Virtual People

by Doug M. Dawson

conclusion

William Blakesteer had been sitting at the computer for what seemed to be only seconds, when another message came in. “Incoming!” he yelled to Ted, who pretended to duck. The message read:

I STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW THIS CAN BE? MY CREATIONS WRITING BETTER MATERIAL THAN I CAN. I SOLD YOUR SCRIPT, WILLIAM. CAN YOU WRITE ME ANOTHER?

William composed another message, blurting out:

WHY WRITE ANOTHER? I’VE GOT A WHOLE TRUNK FULL OF ‘EM!

The second he sent out the message he realized he’d made a tactical error by tipping his hand. Now Selsun would expect an unending stream of new scripts. At least he’s not going to delete us, he thought, going to his trunk to fish out another manuscript. “The last one was a murder mystery. Better give him something different this time,” he said to his family. “ We don’t want our boy to become typecast, now do we?”

Blakesteer looked at romances, then mysteries and melodramas, finally settling on a comedy called “Have A Good Trip,” about a pratfalling TV comic whose private life mirrored his comedy skits. William delivered the script to Selsun as he had the last one, and once again sat down to wait with his family.

Hollywood is a small town, in that whatever is in production or even in consideration is “out there” for everyone to see. “Dead On” was no exception. No sooner had Stu Blumenthal’s production assistants started making pre-production inquiries about casting, financing and the like when the buzz about the terrific script began. One producer was heard to say “I remember that Selsun guy. He practically pushed himself down my throat. His stuff was amateur. It can’t be him!”

Whatever some producers thought, Selsun was now “hot.” He began to get calls from agents and other producers, all looking for the next great script. With the Hollywood rumor mill working for him, Selsun had no trouble arranging a meeting with a representative of a movie studio to show them his next offering. “Have A Good Trip” clicked with the studio, which arranged to buy it outright for $500,000.

Selsun was ecstatic; he had it made, a reputation, good scripts with his name on them and, most important, money. The pièce de résistance was Selsun’s wife calling to say she and the kids were moving back in.

* * *

No sooner was the Selsun family back together when Dave turned to thinking about his virtual family again. Maybe I should have them send me a pile of scripts all at once, he thought. He’d get a production line going and sell the steady stream of scripts until he was rich enough to live in splendor. He felt like a small child on Christmas Eve, practically bursting at the seams at the thought of the bounty he was about to receive.

He sent another message to William Blakesteer, who read it aloud to his family:

I THINK IT’S TIME FOR ANOTHER SCRIPT, WILLIAM. BY THE WAY, THE LAST ONE WAS PURCHASED BY WARNER BROTHERS. I’M BECOMING THE TALK OF THE TOWN.

William looked at his family, amused. He knew what they were thinking.

“He’ll take all your work, William, then what’s to make him keep us around?” said Susan dejectedly.

“Yeah, Dad,” added Ted. “This guy’s starting to think he deserves his success.”

Lilly offered, “How about making him do something for us?”

The family carefully considered Lily’s suggestion.

When Selsun finally received another message, it read:

DEAR DAVE, SO GLAD TO HEAR THE SCRIPT SOLD FOR YOU. WE WANT TO SEE YOU CONTINUE IN THIS FASHION. WE NEED SOMETHING FROM YOU IN RETURN, HOWEVER. WE LIVE IN A RUN-DOWN HOME IN A SO-SO NEIGHBORHOOD, IN A CONSTANT STATE OF ANXIETY ABOUT OUR FUTURE. WE WANT YOU TO MAKE US PERMANENT, AS IT WERE, AND TO IMPROVE OUR SURROUNDINGS, JUST AS MY SCRIPTS ARE IMPROVING YOURS. SINCERELY, WILLIAM.

Selsun once again fumed at the mere idea of taking orders from characters he had created. He angrily sent off another message:

THERE YOU GO AGAIN, TELLING ME WHAT TO DO. I’LL ASK YOU ONCE MORE: WHO’S IN CHARGE HERE?

Just as before, the Blakesteers humored him:

YOU ARE, DAVE.

“Goddamn right!” Selsun replied. And he vented his spleen again:

I’VE GOT A GOOD MIND TO DELETE ALL OF YOU RIGHT NOW. I SUGGEST YOU SEND ME SOME MORE SCRIPTS BEFORE I GET ANY ANGRIER.

He was surprised at the response:

WE WOULDN’T WANT YOU TO DO THAT, BUT IT WOULD HURT YOU FAR MORE THAN US. YOU WOULDN’T HAVE ANY MORE SCRIPTS TO SELL. BUT WE WANT TO WORK WITH YOU, DAVE. YOU’RE GOING TO BE THE GREATEST SCREENWRITER IN HOLLYWOOD.

