Gilbert

Gilbert sat frustrated in front of his old hand-me-down typewriter, blankly glaring out the window in front him. Balls of crumbled paper imprinted with letters that didn't relay the words or expressions desired by this experienced writer, lay strewn across the cold, wooden floor. The typewriter was Gilbert's rabbit's foot. He believed it was the reason three of his books were New York Times bestsellers. It afforded him the ability to think deeply without the distractions of technology and information that was a click away. Rather, the typewriter forced him to search for words and meanings in the deepest part of his brain. Relying on bound dictionaries and literary research expanded his muscular acumen, so he believed. Yet, the enigmatic typewriter failed to deliver the words that spoke to him. Gilbert hadn't authored a bestseller in years, and he worried that if he couldn't conjure the right words, this one wouldn't be either.

Gilbert sighed in exasperation. He reached down and picked up one of the crumbled papers. He thought, "maybe I overlooked something. Maybe I'm overthinking this and one of these pages may actually be worth continuing." He leaned back in the chair and re-read the page.

"No!" he shouted. "No one's going to believe this story. Ugh, silly!"

He again crumbled up the paper, cursed, and then threw it at the window. Gilbert placed a blank sheet of paper in the typewriter. Since he had a self-made diagnosis of writer's block that didn't appear to have a cure, Gilbert thought he would amuse himself. But first, he needed to replace the ink ribbon. He searched the drawer, but there was not one in there. Gilbert stood and walked over to the closet and found an old ribbon cartridge. After replacing the ribbon, Gilbert typed a couple of test words to ensure the ink hadn't dried. Interestingly, it was the first time he had a cartridge with indigo blue ink. He giggled at the idea of submitting his manuscript in bright blue lettering. For his own amusement and internally wishing for a breakthrough, Gilbert typed frivolous sentences on the page that were unrelated to the novel he was currently writing.

"The clouds grew to a dark ominous gray. A large stoic man stood at the edge of the drive staring at the writer through the window. He had a foreboding appearance. The writer, with a tight squint, could faintly see a black baton in the man's hand. The man approached the window with wide and slow strides, and a gaze that was fixed on the writer."

"Ah, man!" Gilbert explained. "I may need to write this book instead. Ha!"

When Gilbert raised his head in the middle of his chuckle, there stood a large stoic man, under dark clouds, with a black baton in his hand. In utter disbelief, Gilbert slowly rose out of his seat and stared. Like the words he wrote, the man walked towards the window. Fear poured over Gilbert and his teeth chattered so loudly that it awoken the sleeping cat nestled in the corner. "It can't be so," Gilbert thought. "If I could write him in this world, I should be able to eliminate him too."

Gilbert sat back down. With his nervous fingers he typed "and he disappeared." Fraught with fear, Gilbert glanced out the window, and the man was gone. He sunk into the seat, wringing his hands, and unsure of what just happened. There he sat, staring at the typewriter with the indigo blue ink. What if I’m imagining all of this? This can’t be.

He rested his fingers on the typewriter again. There was a long pause before he began to type. A..ding. T…ding. E….ding.

“A ten-foot-tall grizzly bear stood on its hind legs in the front yard, bearing its large sharp teeth, and growling with ferocity. A thick man with a long scruffy beard, clothed like a 1600 A.D. Antarctic explorer, suddenly appeared. The man had his bow drawn, ready to release the arrow into this harrowing beast at any moment.”

Gilbert peered out the window. He had done it again. His words in blue ink bore life.

He flung himself out of the chair with a mixture of exhilaration and disbelief.

“Holy crap!” Gilbert exclaimed while holding his hands to his head. With of all of the excitement Gilbert nearly disregarded that the man and bear didn’t belong in this reality.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” he said. And wrote, “and the man and the bear disappeared.” And once again, his written creations had vanished.

Alacrity swept over him. Gilbert considered many ways to use the magical ink, but the only idea that seemed appropriate was to complete the unfinished novel in indigo blue. He would rest for the night, but first he would need a helper.

He wrote:

Betty, a tall slender young woman, pleasant in appearance with delicate features, gentle in spirit, and bright enough to assist in complicated matters, appeared at the side of the writer with the typewriter. Her attire was conservative and manicured. She spoke with eloquence. She would be his closest assistant. Helping with him with daily chores and any other such needs of his choosing. She may even become his lover, but that shall be sorted later.

Gilbert felt the presence of someone else in the room and he immediately knew it was Betty. The young woman stood in the middle of the room, first examining her hands, and then scanned the room.

“Hello, Betty,” greeted Gilbert. “I know you’re probably surprised to be here, but you will be my helper. Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes, Sir,” she said coyly. “I do.”

