Undo by Joe Hutsko (first ebook reader .txt) đź“•
That this was my first attempt at writing a novel goes a long way toward explaining the earliest rejections of the work, then titled "Silicon Dreams," by editors unlucky enough to have had it land with a thud on their desks. Somehow I'd lost sight of Mr. Wolfe's excellent illustration and found myself mimicking, all at once, the likes of Sidney Sheldon, Arthur Hailey, Jackie Collins, and, believe it or not, Stephen King (who happens to be my favorite mainstream read). With so many influences at play in the already befuddled head of an aspiring young writer with dreams of hitting the number one spot on all of t
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The Joey came close to fulfilling that tall order, but not close enough. But it would, soon enough. It was Matthew’s plan to make Wallaby more compatible with ICP’s computers. If only Peter had agreed, things would have worked out better, and he would not have had to unseat the young man from the company’s top position.
As he loaded Joey’s e-mail program, any pain he had felt at the loss of his friendship with Peter was almost fully entombed now. With e-mail, Matthew had been able to communicate with his secret partner in Manhattan for the past two years, and he had been looking forward to this day, to sending this message, for a long time now.
He typed:
- - - - - - - - - -
TO: [email protected] FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: STATUS
Today I was granted full support by the board of directors and executive staff to take over all senior management responsibilities at Wallaby, including the development of the Joey Plus computer, which will be complete and ready for release in three months.
I attempted to persuade Peter Jones to accept a position within the company to oversee the development of our future products, but my sense is he will not accept.
We will succeed regardless.
—Matthew
- - - - - - - - - -
He tapped the Send button, and a flashing message appeared indicating that the e-mail was being transmitted.
Just then, his office door opened and he spun in his seat. It was Laurence Maupin.
“Hello, Matthew. How are you holding up?”
Matthew leaned back in his seat, blocking the computer screen with his upper body. “I think I’m still in shock,” he said wearily, wiping his sleeve across his brow.
“Your statement’s out to the press,” she said, giving the folder in her hand a little shake. She looked at him with a genuinely concerned expression. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”
“I think I will,” he said, and offered her a grateful smile. He turned and shut off the computer, noticing before the screen went black that his message had been successfully sent.
“Good. We can catch up later,” she said, touching his arm lightly.
He gathered his notes and briefcase. Exiting the building, he felt euphoric yet depleted, as if he’d just run a marathon. And he had won. The race was finished, and he had emerged victorious. His biggest obstacle had been overcome.
Unlocking his car door, he was struck by a sudden realization, and he let out a small laugh at the irony of his new position. He’d really done it. He’d really made it. And farther than he had ever imagined. To think that soda and crackers were his business just a few short years ago. It was incredible. Indeed, although he would not become the chairman of the largest food company in the world, as he had once dreamed, today’s accomplishment set him up for an even greater eventual success - chairman of the largest computer company in the world.
Opening the front door of his home, Peter was suddenly assaulted by a strange blaring voice and shouts of laughter. The cacophony grew louder and more vexing as he neared the computer lab.
Charging into the room he found Ivy sitting cross-legged on the floor and holding a joint to her lips. Her enraptured smile wavered when she registered Peter’s expression.
Two other young people, both boys, were also in the room, both seemingly oblivious to Peter’s arrival. One of the boys held a microphone with a thin cable that ran into a small black box, which was in turn attached to a Joey. The computer and a color monitor rested on a table in the center of the room, which was littered with beer cans, bottles, and junk food packages. On the monitor was a bright yellow smiley face, and as the boy spoke into the microphone the smiley face became animated and responded.
“Say cheese,” the boy said.
“Say cheese,” the smiley face replied, but with an unreal robotic tone rather than a natural human-sounding tone. Simultaneously, the words “Say cheese” appeared in a little balloon, like in a cartoon strip, beside the smiley face’s mouth. Nicknamed “Myna Bird,” the program, which Ivy had designed, was a crude demonstration of speech recognition and synthesis, which enabled the Joey to hear and speak plain English words. The microphone fed the sounds directly into the converter box and through the Joey, which interpreted them into actual text and spoken words, based on a library of words it had already learned.
“Goo goo,” the boy said.
The smiley face did not reply.
“I said, `goo goo,’” the boy said again, breaking into gales of laughter.
“I said,” the smiley face said, unfamiliar with the rest of the sentence.
“I said `goo’ fucking `goo’!” the boy shouted.
“I said…fucking,” the smiley face said.
The boy chuckled a trippy chuckle and glanced at the others - and saw that none were laughing. He turned around and saw Peter. Busted.
“What the fuck is going on?” Peter said loudly.
