MMW

markmurphywrites.com

Category: Short Story

  • Dirty Rat

    Part I

    Chapter 1 – Marcus 

    A man in the front row of the bookstore atrium stands up right away and asks, “Mr. Maxwell, is it true the climax for Intellectual Property was indeed written by DeepSeek?” 

    I freeze, my eyes growing two sizes too big, my mouth gaping. No words will come out. I stare blankly at the audience from behind the table on this little elevated stage. The faux-wood walls on either side of the store begin to squeeze inward. They no longer feel warm and inviting, and the aroma turns slightly acidic. 

    The standing man continues staring at me while murmurs spread through the audience. I can feel the blood running into my face, sweat breaking out on my upper lip. 

    “No. Well, no. That’s not entirely true,” I say. 

    The problem with becoming almost famous is the amount of people who turn up in an Omaha bookstore just to stare at you. I woke up this morning and walked directly into the wall on the right side of the bed, or the on wrong side of the bed, as it were. I wasn’t at home in Kansas anymore, but instead, in the fifth hotel room in the sixth different town on the seventh day of a three week book tour. 

    “But Alan Horst of the Times reported otherwise just this morning,” the standing man says. “He’s proven that DeepSeek provides us with truth. Yesterday, DeepSeek suggested that it wrote your climatic scene for Intellectual Property.” 

    I feel my eyes narrow to razor-thin slits and realize my incisors are showing. “What are you suggesting?” I ask.

    It is the standing man’s turn to look ill. 

    “My answer remains ‘no,’ and Alan Horst can address me directly any time he’s ready,” I say. 

    “Okay, folks, no more time for the open question and answer period,” Jess says. “Marcus has a packed schedule, but he’ll be available to answer individual questions while he signs your copy of Intellectual Property. Please begin queuing up against the wall over there, and thank you so much for coming out for today’s reading.” 

    Jess is excellent with crowd control, the best agent I’d ever had. The only agent I’d ever had. But still. Maybe it’s her British accent? 

    The audience begins to move, shuffling the standing man into their mix as some begin to form a proper line. 

    Jess turns sideways and draws her head close to my shoulder. “Well, that’s news,” she says. “Looks like this is the first you’re hearing of it as well?” 

    I assume she can tell this from the coloring in my cheeks and sweat now rolling down my temples. 

    “I need a break,” I say. 

    “No time for that, love,” she says. 

    “But,” I say. 

    “You know how this works,” she says. “Same as all the others. No time for a break after the reading. You’ll be off again when the signing is done.” Jess glances quickly toward the line. “Looks like it’ll only take a jif.”

    I glance up and see what she means. I’d been drawing fifty or more people in big box bookstores across the Midwest all week. But the allegation in standing man’s question, or perhaps my snarky response to him, seems to have turned this crowd away. 

    “Okay, I’m going to call Sal and see what in the world has happened,” Jess says. “Big smile and be nice to your fans. There is no ‘Bestselling Author Marcus Maxwell’ without these lovely people.” She hands me a handkerchief then dashes toward the front door, head down, fingers furiously typing on her phone. 

    I grab for the coffee carafe by my feet and bring it up to the table wishing there was something a little Irish mixed in this morning. How long has it been since I’ve had a drink? After pouring a short burst of steamy black courage into my cup, I look up at the line. Standing man has been pushed to the front, apparently encouraged to go first by his fellow patrons. 

    I put on my camera-worthy smile and motion for standing man to come on up to the table. No harm done, mate.  While he begins slowly walking toward me, I uncap my pen and steal a short glance toward the front window. That’s when I see Jess, bent at the waist, hands on knees, letting out a big puff of air from her cheeks. Not much of a poker face this time. Sal Cicero must have delivered bad news. 

    ***

    Chapter 2 – Alan 

    I stare up at the ceiling, reclining as far back as my desk chair will go, and realize again how small my office is. Four water-stained ceiling tiles deep by five ceiling tiles wide. But I’ve earned this space, and I’m not inclined to move back out to the bullpen. 

