Virtual People
by Doug M. Dawson
part 1
The Blakesteers all awoke at the same instant, not of their own accord, rather as the result of some power which forced them to sit up and look around. Thoughts began to pour into their heads as they stretched and yawned.
William Blakesteer was six-feet two, had a paunch and weighed over 240 pounds. He remembered he was a husband and father but little else except that he was the writer of a number of successful movie scripts, stage plays, short stories and novels and that his work was appreciated by critics and the public at large.
His wife Susan was totally nondescript in appearance, her face a blur, like a ball of cotton. She knew only that she was here and now and had a family consisting of a husband and two children.
“Another morning, another day, another grain of sand, falling through the hourglass of time! These are the days of our lives,” said Susan.
William rolled over and looked straight into his wife’s face. “Your eyes: two pools of ice-blue seawater, with the tide coming in.”
“Oh, William! Your words are the vast bay windows that let me see into your soul!”
They felt the same gigantic force let them go, allowing them to think their own thoughts and speak their own words.
William winced. “My God! Why are we talking like this? I feel like we’re stuck in a soap opera with the world’s worst script.”
Susan looked at her husband with a mixture of admiration and confusion. “I feel like you just had your arms around me tightly then took them away.”
Lilly Blakesteer was 14 years old and attractive, with a blonde ponytail. Facts — all sorts of facts — about history, art, geography, science and mathematics swam through her head, though she couldn’t remember where the information came from, or even if she’d ever read a book.
The Blakesteer’s son was named Ted, aged 17. He was tall and quite thin, with close-cropped brown hair and a couple of moles on his face. Like Lilly, he was very bright, though his intelligence was specialized in one area: computers. He could find his way around the Internet, hack his way into other people’s computers and write software. The Blakesteers owned a computer, but Ted could not remember working or studying to acquire his knowledge. Like Lilly, he just seemed to have it.
* * *
The Blakesteers felt the same irresistible power again and mechanically got out of their beds and met in the living room, which was as nondescript as Mrs. Blakesteer’s face. They looked out of the large bay window and noticed the clear blue sky and blazing sun, all of which suddenly disappeared, replaced by grey clouds. The Blakesteers looked at each other, wondering. The force that gripped them let them go.
“That’s not supposed to happen, is it?” asked Susan, “Or that either,” looking at the walls, which were changing color as she spoke. “Wasn’t that wall a dull green a minute ago? It’s pale blue now.” William stared and blinked.
The children nodded. As the Blakesteers looked around the room, the furniture started to exhibit the same strange behavior. What was a small, plain brown table a moment ago was now ebony colored, with Japanese designs on it. A green upholstered chair became a brown leather Lazy-boy recliner.
“I hope this continues,” said William, concerned but trying to maintain his sense of humor. “The furniture’s getting better every second. If whoever’s doing this could only do something about the house and the neighborhood.”
Susan did not share her husband’s amusement. “I don’t like this,” she said and then thought for a second. “I almost said ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before,’ but then I can’t remember seeing anything before... before we woke up, that is. How can that be?”
“Neither can I,” said Ted. “But I do remember using computers.. since I was eight years old. How come I can’t remember anything else? It’s morning; shouldn’t I be getting ready to go to school? But I can’t remember what school I go to.”
“I don’t remember ever going to school,” stated Lilly. “I can’t remember learning to write or read, yet I can tell you about history and name every country in the world. I can recite poetry and I’m proficient at math. I know I can play the piano, though I don’t remember us ever owning one.”
Once again, the weather changed outside. It was now partially sunny - not as if the sun was beginning to push the clouds away, but more like the entire sky had just been painted over by a giant brush.
William Blakesteer was becoming concerned. “Any of you religious?” he asked. “Funny, I can’t remember that. Seems to me now’s the time to pray.” He tried to pray out loud, but no words came to him. Not only could he not remember any prayers, he couldn’t remember what religion he and his family belonged to or if they were religious at all.
“What do we do?” asked Susan, as the force took hold of her again. Her facial features became distinct, as if the others had wiped their dirty eyeglasses and could see her clearly now. She was quite attractive, though her age was indeterminate. Her clothing also changed, from a nightgown to a slightly old-fashioned, but not unattractive print dress, with color-matched high-heeled shoes. Her hair was shorter and neatly styled, and she resembled June Cleaver, of television’s Leave It to Beaver, the housewife who managed to stay impeccably dressed and coiffed even while doing housework.
William and the kids felt the force and their clothing likewise changed from bedclothes to casual wear. The kids sported Nikes, GAP jeans and long-sleeved tops whose only distinguishing feature was the name “Hilfiger.” William wore the kind of loafers boat owners wear, Dockers pants and a designer sweatshirt, which was suitable attire for a man who worked at home.