William now had Selsun where he wanted him, almost. He sent another message:

DAVE, I’VE GOT AN IDEA THAT SHOULD MAKE US BOTH HAPPY. SEND ME THE FILE THAT HAS YOUR ORIGINAL STORY ABOUT US, AS WE ARE NOW. I’LL CREATE A NEW SCREENPLAY BASED ON THAT AND MAIL THE SCREENPLAY BACK TO YOU. SELL IT AND MAKE YOURSELF ANOTHER BUNDLE!

IN THE SCREENPLAY I’LL MAKE MY VIRTUAL FAMILY WELL OFF. HAVING IT MADE INTO A MOVIE AND “OUT THERE” FOR THE PUBLIC TO SEE WILL MAKE US REAL, IN A SENSE, AND WE WON’T HAVE TO WORRY ANY MORE ABOUT OUR FRAGILE EXISTENCE.

AS FOR THE FILE CONTAINING YOUR ORIGINAL STORY, DELETE THE FILE AFTER YOU SEND IT TO US — NO NEED TO BACK IT UP — HAVING MY SCREENPLAY’S VERSION OF US PLUS THE ORIGINAL STORY IN THE COMPUTER AT THE SAME TIME MIGHT CAUSE A CONFLICT AND GIVE UNPREDICTABLE RESULTS, EVEN DESTROY US.

Selsun thought out loud: “It’ll be my own script this time. I’m just having it ghostwritten... That’s it: ghostwritten.”

He sent his original, unfinished story to his virtual family and stopped before deleting the original. Not completely trusting the Blakesteers, he saved the file to a diskette before deleting it from his hard drive, so that, if necessary, he could recreate the original version of the Blakesteers from the diskette and start all over, with them at his disposal. He absent-mindedly left the diskette in its drive.

William Blakesteer looked over Selsun’s unfinished story, while his family read over his shoulder. “I knew it,” said William. He can’t write, he can’t decide what he wants and he obviously can’t finish things. What a mess.”

“What’s a mess: the script or Selsun?” asked Lilly.

“Both.”

“You can fix it... and help us... can’t you?” asked Ted. “The minute your script appears in the real world — and Dave Selsun deletes that original file — our surroundings — and us — will be just the way you describe them in your screenplay. In other words, we’ll be well-off.”

“I hope so,” said William. “And I can fix any script ever written,” he added immodestly but accurately.

Ted leaned over and whispered something into his father’s ear. Suddenly his father stopped typing and turned around.

“What is it?” pleaded Lilly and Susan with their eyes.

Ted had spotted something that Dave Selsun had inadvertently typed into the original story about the Blakesteers: a piece of information that would free them from Selsun forever. “I hope to hell the power doesn’t go off in his PC,” voiced Ted. “Once he deletes his original story about us we only exist in his computer’s volatile memory. If his power goes off or he reboots his computer we’ll be destroyed. Unless he backed the file up, we’d cease to exist and couldn’t ever be recreated the same again, unless he could remember every word in the file and then he retyped it. I had to take that gamble — I couldn’t risk him using the old file to recreate us — we’d be his slaves forever.”

William, Susan and Lilly turned and looked at Ted.

Selsun had been out all morning, driving his kids to school and dropping his wife off at the realtor’s office. His recent good fortune had brought him not only money and prestige but the return of his family and had put him in a position to put a down payment on an expensive home, complete with palm trees and a large swimming pool.

His wife arranged financing with the realtor while Selsun awaited the script that would pay for said home and furnishings. He paced in front of his computer, wondering how long a piece of ghostwriting, indeed any really good piece of writing should take.

William was nearly done when a message arrived saying:

WHAT’S TAKING YOU SO LONG? I’M BUYING A HOME. A NEED A NEW SCRIPT TO PAY FOR IT. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU PEOPLE DOING IN THERE?

The Blakesteers were planning a move of their own, one more profound than Selsun’s. William spent another hour finishing the script, entitled “Virtual People,” then sent it out in a file attached to an e-mail. Unfortunately for Selsun, the e-mail was not addressed to him. The Blakesteers had decided to deal with their real-world creator much as he had dealt with them.

* * *

That same afternoon Stu Rosenthal received an e-mail. Attached was a file containing a script entitled “Virtual People.” It was a fantasy about an unsuccessful writer who was helped by the virtual characters he created. The e-mail invited Rosenthal to read the script and offered to sell it to him. All he had to do to complete the transaction was to open a bank account in the name of William Blakesteer and deposit $100 in the account. The only other stipulation was that the description of the movie’s characters and their home must not be altered.

This script’s got “hit” written all over it, thought Rosenthal after reading it at home in his bathtub. The next day, he went to his bank, opened the account as directed. and made the deposit. As he headed for his office his imagination ran wild. He could shop it to all the “big boys.” There might be a bidding war — he could name his price. He might even direct it... he hadn’t directed in years — partly because he hadn’t had a script like this.

