Mish-Mash Fiction Read online



  MISH-MASH FICTION

  A SHORT STORY

  MOBASHAR QURESHI

  Copyright 2011 Mobashar Qureshi

  Cover Image: winnond / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

  Visit the author’s website:

  www.mobasharqureshi.com

  Visit the author’s blog:

  Mobashar’s Musings

  OTHER WORKS

  RACE

  The October Five

  The Paperboys Club

  Ten Typewriter Tales

  The City

  The Town

  The Village

  Roman Solaire and the Crystal Towers

  PRAISE FOR TEN TYPEWRITER TALES

  Review on Librarything

  [5-star] “Bright, smart, it'll make you laugh and want to punch someone in the same page.”

  Review on Amazon.com

  [4-star] “This collection is a winner in my humble opinion.”

  Review on Amazon.uk

  [4-star] “Really enjoyed this collection of short stories.”

  DEDICATED

  Munawar J. Qureshi

  SPECIAL THANKS

  Mike McElroy and Wajeeha Qureshi

  MISH-MASH FICTION

  He sat, staring at the computer screen, tapping his fingers on the keyboard keys.

  “Come on, come on,” he muttered.

  He had written one paragraph. Now all he had to do was write several more. He had started writing at 5:00 PM the previous day. He checked the clock: it was 1:43 AM. Almost eight hours had gone by and he had only written one measly paragraph.

  He re-read the three lines and then hit the backspace key, thus deleting them completely.

  Now, in all those hours he had written nothing.

  He covered his face in his hands. He wanted to cry.

  He looked up. The wall behind the computer was covered with frames. There was a frame of him on the cover of Time, Newsweek, and MacLean’s. There was a picture of him with Oprah and a picture with the President when he visited the White House. The First Lady loved his work and invited him for a luncheon.

  He got up and walked around his condominium. It was the most exclusive in the entire city. It had cost a mere two million but came with the finest furniture and apparently artwork worth much, much more. It also came with a private elevator and a twenty-four-hour cook.

  He pressed a button and heard the voice on the other end. “Yes, sir?”

  “Can I get one Hawaiian shake with ice, Francois?”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Sebastian Tomplay was only twenty-six years old. He was now worth a cool five million. Exactly one year before, he did not even have fifty dollars in his bank account.

  He waited in the kitchen. He leaned on the exquisite marble counter and bit his fingernails. He always did that when he was nervous.

  There was a ting and he slid the door open. Inside the small space, no bigger than a microwave, was a thermos. He opened it and pulled out the glass of orange and yellow liquid. He put the thermos back inside and pressed down.

  Francois’s kitchen was in the basement of the condominium with a small elevator that linked to each of the other condominium owners. Instead of having someone constantly deliver food to the clients, Francois would simply put it the elevator and indicate which unit to stop at.

  Sebastian walked back to his office and sat behind the computer.

  The screen was white.

  His eyes caught a black metal contraption sitting to one side.

  He sighed. He looked at the time: it was quarter after two. He had less than seven hours to write a book somewhere in the range of 250 to 300 pages.

  At precisely 9:00 AM he was to deliver this book to his publisher.

  He glanced at the blank screen and then at the time.

  He then began crying.

  One and a half years ago…

  He pedaled hard and fast. He raced the bike through the crowded downtown street at an exhilarating speed. He zoomed past parked cars. He maneuvered around oncoming traffic. He narrowly missed hitting pedestrians.

  He was huffing and puffing, and was nearly out of breath.

  Sebastian was a courier for a small company that catered to law firms. Legal documents, subpoenas, court orders, anything of vital importance that needed to be delivered immediately would go through the company.

  Right now he had a package in his backpack that he had picked up from the law library that had to be at the courthouse in a few minutes.

  He sped around the corner and saw in the distance a man standing impatiently at the front steps to the courthouse.

  Sebastian accelerated, eased into the sidewalk, and then braked not two feet from the man.

  “That’s cutting close,” the man said, wearing a fancy blue suit.

  Sebastian didn’t say anything; instead he pulled out the package and handed it to him.

  The man tore it open. Inside was a stack of photocopied papers. The man smiled as he glanced over them.

  “Thanks,” he said before bouncing up the stairs.

  Sebastian checked his watch, made a note of it in his record book and then turned around.

  He took his time as he moved around the busy street. The company would bill the firm for the delivery service, which meant Sebastian didn’t have to worry about being paid right at the spot. All he had to do was deliver the goods on time and the rest was the firm’s problem.

  He stopped on the way and picked up a hotdog from one of the many vendors lining the street.

  As he chomped on it, he glanced at the hustle and bustle before him. People were rushing from here to there. They were on their cell phones. They were typing in their Blackberries. Impatient drivers were honking their horns. For them, life was a rush and they were rushing with it.

  But for Sebastian, that was not the case.