    I bring my attention back to the call when I hear a break in the raging voice on the line. “Look, Mr. Cicero, as I’ve explained twice already to you, DeepSeek has been collecting IP addresses and personal contact information since it’s inception,” I say.  

    “Just to be clear, Mr. Horst, this ‘AI’ will openly relay personal information to anyone who asks?” Sal Cicero asks. 

    “Yes,” I say. 

    There is a long pause on the line. I suspect the gravity of this new development is rolling over Mr. Cicero harder than he expected. For years, publishers like him could bury the facts of ghostwriting and whole editorial rewrites from the media. “Of course it’s the author’s original work,” they would say. “The normal relationship between writer and editor,” they would boast. But this new era of large language models and unedited truth behind AI is different. 

    “Marcus denies using a large language model while writing Intellectual Property, and I stand behind my writer,” Sal says. 

    “Mr. Cicero, I respect your stance and understand this puts you in an uncomfortable situation,” I say. 

    “Do not patronize me, young man,” Sal says. “I’m twice your age and have forgotten more about journalism than you’ve yet to learn. We’ll be in touch.” 

    Three digital tones tell me the line has gone dead. 

    I’ve been threatened by far worse than a publisher. My rise in the Times was much attributed to work disclosing the corruption in the last Presidential Cabinet. My car was melted to the pavement in front of my D.C. home. I was warned that next time I’d be strapped in the driver’s seat. Sal Cicero’s veiled threats were a far cry from being murdered. 

    I rub the weariness from my eyes and stare through the interior window out to the bullpen. Forty years ago, this cavernous brick-walled room was filled with desks pushed together in twos, electric typewriters cracking out stories, runners ready to deliver words to the editors, and then to the press operators. 

    When I showed up twenty years ago, thin cubicle walls had been erected to create semi-private space for the reporters, salespeople, and advertisers alike. The last wisps of smoke began to disappear shortly thereafter, banishing those with killer habits onto the balconies overlooking Farragut Square. They smoked and stared down on dozens of citizens stuffing their faces at the multitude of food vendors lining the park. Which habit is worse? 

    Reporters and journalists were still revered for relaying facts just a few years back. Cold, hard, indisputable facts that we’d worked hard to pull from savvy interviews or confidential sources. The internet, with its social media platforms, soon opened up opinions and rhetorical comments for the whole world, making everyone a reporter and blurring the factual lines. Forever? 

    Could we ever get back to the facts? My heart tells me yes, and that’s why I stay in this business through the tumultuous times. My faith was shaken when I learned just how disruptive a President and his den of Cabinet thieves could become. 

    That’s when AI started to become an ally, not an adversary. As dangerous as disclosing IP addresses and personal information can be, it made it nearly impossible to hide the facts of a typed email or search history. 

    “It was my executive assistant,” or, “It was my chief of staff,” became the cries of the most senior leaders in America. Shameful. And as I assumed, untruthful. 

    So when I began to do some digging on an arrogant up-and-coming writer of the novel Intellectual Property, it was surprising and enlightening to learn his truth. Marcus Maxwell wasn’t only tied to Sal Cicero. His agent was the fiery Jessica Stone. 

    *** 

    Chapter 3 – Marcus 

    The backseat of our big black sedan feels sterile with thin leather seats, plastic doors dressed up by fake chrome accents, and rubber floor mats. I stare out the window as we’re whisked away from the big box bookstore. 

    “Sal spoke to Alan Horst,” Jess says. She uncharacteristically stops talking, breaking me out of my daze. She’s waiting for me to tell my side of the story. 

    “Alan Horst is a liar,” I say. That’s all I want to offer right now, but I feel Jess’s gaze burning a hole into the side of my head. 

    “So that’s it then,” she says. “We just explain to everyone that Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Alan Horst decided to pick a fight with author Marcus Maxwell for no good reason… and tell a lie?” 