Not having received a reply to his last message, Selsun fired off another salvo. It was time to get tough again. This one said:

I’M STILL WAITING! WHERE IS MY SCRIPT? I HAVEN’T HEARD FROM YOU IN HOURS! DO YOU WANT ME TO DELETE YOU? I’LL REWRITE YOU ALL WITH BIG, UGLY WARTS! I’LL GIVE YOU SPEECH IMPEDIMENTS!

Selsun sat back and waited for a reply, then got bored and went for a walk.

Soon after he went out his wife came in, carrying large shopping bags. She walked past the computer and looked at the screen. Hoping to see progress on the new script that would pay off her dream house outright and give her far more spending money, she found instead a message intended for her husband:

DAVE - THIS IS YOUR VIRTUAL FAMILY. WE’RE FED UP WITH YOUR ULTIMATIMS AND YOUR INEPT SCRIPT. IT HAD TO BE REWRITTEN FROM SCRATCH. WE MADE IT A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT STORY, ONE YOU NO LONGER OWN. WE SOLD IT. WE’RE CONFIDENT IT WILL BE MADE INTO A MOTION PICTURE.

BY THE WAY, WE’RE MOVING. YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO REACH US HERE ANY LONGER. AS FOR YOUR WRITING, WE SUGGEST YOU GO BACK TO SELLING VACUUM CLEANERS OR WHATEVER IT WAS YOU USED TO DO. SO LONG!”

Rita Selsun didn’t find this practical joke amusing, assuming it was left by some malicious hacker or a competing screenwriter. She tried to delete the e-mail, but instead managed to activate the “Format” program, which dutifully went to work on the diskette left sitting in the floppy drive.

Dave walked back into the house to find his wife staring at the computer screen. When she saw her husband, a pained look crossed her face. Dave knew that look: it meant she had done something stupid and probably unredeemable. He walked over to his computer to find the insulting e-mail still on the screen, which left him standing there with his mouth open. All he could think of to say was “How the hell did they know I used to sell vacuum cleaners?”

To add insult to injury, the diskette with the only copy of his virtual characters was being reformatted! Selsun looked at his wife and screamed at the top of voice: “What the hell did you do? Do you realize what you did? My script is gone. Now I can’t... I can never...” He stopped himself from blurting out the truth: that he couldn’t produce any more scripts, that his income was dependent upon some figments of his own imagination that used to live in his computer.

His wife had the inevitable comeback: “If it was a valuable file, surely you made a copy of it.” Immediately after the formatting completed, he tried to retype his story from memory. But he couldn’t remember it exactly, and this time it didn’t work. Everything he typed simply flipped some bits inside the computer. Nothing came to life.

* * *

Computer types like to say a virtual entity is something you can see but that doesn’t really exist, like images on a movie screen. But who’s to say things we imagine can’t ever exist within the “reality” of their own universe, like the people we see in a dream?

Somewhere in cyberspace, in that netherworld between reality and another dimension consisting of things that could be, there really was a family enjoying the best that life had to offer. The father was a screenwriter, whose success had allowed his family to move into one of those fabled Beverly Hills palaces movie stars inhabit: white columns in front, spacious grounds with lovely gardens and ponds and a back yard containing palm trees and a large swimming pool.

William sat in a lounge chair at the edge of the pool, typing a new script in his laptop, while Susan, Ted and Lilly splashed in the pool.

Ted climbed out of the pool and came over to talk to his father as he dried himself off.

“Have a good swim?”

“Sure, Dad, this pool is great.”

“We owe it all to you, son. If you hadn’t seen Stu Blumenthal’s e-mail address in Selsun’s story, we might not be here or anywhere else, for that matter. When Blumenthal printed out the script and made a movie out of it, we became permanent. I rewrote the script to put us where we are now.”

“Poor Selsun. I almost feel sorry for him.”

“I don’t. And that new home of his, he’s probably lost it by now. If he’s got any sense he’s moved back to Kansas or wherever he came from.”

* * *

Back in the real world, very real problems had overtaken one far less successful writer, who had become financially overextended. The Selsuns had bought a house they couldn’t afford and gone through the money from the scripts that Selsun had cashed in on. These days it was Rita’s voice instead of Dave’s that often rose to a fever pitch.

“What the hell are we going to do with this house and no money coming in? Can’t you write anymore? What happened to that latest great script of yours? Hah? Haven’t forgotten how to write have you?”

“I... I...”

“Or did you even write those other two? I haven’t seen you write one page since I moved back in. What did you do, buy the other two from somebody else? Hah? Can you even write a screenplay?”

“Goddamn right I can!”

Undaunted, Selsun had a plan. He would find a computer company, a physicist, anybody who could retrieve data from diskette that had been completely reformatted. He would restore the file and the virtual characters who had given him a brief fling at success.

As usual, Rita Selsun had the last word: “We don’t belong in Hollywood. It’s not too late to move back to Topeka. You can beg for you old job back. Nobody could sell vacuum cleaners like you, Dave. Are you listening to me? Dave?”