  After finishing college, he got a job in a collection agency. He hated it. All day he spent searching for people who had defaulted on their payments. All day he listened to them lie and lie and lie. After a couple of months of this, he stopped showing up to work. Soon after they fired him, which was fine by him. He went on unemployment insurance and did nothing but sit at home and play video games.

  He thought about applying elsewhere but couldn’t get past the feeling of feeling confined. While at the collection agency he felt trapped behind the desk. It was as if his life was being sucked out one minute at a time. He would remember sitting there and staring at the clock, wondering when the time would come when he could get out of this hellhole.

  When the unemployment insurance money ran out, he had no choice but find a job. He saw an ad in the paper for a courier and he applied for it, thinking he wouldn’t get it.

  He did and for the last nine months he had been on his bike, five days a week, ten hours a day.

  At first it was terrible. The traffic and the addresses were hard to get used to. But he reminded himself that it was better than being stuck behind a desk. He was free. Sure, there were time constraints, but what job didn’t have constraints? At the collection agency he had a weekly collection quota. Thursdays and Fridays were the worst, where he would scramble (and at times stay late) just to meet it.

  He finished the hot dog when he got a call.

  He pulled out his cell phone, which was paid for and provided by the company, and said, “Sebastian.”

  Carol Naniun, the dispatcher, said, “There’s a package on 31 Elmore Street that needs to be delivered by two at 348 Leonard Blvd.”

  Sebastian looked at his watch. He had more than enough time to pick it up and deliver it.

  “Gotcha,” he answered.

  He casually made his way to the address and as
he was approaching what looked like an office building, he saw a man standing at the corner in a trench coat. The man was old and looked haggard. His face was wrinkled and he hunched over.

  A homeless, Sebastian thought, and moved past him, when suddenly the man said, “You the delivery boy?”

  Sebastian stopped.

  “You the one who is to take this package to Leonard Blvd?”

  Sebastian nodded, not sure what else to do.

  From behind him the man picked up a square cardboard box and handed it to him.

  It was heavy.

  “I need you to deliver it by two,” the man said.

  This was not right, Sebastian thought. He was used to dealing with actual companies, not some man on the side of the street.

  “Something wrong?” the man asked, with a hint of irritation.

  Sebastian shook his head.

  He secured the box to the back of his bike and pedaled to the destination.

  All through the ride he couldn’t get over the way the man looked at him. It was as if he knew him, was waiting for him.

  He got off the bike and began pushing it. He still had more than enough time and his legs were beginning to ache from the weight of the box.

  Thankfully, this was going to be his last delivery.

  As he got near, he stopped.

  He saw 346 Leonard Blvd and right beside it 350. What happened to 348?

  He looked around and the buildings across had addresses 347 and then 349.

  Was this a mistake? he thought.

  He called Carol and confirmed it. It was for 348.

  Biking back to Elmore Street, he cursed. He was going to give the old man an earful. This bloody box was killing his legs and not to mention the bike’s tires were under pressure from the weight.

  When he got there, the man was nowhere to be found. He went inside 31 Elmore Street, but no one had heard of this old man.

  He called Carol and told her this. She said the man had dropped by earlier and paid for the delivery, in cash. She told him to bring the box back.

  Sweating, and in pain, he lugged the heavy box to the company’s office. All the while he thought hard about dumping it, or the very least, opening it.

  He heaved the box up the stairs and into a room that was used by the company to store undelivered items.

  Eventually, either the old man or someone who was expecting the box would contact them.

  ***

  More than six months went by and no one claimed the box. It was the company’s policy that all unclaimed items would be destroyed if not claimed within 180 days. As it was beyond that, the box was placed aside to be picked up by the disposal agency.

  At a routine stop to the office, Sebastian saw it sitting in the corner.

  He remembered how heavy it was and how much pain it had caused him. He also remembered the old man and his unforgettable eyes.

  He asked Carol if he could have it. It wasn’t company’s policy to let couriers keep unclaimed items as this had caused problems before. But after explaining to her what had happened to him, she said yes, just as long as he didn’t tell a single soul and he took the box without anyone noticing it.

  He agreed.

  ***

  After dropping the box on the dining room table, he poured himself a cold glass of orange juice. He was soaked and drenched in sweat. Chugging down half the glass, he took a key and sliced open the sellotape.

  Inside he found a black metal object, the size of a small photocopy machine. He pulled it out and examined it. There was a slot with an arrow pointing to it with a picture of a book. Behind it was another slot but with no markings. There were buttons on the side. Sebastian moved his fingers over them, when suddenly they lit up.

  Startled, he jumped back.

  Where was the power plug? he wondered, looking around.

  There were no wires coming out of it.

  The arrow blinked.

  Sebastian stared at it.

  Then the picture of the book blinked rapidly.

  It continued blinking.