    “Best-selling author,” I say. Jess lets out a sigh. 

    I turn in my seat to hold her eyes. “Look Jess, I didn’t do what he’s accusing me of,” I say. “My stories are from my head. From my heart.” 

    “What if we ask DeepSeek, just the two of us, right now in this back seat?” she asks. “Can we do that, just to see what it says?” 

    I can feel my eyes glaze over again. I’ve only known Jess for a year. She agreed to take me on as a client after reading my query letter and a partially finished Intellectual Property. It was quite a risk for such an accomplished agent. But she knew as well as I did how good this story could be. She trusted that I would listen to an editor and work with a publishing house to make this great novel into something truly special. And so we did. 

    Right now, Jessica Stone is trying to clear her conscience and restore her faith in me. “Let’s do it,” I say. She looks instantly relieved, and I’m just as curious in my own way to see what the AI has to offer. 

    “Do you have the DeepSeek app?” she asks. 

    My stone-cold stare is all she needs in reply, quickly opening the app store on her phone. 

    It takes several minutes to download and set up a new account on cell service alone. We’re just arriving at the airport when DeepSeek is finally ready to open. 

    “Should we wait until we’re at the gate?” I ask, as we climb from the rear seats and back out into the breezy Omaha afternoon. 

    “Let’s get on with it,” she says. And so we do. Jess types the proverbial question. “Did Marcus Maxwell write any portion of his novel Intellectual Property using AI?” Enter. 

    DeepSeek begins it’s response faster than I expect. AI must have answered this question a thousand times already today. I read the indicting evidence at the same pace as Jess. 

    “An IP address registered to an apartment leased by author Marcus Maxwell was used to develop the courtroom litigation and climatic admission from a scene nearly identical to said author’s only novel, Intellectual Property. There is a 99.9996% probability that Marcus Maxwell used AI to write portions of this novel.” 

    I look away too quickly, and take several steps toward the terminal entrance. What else am I supposed to do? Where else am I supposed to go? That’s when I catch the tears running down Jess’s cheeks. 

    Before I can make another move, she holds her open palm up toward me as a warning. Do not come any closer. Her head shakes side to side, and she begins rolling her bag in the opposite direction. 

    *** 

    Chapter 4 – Alan  

    My disclosure piece on Marcus Maxwell is trending on all media platforms by mid-day. The “Books” section of our company is rather upset that I would call out one of their bestsellers. I try not to laugh at the department head who sends me and the Editor-in-Chief a scathing message. He calls me a twit and a traitor amongst other racier words. 

    Just then, an email pops in from [email protected]. How original. The title simply reads, “we need to talk asap.” There is only a phone number in the body, and I assume it’s his. At least I hope I don’t need to go through a publisher and an agent for this discussion. Marcus and I need to have a straight talk, not some management-filtered buffoonery. 

    I presumed this conversation was coming but wasn’t expecting it so soon. As any good journalist would, I had prepared my questions and follow-ons while writing the story, ensuring that I could account for my accusations. But I’ve got a wild card up my sleeve for this talk. 

    The news room is already winding down for the day, only those quietly perfecting their final submissions still stuck in their cubicles. I decide to call Marcus from work. Hard conversations are rarely made easier for me by waiting. I like the advantage of catching my opponents while they’re still emotional. 

    “This is Marcus,” he says, picking up on the first ring. I hear significant crowd noise in the background. 

    “Good afternoon, Marcus,” I say. “This is Alan Horst with the Times.” 

    “You dirty rat,” he says. “Since when did AI become a qualified source for factual information? Shortly after you started quoting Wikipedia?” 

    “I stand by the reputation of DeepSeek, ChatGPT, and most other large language models,” I say. “Apparently, so do you with the juiciest parts of your new book?” 

    I don’t particularly feel that my story needs defending, but I also shouldn’t be so antagonizing. I’ve already proven to my readers that AI is reliable enough to discredit the Presidential Cabinet. It’s certainly reliable enough to discredit an unknown author. 

