And so, that Wednesday, Marie went back to work at Daedalus Incorporated, answering a staggering amount of calls from angry customers of the much more successful company. The desk had turned from Marie’s music studio to Jones’ writing studio. They accompanied Marie’s work with the rhythmic clacking of the keys, getting considerably fast at a remarkable rate. It was only a few days into this that Jones ran out of things to transcribe, having to come up with brand new material for their book. They described how it felt so much longer when they were writing the entire thing by hand and thanked Marie for introducing something that made the act of their art very much faster.
“Have you never had a typewriter, or any other kind of keyboard?” Marie asked after this statement regarding speed.
“I had a little laptop computer once.” Jones explained. “My best friend gave it to me when we were both in high school as a birthday present.”
“What happened to it?”
“One day, I was heading home from school when a bomb hit the Washington Monument. The impact caused the ground to shake and I fell into the pool in front of it. The whole area is concrete now, probably including that laptop.”
“I’m so sorry. Did it have anything on it?”
“Nothing important, y’know.” Jones lied, and then got the sudden notion that they should tell the truth. “Just the first one.” Jones said.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“The first what?” Marie asked.
“The first book I tried to write. I only got about 50 pages into it.” Jones looked up at Marie’s expectant eyes. “I bet you’re wondering what that one was about.” They said with a smile. Marie nodded. “My first book was about a vampire. I was really into monsters back then. This vampire, the main character of my book, really doesn’t want to be a vampire, because he’s a pacifist. He decides to live his life in quiet solitude, feasting on the wild boar and deer within the forests surrounding his small town when someone comes to his door.”
“Who?” Marie asked.
“The postman, of course!” Jones said, gesturing. “The only person that someone like that is guaranteed to see every day! I thought I was so clever. That’s about when I stopped writing the thing, when my laptop fell into the pool at the Washington Monument.”
“What was it called?”
“‘Return to Sender’ or something trite like that.”
“I’d very much like to read it.” Marie said, getting up to get a glass of water. “Maybe when you’re done with ‘The Unbeatable Foe’, you should rewrite and finish ‘Return to Sender’.” This caused the rhythmic clacking of Jones’ keyboard to stop as they considered something for a brief moment.
“Why do you care so much?” Jones asked. “About my writing, I mean. I’ve never been particularly great at writing. If you’ve noticed, I can hardly string a sentence together when I’m talking with people, let alone when I’m writing it down. So, I’m just asking, why? Why did you bring this goddamned heavy thing all the way from your father’s home just so that I would have something to write on?”
“I saw it and I thought of you.” Marie said. “I can’t really explain it other than that. I saw it and the first thing I thought of was the fact that you were writing that superhero book and what the moral of it was. I’ve read what you’ve had to write before and I think that it’s beautiful, but it’s that moral that really kept me going when I was at my father’s house.”
“Thank you.” Jones said. “I really appreciate that.”