Everything Went Better Than Expected

His fingers positioned themselves rigidly at the keys, obedient soldiers at the ready, waiting for their incompetent commander to give the order to attack. The light of the black screen glared at him, daring him to make a move. It seemed very Clint Eastwood; instead of seeing the words he needed to fill the screen, he only saw Dirty Harry inquiring about luck. His editor's voice agitated him, though she called nine hours ago.

"Jack, we've been waiting two months for your follow-up, and you've had nothing; if you don't have anything by next month, we're dropping you" Click. Just one sentence, and she hung up. One sentence, but he couldn't get Sheena's wretched voice out of his head; her voice, like rusty nails scraping along a pane of glass, always irritated him. Her words, though, got to him worse than her voice; just like that, he saw and felt his world crashing in on him. One month? how could he possibly follow up a bestseller within a month? His career as a writer teetered on the verge of collapse, and he only just begun.

He felt now the sweat that ran down his forehead while he thought about Sheena's ultimatum, and his inability to write. The walls were steadily closing in on him. Writer's block hit him at the peak of his success, and now, two months later, it still held his fingers from typing, still restrained his mind from creating.

He could remember a story he read about Kurt Vonnegut. When Kurt was a writer for a sports magazine, he was assigned to write a story of a horse at a race jumping over a fence. Kurt had stared for hours at a blank piece of paper in his typewriter, before finally writing, "The horse jumped over the fucking fence" Jack laughed loudly at his desk, his cackles bouncing across the walls of the spacious apartment he may no longer be able to afford. Inspiration took him suddenly, hit him in the gut, completely knocked writer's block the fuck out. Kurt Vonnegut, the man who inspired to Jck to become a writer, now inspired him again to write what he felt, he knew, would be his next hit, possibly his magnum opus.

Jack lunged forward violently and attacked his keyboard, battering the keys with the rapid strokes of a madman. His stiff back cracked in protest of the sudden movement, but he ignored the pain and possible dislocation of vertebrae; after this book sells, he'll get the best, most expensive chiropractor in the Western Hemisphere. His fingers flew violently over the keys, churning out word after word, as if they were inmates released from prison and let loose at the Playboy Mansion. His mind, first completely devoid of any creativity, now overloaded him with words and ideas. He felt as if his skull was simply bursting with literary gold; the next great American novel was practically spilling from his ears.

He typed without any pause, except to fulfill basic bodily functions such as the need to geat, urinate, and smoke pot (you know, for inspiration). For three days, he sat at his desk and simply typed. His cell buzzed every now and then, but it went totally ignored. The doorbell rang, but its chime fell on the deaf ears of a man in the middle of creating his masterpiece. He worked feverishly until finally, he got to the end. He stared in wonderment at his once blank screen, now filled with words whcih will change people's lives; more importantly, Jack knew those words will make him a very, very rich man. He already could envision the party he would soon throw, could already see the piles of cocaine which would litter his apartment, the beautiful women roaming around topless, and all the coolest people pretending to be his friend so they could snort the coke and fuck the women. He saw no point in even reading over his work; he knew in his soul that each and every word written was a diamond, fresh from some desolate mine in Somalia. With the swagger of a man already mentally spending his millions, alreay accepting numerous literary awards, he picked up his cell and called Sheena, that raspy bitch of an editor.

"Jack! I've been trying to call you the past few days..."

"Shut up and listen" Jack interrupted. He could feel her glaring at his command; Sheena wasn't the kind of woman whom you told what to do. "I finished it"

"But," Sheena said slowly after a short, confused pause, "you said you didn't have anything...at all..."

"I'll be by tomorrow at two" Jack replied and hung up, not wanting to talk any longer; he also wanted to mess with Sheena, make her expect a a load of crap, so her mind would be even more blown when she reads over the next million-dollar book for her company. He checked the ink and paper in his printer; just enough to print. He hit "print", leaned back, and smiled at the satisfying sound of his fortune being made.

He awoke the next day at two-thirty. Already late, he yawned, stretched, and slowly checked his cell. Fourteen calls and voicemails, and thirty-two texts. He felt Sheena's anxiety, the anxiety of anyone in business potentially losing money. The knowledge that he made her worry, made her freakout, brought a big, dumb grin to his face. Nothing he loved more than making suits squirm; what's the point in any creative career if you can't find joy in fucking with business-types? Jack knew Sheena's sour mood would dissipate the second she took a gander at his million dollar book. So, why not take his time getting there?

After a hot shower, leisurely wank, cereal, and a couple of joints, Jack finally put on his shoes, picked up his manuscript, and left. Rather than take his car, he decided today to walk. It was such a nice day out: the sun was shining, a breeze was blowing, and dammit, he deserved to enjoy life now, seeing as he soon would be laying around his apartmen in a drunken, coked-up stupor, with possibly an STI festering on his genitals. Then there was the rehab stint which would have to happen, the inevitable relapse...he couldn't stop fantasizing about his future rockstar lifestyle.

Finally, he arrived at the outside of his publisher's building. He made his way towards the elevator, stopped, examined his stomach, and decided to get some exercise by taking the stairs. After climbing the six flights to Sheena's office, he stopped for a quick breather, checking his watch. "4:17" the glowing face read. This information made Jack laugh, mostly because he was stoned, but also because he knew Sheena was paused. He stepped into her office.

"Jack!" Sheena screamed, inches from his face, spittle flying as she vocally released two hours and seventeen minutes of pent-up rage. "What the fuck is wrong with you, showing up so fucking late, stoned as Hell, what are you doing, why are you such an immature prick, and why are you wearing that stupid fucking grin!" Her voice, already usually raspy, now made Jack wince as it tore through his eardrums. He just smiled, sat behind her desk, and plopped the manuscript on the desk. Sheena dashed for it, greedy hands eagerly snatching up what she hoped would be a best-seller. Jack continued beaming as she hastily read through it.

At first, Sheena's eagerness filled Jack with an even bigger sense of having written something important. However, within a few pages, Sheena slowed down, her countenance fell, and Jack felt his stomach drop to his feet. She slowly handed the manuscript back to him.

"What's the matter?" he rushed the words, wanting an answer immediately. She simply motioned for him to read it, and so he did for the first time.

"Listen," the story began, "Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time" Jack stared disbelievingly at what his own two hands had written. He kept reading, hoping it was just a fluke, but it wasn't. He hadn't written a story influenced by Kurt Vonnegut, but instead had simply copied "Slaughterhouse Five" word for word. After the shock of this realization wore off, he fell to his knees, blubbering, snot and tears running down his face. Sheena stared at him in both disgust and confusion. She slowly patted his back, not entirely sure of what to do; she never was able to understand other people's emotions, and never knew what to do in these situations.

"Um, there-there" she said slowly. "It's not that bad"

"Not that bad!" Jack sobbed and blew his nose, which disgusted Sheena even further. "My 'masterpiece' is blatant copyright infringement!"

"Oh, relax!" Sheena thumped his nose, which bewildered him, and shut him up. "People do this all the time in this business! 'Slaughterhouse Five' was a big hit, so we'll just reword your manuscript and pretend it's original! We'll all be rich, still! Problem solved!"

"Really?" Jack looked up at her, red-eyed, snot still running. "Will I really be able to have a big cocaine party in celebration?" his voice quivered with hope.

"Kid, you got a lot to learn about this business of selling 'art'" Sheena fake-smiled at him. "You're gonna be able to afford all the coke you can snort!" Jack grinned now, ecstatic that what he and all his hippy friends said about publishers being greedy fucks who don't care at all about art was true. Sheena took back the manuscript, and Jack skipped merrily out of the office. Everything went better than expected.