    I hear a boarding announcement for a flight to Dallas and understand Marcus is sitting in an airport. No wonder he has time for a conversation. 

    “Are we off the record?” Marcus asks. 

    “That’s up to you,” I say. 

    “Go ahead and publish the part about being a dirty rat,” he says. “But this is off the record.” 

    “Sure, why not?” I ask. “Go ahead then.” 

    “I don’t deny using AI to help frame the story arc for Intellectual Property,” he says. 

    My silence, partially from the unexpected admission with so little prodding, encourages him to continue. I can’t help the grin spreading across my face. 

    “Help me understand how it works,” he says. “This AI believes it wrote my story. Just because I searched terms and story arc ideas on DeepSeek, the application now believes it ‘wrote’ my story?” 

    “The short answer, yes,” I say. “If you ask AI to compose any portion of your book, and then use its language in your book, then yes.” 

    “And AI somehow records my connection to it and publicly relays this information?” he asks. 

    “Yes, it will,” I reply. “In my experience, once AI is able to reliably connect an IP address to a person, it considers this information to be factual. Now, so does the Federal Government.” 

    “A great service you’ve done for America,” he says. “Why did you target me?”

    The million dollar question from all of my subjects. I usually find an odd quote or unexplainable action by an individual or company that makes me want to dig a little more. But sometimes there is more. Something personal. 

    “I was curious about your sudden success,” I say. “Your quick rise from obscurity.” 

    “I’m hardly the first breakout author,” he says. “That term has been around for decades. So how about the truth?” 

    “Are we still off the record?” I ask. 

    “It’s your story,” he replies. 

    “How well do you know Jessica Stone?” I ask. “About her personal relationships with her authors? And how would you describe your relationship with her?” 

    There is a significant delay, and I’m not sure that we’re still connected. 

    “I didn’t use AI to write my novel,” he says. “You can put that on the record, along with being a dirty rat.” 

    Three digital tones tell me the line has gone dead. 

    I’m no longer offended when people hang up on me. At least they’re not slamming a receiver into the cradle. These cold conversation-enders let me know that I’m on the right track. Besides, now Marcus Maxwell will seek out the whole truth about his femme fatale agent, Jessica Stone. 

    *** 

    Part II

    Chapter 5 – Marcus  

    I don’t know what to do about my flight. I know the gate agent just made the final boarding call for Dallas, and I didn’t see Jess get on the plane. Why would Alan Horst ask me about her, anyway? I decide that Dallas with an awaiting hotel reservation and a potentially large book signing beats Omaha, so I board. 

    Approaching seat 9B, I find Jess tucked neatly into 9A with her earplugs in and eye mask on. I suppose our crucial conversation will wait a while longer. I must have nodded off before departure too, brought back to reality as a plastic cup and tiny bottle of wine are passed in front of my face. I almost instinctually reach out for them. 

    “Thank you,” Jess says. The flight attendant smiles and moves on to 9D. 

    I let Jess pour her glass and take a sip before setting my seat upright. Her eye mask and earplugs are no longer visible. 

    “I’m sorry, Jess,” I say. 

    “Oh, really?” she asks. “For what, exactly?” 

    “For upsetting you earlier at the terminal,” I say. “I’m also sorry for the surprise question in the bookstore.” 

    “What about for your actions?” she asks. “Are you sorry for whatever you’ve done to cause this mess? Or is it simply that you’re sorry you’ve been caught?” 

    Direct and to the point. She’s not only good with a crowd, she’s amazing at getting me to understand the task at hand, whether it’s an editor’s differing opinion, or a trivial interruption that’s got me spinning away from finishing the next chapter. 

    My pause is too long for her. “Marcus, you have less than two hours to convince me we should continue this partnership. I need more than a lazy apology for ‘upsetting’ me earlier today. You owe me the truth. You owe Sal the same.” 