He seemed to recall doing his writing on yellow legal pads, using freshly sharpened no. 2 Ticonderoga pencils, and that all he needed to get started was a good story idea, a large pot of fresh coffee and said legal pad and pencils. He always wrote with an opened pack of cigarettes on his desk and just put his feet up and went to work.
Then he felt the force let go and thought, That’s strange; I don’t smoke. After reflecting for another second, he knew that wasn’t how he worked at all. It was a cliché, like something one reads in those “How to Write A Great Screenplay” books, where the author relates how some famous screenwriter of the past worked. William used a computer. It was so much faster and easier. A bad page could simply be edited, rather than torn up and thrown away, not to mention those godsends cutting and pasting. He recalled that he didn’t drink coffee, either.
Susan remembered she loved her children, but couldn’t remember getting pregnant, going through labor or going to the hospital or anywhere else to have them. When Lilly and Ted tried to remember growing up, they were likewise stymied. Neither could recall anything, save waking this morning.
“We’ve got to figure out what’s going on here,” said William. “There has to be an answer. We know we’re alive, as we can all see and touch each other, but we don’t seem to know much else.” Then it hit him, though for a moment his mind refused to face the realization. “As a screenwriter it’s perfectly obvious, the second I awoke it should have dawned on me, no pun intended. We’re characters in somebody else’s story, that’s what we are. There’s no other way everything around us could change in front of our eyes and we all could have no memories. That force: we feel it when he’s writing about us.”
Susan and the kids looked perplexed for a minute, then wounded, as if somebody had just taken away the reason for their existence.
Ted spoke up first: “You mean I’m... we’re all...?”
“Maybe you’re all, but I’m not,” interrupted Lilly. “I’m real.”
“’Fraid not, honey,” quipped her father. “Believe me. I’m a screenwriter, I know. I do this for a living. All day long I create virtual characters, in today’s parlance, alive only in my imagination and my computer. Then I edit and try to improve them. I’ve always thought, ‘I’m glad my creations aren’t real; they might not like me changing them at will.’
“Not only are we just virtual people, we’ve been created by a lousy writer. The way you woke up, Susan, without any clear features, proves it. And our conversation! This guy can’t write dialog, and he doesn’t know how to give clear descriptions, so his characters are vague, just like your face earlier, this dumb house and the weather, both of which are changing as we speak. Since he doesn’t know what he wants, he keeps changing everything.”
“What do we do?” asked Susan, feeling panicky. “Will he destroy us? I don’t want to die, even if I’m not... alive.”
“He can change this house and the weather all he damn pleases,” offered William defiantly, but I like us just the way we are. We’ve got to notify him somehow, tell him he’s screwing up, that we want to continue to exist, because — to us, at least — we’re alive, and we like it what way. How do we notify the guy who created us? Everybody think!”
The whole family was lost in thought for about a minute. Suddenly Ted’s face looked like a lightbulb that had just been turned on. “I’ve got it!” he said. “Look, I’ll use my computer. It and everything in this house is sitting inside his computer isn’t it? Anything I do on my computer may impact on his computer somehow.”
His father thought for a second. “Only if he uses a computer to do his writing.”
Ted chimed in again. “Well, he’d better be using one. I’ll send him an e-mail.”
His father frowned. “Even I know enough about computers to know that’s absurd. Your e-mail won’t go anywhere, because it’s not real, just like us. It will only be virtual e-mail.”
“We’re supposed to be virtual, but he made us alive without realizing it. As long as we’re alive, I think we can exchange messages.”
His father still looked puzzled, then said “OK, we’ll try anything.” Suddenly William felt the overwhelming force grab him and his features started to blur. He began to disappear, the way Star Trek characters do before the transporter reassembles them somewhere else.
William started to panic. “Help! I’m disintegrating. He must be changing my character. Do something, notify him quick, or your father will disappear for good.”
Ted ran to his computer, composed a message, found the e-mail address to send it to conveniently listed in the “Address Book” section of his e-mail program, and sent it out in a flash. He looked behind him. His father was getting fainter every second.
* * *
David Selsun had always dreamed of being an actor, but by age 39 he felt dissuaded by his 5’7” height, premature baldness and general pallor, not to mention his age. Writing seemed a more realistic option. So contrary and stubborn that his father labeled him “the hard-headed Dutchman,” he was one of those people who get older but not wiser.
With a few screenwriting classes under his belt and mild encouragement from his teacher, Selsun convinced himself of his great talent, sold his house, quit his job and moved, family in tow, to an apartment in L.A., where he devoted himself to creating movie scripts.
He told his wife the money from the house would support them for years, during which time he would establish his reputation as a screenwriting force to be reckoned with. Three years had come and gone, with little to show but a depressing series of rejections and a depleted bank account. Along with his savings went his wife and two children.
Now separated at age 42, with no income except what he earned working weekends and evening shifts at a convenience store, Selsun felt like the bitter failure he was. To his credit, that didn’t stop him from working. He had learned the maxim that success in any endeavor is more perspiration than inspiration.