“What the fuck is going on?” the smiley face mimicked, deadpan, minus the fury.
The others guiltily bowed their heads, mindful of Peter’s palpable anger - all except for Ivy who, turning to avoid looking at Peter directly, rubbed her nose to stifle a small giggle. In her attempt to contain her mirth, the situation worsened and her cheeks puffed and she burst out laughing.
Peter approached her with his hands on his hips.
“What’s so fucking funny?”
The boy holding the microphone quickly switched it off, before the smiley face could say anymore.
“You are,” Ivy said, bringing her knuckles to her face, sputtering out more giggles. “You are, love.”
The boys chuckled nervously, like maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.
At the sound of the sharp slap, all laughter ceased.
Peter stood there, eyes blazing at her, his hand still raised in the air.
With a vacant expression, Ivy absently brushed her cheek and tried to focus her vision on him.
“Get out,” he said, turning to the others.
Ivy remained seated on the floor, stroking her face while the boys disconnected the equipment from the Joey and gathered their knapsacks.
“You can keep the beer, man,” one of the boys said as he shouldered his pack. Then the pair was gone.
Alice padded softly into the room and began picking up the scattered litter. She stepped on an empty potato chip bag, which crackled noisily underfoot. Peter could see that it was an International Foods brand, one of Matthew’s onetime goodies. Too bad he hadn’t stayed in fucking soda pop. Any temporary remorse Peter felt for his behavior, for slapping Ivy, vanished, and his rage returned with greater force.
“Leave it, Alice. Ivy will clean up.”
The housekeeper hesitated then returned the empty bottles to the table, her face flushed as she soundlessly exited the room.
Peter turned and faced Ivy from where he now stood, across the room.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still sitting on the floor and now rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped around herself. “We were working on my program, and I wanted to surprise you tonight with a new dialect module I put together - “
“You have to go.”
” - and I wanted to demonstrate it when you walked in, so you would be happy.”
“I said leave.”
Tears were dropping from her chin and she remained seated on the floor in a trance-like state. His eyes settled on the Joey’s silent glowing screen, the smiley face staring at him with its stupid knowing grin. His jaw quaked as he fought back his hurt, his longing to run to her and have her hold him, to apologize and tell her about everything that had happened. He was torn.
No, not her.
Regardless of what had happened last night, he needed Kate. Not this girl, who, he reminded himself, like everyone else, was using him.
“Get out!” he shouted.
“But I love you!”
“No!” He turned and raised his hands to his head to subdue the pounding that was growing angrier the longer he stayed in this polluted room. “You used me. You even stole my clothes.”
“I’m in love with you. Peter, please. I almost died when I heard you were coming to speak at the commencement. I had to sneak into the reception, just so I could see you. And then when I met you and you invited me here, I knew it was because you felt it too, the way we connected when we saw each other.” She came from behind him and attempted to take him in her arms.
“Don’t touch me,” he said, shaking her off. He crossed the room and positioned himself on the other side, a chaise lounge between them.
She stayed where she was, hands at her sides and face all red and puffy. “Peter, I need you. I’ve changed my life because of you.”
He looked in her direction, but his eyes were unseeing. “If you don’t get out of here right now with everything that’s yours, I’ll carry you outside myself and throw you down the hill.” His face was unmoving and placid, almost like the smiley face.
She took a step toward him, her hands twisting together, pleading. “But last night. Peter. What about last night?”
He closed his eyes and clamped his jaw. Nothing.
“Fuck you, then,” she spat. But she made no motion to leave. Instead, she crossed her arms over her breasts and stood there. A sound that was both a laugh and a cry burst from her lips. “Don’t you see? I did this for you, because I care about Joey, and you. Why don’t you want to believe that. That’s why I changed my studies, because I knew this was something important.” She smacked the monitor. “You know you care about it.” She pointed at him accusingly. “You said so yesterday, when I showed you how far I’d come.” She made a disgusted face. She fought to hold back her tears. “But you don’t give a damn. Not about anyone but yourself.”
He did not respond. As she collected her things, his attention remained fixed on the computer’s screen. He heard her climb the stairs and enter the guest room. There were sounds of drawers opening, the closet door sliding on its tracks. A few minutes later she came downstairs. He did not look at her.
She crossed the room and ejected a floppy diskette from the Joey, and picked up a box of floppies sitting on the table. She placed the items in her knapsack, hoisted the bag onto her shoulder, and collected her small duffel bag at the doorway. Straightening herself for a moment with her back to him, she spoke. “You’re gonna regret you did this, Peter.” Then she was gone.
He sat down and glared
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