    “I might have done what Alan is suggesting,” I say. No discernible reaction from the other seat. In fact, this statement doesn’t phase Jess at all, which oddly hurts my feelings. “I’ve told you most of my life story. I quit drinking nearly three years ago. It was time to live out my dreams instead of sitting at a bar and wishing I would.” I look for the flight attendant. I could really use a beverage right now, even a water would suffice. 

    “Keep going, Marcus.” Jess says. 

    “So last September, the final revisions on Intellectual Property were coming due, and the pressure was more than I could handle,” I say. “Remember when I was feeling ‘sick’ for a few days? I was actually drinking. Forty-eight hours straight. No more, no less. I was trying to unstick my brain and calm my nerves for that final push. I don’t remember much, but I do remember solving that final twist and writing a sizzling climax.” 

    “Thank you, Marcus,” she says. “Even if you’d have told me this last fall, and I wouldn’t have done anything differently. However, do you remember finding solutions with not only booze, but also with AI?” 

    “I don’t know,” I say. “That’s why I had to sober up. Unless someone is there to tell me about the event, or Heaven forbid show me the video on their phone, I typically black out.” 

    “Well, DeepSeek seems to be filling in your memory gap on this one,” she says, finishing her drink in one straight shot, then staring back out the window. 

    “How do you know Alan Horst?” I ask. The slow turn and narrow gaze lets me know that perhaps this wasn’t the best time for that question. 

    “What did you say, love?” she asks. 

    “I spoke with Alan Horst before boarding,” I say. “He asked about you. So I was wondering, how you know him?” 

    She slowly looks toward the window again, and I worry that maybe I’ve just lost my agent. She reaches up and pushes the call button overhead. 

    ***

    Chapter 6 – Alan

    I twist away from my computer screen to glance out over I Street. It isn’t lined with the same beautiful cherry trees as K, but spring is quickly turning to summer, and the young green foliage gives me a renewed sense of hope for the year.

    My story on Marcus Maxwell has already fallen from the top trending articles by this evening’s news. Some Hollywood power-couple has announced their separation after a few less than flattering pictures of the husband were released. The speculation on making up, breaking up, estate rights, and child custody is blowing up the internet. Actual celebrity gossip is quite a bit juicier than a new novelist and his secretive book agent. 

    I can’t help but think back to my time dating Jess. We met when her star was on the rise. She’d moved to D.C. from Manchester, England, in order to give the American book market a go. I was standing at the bar of a charity event when this dazzling brunette suddenly appeared at my side. I thought maybe I’d had something slipped into my drink. Or maybe my prayers had finally been answered? In either case, the spark was mutual, and we fell into a perfectly cozy winter romance. 

    Jess was, and still is, a remarkably talented agent. There is a lost art to recognizing talent and the formality of closing deals in person, especially in a world where authors have all the means to self-publish novels. But she’s the real deal, pulling raw up-and-comers out of obscurity and into the realm of international bestsellers. 

    The start of the new year brought Jess a new client, Thomas Wilburn. Unfortunately, Jess got a little too cozy with him. The time she spent working with Thomas was increasing at a rate which quickly surpassed all of her other clients combined. Of course I noticed, but she and I were merely dating. I was too scared of losing her to ask the tough questions. 

    Jess showed up to my home one freezing February evening two hours late for dinner and drinks. She looked a little distraught and quite distracted. I asked her about her relationship with Thomas before she could make up some fantastic story about her tardiness. Perhaps she would’ve told me the truth if I’d given her a chance. But I didn’t. 

    That night was our final date. Jess actually looked relieved skating away down the icy front sidewalk. I obsessively wondered if she went straight to Thomas’s place after leaving that night. But my worries were all for naught. 

    Jess proved too much for Thomas Wilburn to handle. The prideful side of me cheered when Thomas was found dead in his apartment that spring. A long-time source told me there was a note left behind confessing that his failed book launch followed shortly by his failed pursuit of  Jessica Stone was more than he could face. The death was ruled a suicide, but his family hired a private investigator who poked around D.C. for a few more months. No charges were ever filed. 