Selsun sat at his computer, retyping the description of a character he had created, one William Blakesteer, when an e-mail arrived. Puzzled, he stopped long enough to read the message. It said:
STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING! THIS IS TED BLAKESTEER. YOU ARE MAKING MY FATHER DISAPPEAR! PLEASE RETYPE WHATEVER DESCRIPTION YOU HAD FOR HIM ORIGINALLY, SO HE WILL COME BACK THE WAY HE WAS.
Selsun couldn’t believe his eyes. “This must be a hacker’s prank,” he thought, an e-mail from somebody who knew about the characters he was creating for his new story. The only trouble with that idea was that nobody else knew about the story. “What the hell is this, The Twilight Zone?” he muttered to himself.
Selsun sat there, not knowing what to do. Finally, he decided it was a joke of some sort and that he’d play along. Quickly he erased the lines he had just typed and re-entered them the way he thought he remembered them. Then he waited.
Ted Blakesteer turned to look behind him. His father quickly came back into focus. William’s features were clear and he looked just as he had before, except for a few minor details. His greying hair was now darker and his cheeks had a ruddy color.
“Whew!” said William, patting himself all over his body with both hands. “That was close. You know, I even feel a bit younger. This is great.”
“Want me to have him make you younger still?”
“No, thank you. I feel young enough. That’s as close as I ever want to come to being deleted.”
“I can’t believe it worked.”
“Never look a gift horse in the mouth. We’ve got to figure out what to do next. I, for one, would like to preserve whatever tenuous grasp on reality we have here, maybe even improve our lot.”
“Here comes another e-mail.”
“Read it out loud.”
MY NAME IS DAVE SELSUN. YOU HAVE ME TO THANK FOR YOUR EXISTENCE. I TRUST EVERYTHING IS BACK THE WAY IT WAS.
“Thinks he’s God, doesn’t he?” Lilly said.
“Don’t be sassy,” said her mother. “After all, he did create us.”
Ted said defiantly “I’m going to tell Selsun to learn how to write,”
“Oh no you don’t!” said his father. “Do you want him to delete us and start over? Let’s try to work with him.”
“OK, then what do I tell him?”
“Let me think... I’ve got it: he’s having trouble with his writing. That’s my specialty! Ask if we can work with him on one of his scripts.”
Ted typed away and sent out another message. He didn’t have to wait long for a reply.
WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, HELP ME WITH MY SCRIPTS? YOU ARE MY CHARACTERS. I TELL YOU WHAT TO DO, NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND!
“He sounds angry, Dad. Maybe that wasn’t the ideal thing to tell him.”
“It’s the only thing we’ve got that he really needs,” offered William. “Move over, son. Let me try. I’ll be more diplomatic.”
Selsun was considering deleting the whole file containing the Blakesteers when another e-mail arrived. It read:
DEAR DAVE, MY NAME IS WILLIAM BLAKESTEER. I AM GRATEFUL FOR THE EXISTENCE YOU HAVE GIVEN US. YOU CREATED ME TO BE A WRITER AND MY STORIES, NOVELS, STAGE PLAYS AND SCREENPLAYS HAVE BEEN SUCCESSFUL IN THIS VIRTUAL WORLD. LET ME SHARE ONE OF MY SCRIPTS WITH YOU. IT MAY BE GOOD ENOUGH TO WORK IN YOUR WORLD.
Selsun relaxed and sat back in his chair, thinking, Maybe they’re real. It didn’t seem honest, accepting scripts from his own characters, but he was desperate and sent a message asking to see Blakesteer’s work. Another message came, this time with a file attached. The message read:
THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME SHARE ONE OF MY SCREENPLAYS WITH YOU, DAVE. IT’S A MURDER MYSTERY TITLED “DEAD ON.” I HOPE YOU LIKE IT.
When Selsun printed out the file and read it, he wished he’d written it himself. He raced to the phone. One thing he had learned in Hollywood was how to market himself and make connections. He’d blown it with several prospective agents and producers by making the mistake of showing them his early work. He had been wise enough, however, to save one contact for a rainy day, a producer named Stu Blumenthal who had been recommended by a fellow writer. This producer had never heard of Dave Selsun.
The next day Selsun visited Blumenthal, who was not in, so the script was entrusted to a studio assistant, who took it home to read. The following morning Blumenthal returned to find a script on his desk with the note “I strongly urge you to read this right away. John R.”
After a busy day. Blumenthal likewise took it home with him. A few days later Selsun was elated to receive a call and an offer to option “Dead On” for $50,000. Blumenthal told Selsun he would pull out all the stops to get it made into a movie, in which case Selsun would receive a lot more money.
Selsun was beside himself; he’d just had his first success as a screenwriter, even if the script wasn’t his. He was ready to make his next move. He wanted to see if his virtual goose could lay another golden egg.
Copyright © 2023 by Doug M. Dawson