  Then a beeping noise erupted from inside it.

  Sebastian looked around and grabbed a copy of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. He placed it in the slot and slowly the machine began to suck it in.

  The blinking stopped but started again when the novel had disappeared inside the machine.

  Bleep. Bleep.

  Sebastian searched and placed in a copy of Phillip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

  More blinking.

  More bleeps.

  After placing Agatha Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, only then did the blinking and bleeping stop.

  He paused, not believing that the machine had gobbled three books.

  He paced around the room and then decided to grab something to eat.

  He made himself a cheese sandwich and then went to the TV.

  There was an old episode of I Dream of Jeannie on the classic channel. Sebastian bit into the sandwich and tried to enjoy the show. His mind was still on the machine and the books it devoured. He might have to break it or smash it to see where they went.

  As the commercials rolled, he heard a noise.

  It sounded like a screech.

  He lowered the volume and listened.

  No, it was more like the sound from an old printer.

  Where was it coming from? he wondered.

  He went to the window and the noise disappeared.

  He focused and realized it was coming from the kitchen.

  He rushed over and stopped.

  From the back of the machine, a piece of paper was slowing coming out.

  Sebastian leaned in and there were words on the paper.

  It was printing!

  A couple of minutes later, the page was completely out.

  He scanned it.

  ***

  For the next several weeks, the machine purred out many more pages, sometimes ten pages in a day. Not knowing what else to do, Sebastian kept them in order of arrival.

  Then one day it stopped.

  No more pages. Nothing.

  Sebastian grabbed the stack of pages. From his estimate it looked like there was over three hundred, and he began reading them.

  When he was done, he realized he was holding a complete novel.

  He didn’t know what to do with it so he put it aside.

  One day while having coffee with a friend whom he had known since his college days, his friend mentioned that he was in a creative writing program.

  Sebastian, albeit reluctantly, mentioned he had a complete novel at home.

  His friend was shocked and surprised that Sebastian had been quietly toiling away at a book.

  His friend offered to read it. The next day Sebastian gave it to him.

  A couple of hours later his friend called back.

  This was brilliant! He nearly screamed on the phone. It had a classic undertone, but set in the future, and wrapped in a good old fashion whodunnit.

  He asked if it was okay if he showed it to his professor.

  Sebastian said, “Sure.”

  Not two days had gone by when the professor himself contacted him. He was as excited or even more so than his friend.

  The professor wanted permission to pass it on to an agent he knew.

  A week later there was a bidding war and the agent secured a deal for half a million dollars for two books.

  The excitement was palatable. The publisher that had won the rights to print it could smell a mega hit. Everything was fast-tracked and in three months it came out to rave reviews and stormed up the bestseller lists.

  Sebastian Tomplay was the hottest thing in the literary world.

  He was sent on a twelve-city tour, unheard of for a first-time author, which then turned in to a twenty-city tour after the first tour was a success. He did talk shows, radio interviews, book fairs; the whole lot.

  Then the question
came, did he have another book or was he a one hit wonder.

  Sebastian had no concrete answer. All he said was that he had some other ‘works’ in progress.

  ***

  One day the machine whirred to life again—the same blinking and beeping. Prior to this, Sebastian had tried to play with the buttons, but nothing made it start up.

  Seeing this, he grabbed three different books: a book on global terrorism, a book of jokes, and a straightforward thriller.

  A month later he was holding a manuscript that was later promoted as a book that dealt with contemporary issues with edge-of-your-seat excitement, but with a sense of humor.

  Again, it flew off the shelves.

  If Sebastian was hot before, now he was on fire.

  He toured the world: Asia, Europe, even Africa. His readings and book signings became an event. Hundreds of people, sometimes even thousands, would line up to see him.

  He was even offered small cameos in major Hollywood movies.

  Rights to his books were sold for seven figure sums.

  He dated models, daughters of Senators and even of CEOs.

  It seemed everyone wanted a piece of Sebastian Tomplay.

  All this was happening too fast and too furious.

  He had written and published two novels in a span of six months.

  The world eagerly awaited his new masterpiece. And so did he.

  ***

  Three months went by and the machine didn’t come to life. There were murmurs that maybe he was going through writer’s block. Maybe the great Sebastian Tomplay had just as quickly dried up.

  Every interview he did, they asked the same questions. When is your next book coming out? Are you currently working on it? Will it be as good as the first two?

  To all the questions he answered a simple yes.

  But in reality he didn’t know.

  The breaking point came when on his fifth visit on Oprah, in front of millions of people, after being asked repeatedly, he mentioned a date on which his third book would be revealed.

  Returning back home, he grabbed a copy of Stephen King’s Carrie and shoved it in the mouth of the machine. He pushed the entire novel in but then something horrible happened. There was a loud crack, as if something had burst, and then smoke emerged, nearly tripping the fire alarm.