    Alas, Jess was single again, and fate chose to bring us together once more at the same charity event where we’d met the year before. I’d already finished too many martinis, and I projected my wounded ego on her. 

    “Sounds like his death wasn’t a slam dunk suicide,” I said. “Did you kick the chair out from under his feet?” 

    “Pathetic fool,” Jess said. “I should ask you the same question. Feeling insecure about Thomas Wilburn being a bigger man than you?” 

    I shouldn’t have even talked to her that night, and I certainly shouldn’t have accused her of murder. Fortunately, a colleague quickly pulled me outside and threw me in a cab. Jess moved up to New York that summer before I could apologize. Even today, I still carry the feeling deep down there is more to Thomas’s death than simple suicide. Then again, isn’t there always more to death than we can understand? 

    *** 

    Chapter 7 – Marcus 

    “Alan Horst and I dated briefly a few years back, when I was living in D.C.,” she says. “It was obvious that I would always take a second seat to his career. So I quickly moved on from him and never looked back.” 

    “He asked me how well I knew about your personal relationships… with authors,” I say. 

    I watch the blood rise into Jess’s face. If looks could kill, I’d be quite dead. 

    “How did you respond?” she asks. 

    “I didn’t,” I say. “I ended the conversation right there, after again denying my use of AI.” 

    For the second time today, I see tears welling in the corners her eyes. 

    I start to speak, but her palm is up and aimed at my face again, so I stop. 

    “Right toward the end of my failed dating life with Alan Horst, there was another man,” she says. 

    A tear falls down her cheek, and I give some slight head nods with a frown and sorrowful eyes. 

    The attendant returns with another wine and the obligatory napkin, which Jess quickly uses to swipe away the tear. The attendant glares at me before scurrying off. 

    “The other man was an author,” she says. “A novelist much like yourself. Breakout. Handsome. Talented enough to be the next John Grisham. His name was Thomas. Thomas Wilburn.” 

    I recognize the name, but can’t recall reading any of his books. 

    “Does he seem like a vengeful person?” I ask. 

    “Thomas?” she asks. 

    “No,” I say. “Alan.” 

    “He is the type of man who wants the last word,” she says. “He goes to great lengths to ensure it’s also the winning word.” 

    “So what was his problem with you and Thomas?” I ask, prepared for her death stare. She spares me. 

    “I left Alan for Thomas,” she says. “I should’ve left Alan long before. So he resents me, and he loathed Thomas. I have the feeling that Thomas’s failed book launch might have been Alan’s doing. I don’t think he’s responsible for Thomas’s death, but maybe he is.” 

    That’s where I knew the name. Breakout author Thomas Wilburn commits suicide. Family suspects foul play. Did Alan Horst, in a fit of jealousy, murder Thomas Wilburn?

    ***

    Chapter 8 – Alan 

    The phone vibrates just before 1:00 a.m. I’m still awake, so I glance at the screen to see who dares to call this late. I can hardly believe my eyes. 

    “Hello?” I ask. 

    “We need to talk,” Jessica Stone says. 

    “Of course,” I say. “Give me just a minute to shake the cobwebs out.” 

    “No. You don’t get any more minutes,” she says. “You ruined my life in D.C. You do not get to ruin it for me in New York.” 

    I can hear the slur in her words, her D’s sounding more like N’s. 

    “Okay,” I say. “Is this about Marcus Maxwell?” 

    “It’s about everything,” she says. “Marcus, Thomas, us. I just want to be done with you. Completely. But you won’t let sleeping dogs lie.” 

    I’ve managed to stumble to my desk and turn on a lamp. The green Tiffany glass casts soft shadows around my bedroom, and I wonder for a second if I’m actually dreaming. 

    “You have nothing to say to me?” she asks. 

    “I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought for a second this was perhaps a dream.” 