“Good!" replied Gilbert. “Well, now that we have the formalities out of the way, allow me to show you around. And please, make yourself at home.”

Gilbert provided Betty with a list of daily chores which included cleaning the entire home, cooking meals, and attending to the cat. However, Betty was prohibited from entering his workspace, except for the occasional times Gilbert made requests for nourishment or errands. Having Betty attend to priorities of the home imparted Gilbert the ability to focus solely on his novel.

The next morning Gilbert awakened to a bountiful breakfast Betty had prepared. He was delighted, as it had been a long time since he had eaten so well, and an even longer time since he had been in the company of a woman. Gilbert stuffed the last of his biscuit in his mouth and stood to leave the room.

“My dear, I can’t wait to see what we’re having for lunch,” he said to Betty while exiting the room.

Gilbert sat at his desk with his hands intertwined behind his head and stared briefly at his typewriter before commencing to type.

He wrote:

Ashen precipitous clouds blanketed the warm coastal landscape where the fishing marina was thickened with docked boats, wooden bins and nets full of smelly fish. The marina was noisy. There were many free and enslaved laborers, nearly shoulder to shoulder, toiling through the day to clean, weigh and pack the fish to prepare them for sale. The overseers the cased area with cat-o'-nine-tails in hand, ready to strike at any moment. Free and enslaved laborers alike, were afraid of the ghastly looking overseers. The overseers were tall, portly, bald, grey-skinned beasts, with rugged teeth and such repugnant hygiene that the laborers would joke that the fish died from overseers’ smell the moment they were pulled from the sea.

Gilbert looked through the glass window. His home was no longer nestled in a forested lot in Vermont. No. Gilbert brought the marina to his doorstep. His words on paper, glowing in blue ink, came alive once again. He dripped with excitement. He raised his window so he could hear the sounds of the new land. Betty knocked on the office door.

“Mr. Gilbert,” she called.

“Yes. Please. Come in,” Gilbert replied.

“Something improbable has occurred. The outdoors… It’s no longer trees. We’re at the seaside and there are these beasts. Horrible looking beastly things walking the area!” she gasped.

“Ah, seems there is. We may be here for a bit, so you should try and become familiar with our new home. I do hope you like fish,” he jokingly remarked.

Over the next several days, Gilbert continued to write, and his written world continued to blossom. On occasion, Gilbert and Betty would walk to the expansive market he had written into the novel, submerging himself into this make-believe domain. Gilbert had also begun to be more personal with Betty, using her as his daily house helper, but also for sensual companionship. Betty was loyal to his requests, but she did not fully understand them.

Gilbert typed.

The enslaved laborers worked under brute force at the fishing marina and the surrounding clove sugar plantations. Clove sugar was a substance used recreationally, but often addictively by rich and poor alike to enjoy its hallucinogenic effects. The overseers whipped the enslaved laborers if they slowed their work or got caught stealing fish from one of the nets. They would pace the marinas, surveilling the workers, while snacking on raw fish. It was mystifying to watch them suck the meat off the whole fish while leaving the entire skeleton in tack. Indeed, the overseers were brutal, but the plantation owners were like tiny ruling kings who directed great offenses.

There came along a distinguished writer who looked to invest in a sugar clove plantation of his own. He desired greater and lasting riches that would craft generational wealth for his descendants. His name was Gilbert.

Unbeknownst to Gilbert, Betty had spied on him while he sat at his desk through the opening of the door that was left slightly ajar. She was curious to know what he was writing and if it had anything to do with his recent odd behavior. Not only was Gilbert meeting with the local officials to purchase land to grow clove sugar but fellowshipped with them by drinking the clove sugar concoctions. Betty would watch out the window and see Gilbert swaying and acting belligerent when walking home. As he approached their home, on many occasions, Betty overheard Gilbert say to the overseers in a drunken fashion, “whip them good, sir!”

When Gilbert returned home late one evening, he found Betty sitting at his desk typing. She turned to him and asked, “are you the reason why I am here?” And she read to him part of the story he had written. “Betty, a tall slender young woman, pleasant in appearance with delicate features, gentle in spirit, and bright enough to assist in complicated matters, appeared at the side of the writer with the typewriter. Are you the writer, Mr. Gilbert?”

“I’m afraid I am.”

Betty swiveled around in the chair, once again facing the typewriter and positioned her fingers on the keys. Gilbert became incensed. As he stood behind her, he read what she had typed in blue ink.

And the writer, along with the novel he had written in blue ink, had disappea…

“No!” screamed Gilbert. “I regret that I have allowed you to see such atrocities. Please. I beg of you, don’t.”

Ding!