exist on paper until it was finally printed in the magazine; and because the magazine was itself available on microfilm and microfiche, it might never exist on paper at all. "How do I do that?" I asked.

Steinschlager gave me a few instructions. "You just use the modem and punch the number for our computer. Then you enter those commands, and the machines do the rest."

"I didn't think it would be so simple," I said.

"And you don't have to use up your good typing paper; you don't have to make copies of the story; and you don't have to go to the post office."

"That will save me somewhere between five and ten dollars a story. This computer will pay for itself faster than I expected."

"Great, Sandy. Now hang up, call our computer, and transmit the story. I'll get to read it in about ten minutes, instead of five days from now."

"Okay, Rocky," I said, "thanks a lot." He hung up. The word processor had finished printing out the story; now I could just put that copy in my file cabinet, instead of sending it off to New York. I glanced through the pages. They were perfect: margins just as I wanted them, twenty-seven lines to the page, my name and the page number at the top of each sheet. The only thing that I could find to complain about was that somehow Jim Collins had once again replaced Charlie Edelman as the protagonist. It just meant that I hadn't performed the editing procedure correctly. There was still a lot to learn about my machine.

I considered the situation for a moment. I didn't really care
what
the main character's name was. I decided to leave it as it was, rather than fiddle with the computer's memory. Who knew? I might accidentally do something horrible, like wipe out the whole story; then I'd have to start from scratch. Steinschlager wouldn't like that at all. I called New York collect, and when the editorial assistant accepted the charges and put the telephone in her modem, I placed my own phone in my modem. Then I ordered my machine to send the story to the publisher's machine. It was quick and easy and free of charge. I began to get enthusiastic about The Computer Age.

I celebrated the delivery of the story by watching a couple of soap operas, a game show, and the noon news. Then I watched John Payne and Virginia Mayo in a lousy western, a
Happy Days
rerun, and a
Laverne and Shirley
rerun. Then it was time for the evening news.

It took a massive effort of will not to watch the news again. I swung my feet down to the floor and stood up. I felt pretty good, the cumulative effect of several beers and my success of the morning. I decided that I would do a little more work in the evening. I had an idea for another short story; if I finished it in a couple of days, and if Steinschlager liked it, the money would pay for some more computer equipment I wanted. I went into my office and sat at the console. I stared at the blank green screen. I was tempted for an instant to play a video game instead, but my professional discipline asserted itself. Then I noticed that there were messages on my telephone answering machine. I played them back.

The first message was from Cooperman, my collaborator on a series of heroic fantasy novels. "Sorry to hear you're sick, Sandy," came Cooperman's high-pitched voice. "Take your time getting better, the book can wait. I've finished Chapter Eleven and will mail it this afternoon."

I wondered what the hell Cooperman meant by that. I wasn't sick. The only recuperation I had done had been from occasional hangovers. Someone had apparently started a rumor that I'd been ill; rumors popped up all the time, and they were very hard to squash.

The second caller had been Steinschlager. "Great story, Sandy. We'll send the check soon." That was cheerful news.

The third message was from my ex-wife. "Sandy? This is Bea. I heard you were sick; do you need anything? Call me and let me know how you're doing. I
know
you; you'll be up and around real soon."

I was dismayed. I didn't know what I could do about the rumor except call everyone in my address book and tell them I wasn't sick. I was irritated, but I calmed myself down and began the new story. It was called "Let's Be Frank," and was about a guy who wakes up to find two alien minds inexplicably and snottily inhabiting his body with him. I didn't know if I should do the story straight or make it funny. I'd let my creativity decide that. I hadn't actually exercised my creativity much lately.