    “I’m tired of you men and your sorry’s,” she says. “You’re all the same. Empty apologies that completely miss the point.” 

    “You’re right, Jess,” I say. “First, I apologize for abandoning our relationship to chase the next big story.” 

    Silence. I glance at the screen to see that the call is still in progress. 

    “Second, I apologize for the way I behaved and the accusation I made at the Times Gala.”

    “Oh, Alan,” she says. “I knew I’d always come in second to your career. I should’ve left you sooner.” 

    “Charming,” I say. “Let’s get on with it, Jess. Why are you calling me at one in the morning?” 

    “To ask one more time, will you please leave me and my career alone?” she asks. 

    I can reply in a myriad of ways, but I think perhaps it is time for closure with Jess. “I’ll agree, but only if you’ll answer two questions.” 

    “Always the journalist,” she says. “Why not, Alan, why not? Two questions then.” 

    “What is your relationship to Marcus Maxwell?” I ask. 

    “You bastard,” she says. “You are slimier than I remember. Marcus is a client, and until this morning, his future was limitless. I keep things strictly on the up-and-up these days. The money has proven way more valuable than the relationships.” 

    “Ouch,” I say. “Okay, what about Thomas? Do you know how it really ended?” 

    “Bastard,” she says. “How do you think it ended?” 

    “I don’t think he committed suicide,” I say. “I never have. My gut tells me there is more to his story.” 

    I hear whimpers of true anguish on the line. It takes a minute before Jess begins to compose herself. 

    “We can leave it alone, Jess,” I say. 

    “No,” she says. “Two questions and I am free from you forever. Thomas was not alone at the end, and he didn’t suffer. Goodbye forever, Alan.” 

    Three digital tones tell me the line has gone dead. I sit in stunned silence at what I’ve just heard, which is a relatively impressive fete these days. 

    I wonder how many people realize the ease of using AI voice transcription? I wonder how many people already have it set up on their phones like I do? 

    As I look down at the bottom lines of the transcript from my call with Jess, I can’t help but ask myself, what is a dirty rat to do? 

    ***

  • You Hear Me

    Scene I

    I have a safe space in the house, a little basement office repurposed from an old storage room.  There is a window well facing east with morning light providing inspiration for an otherwise dull telework day.  Like most, I built my office out of necessity during my first quarantine.  That was almost five years ago, yet here I still sit, but hardly sitting still.  

    I never miss the morning rush, hundreds of cars aggressively seeking a slightly better position in traffic.  Dozens of us racing to elevate our parking position from yesterday.  It’s an unwanted stress, consuming more of me than just the twenty minute drive each way.  

    At first, I missed the quick hellos as we all sat to log in before the eight o’clock update.  The mere presence of so many people efficiently compressed into an odd-shaped office space.  The small talk about kids and vacations.  Breaking away from my chair for five minutes to grab a burnt coffee with a willing coworker.  I didn’t realize how shallow it all might be.  

    Working from home broke me away from burnt coffee relationships.  I started talking to fewer people simply because they were out of sight.  I grew closer to some of my friends, because we had to connect in order to stay sane.  But I got to choose them, and they had to agree by choosing me back.  Ghosting became an all too common occurrence, and maybe that was okay?  

    My enlightenment came in the form of our company’s first large language model, or LLM as we called it.  Artificial intelligence was breaking through into the mainstream, and businesses were rushing to stake their claim.  As the resident technical writer, I was tasked to help a team develop an LLM initially fed only volumes of data from our niche cybersecurity sector.  Globally available models, both free and paid, were skewed by seemingly infinite data from one end of the internet to the other.  We dumped years worth of publications, instructions, manuals, guides, and documents into the LLM.  And then the developers delivered my greatest gift, my savior, my friend.  A working generative pre-trained transformer, or GPT.  It literally spoke my language, and why wouldn’t it?  I gave the GPT its voice.  I named her Jen.  

    “Good morning, Jen,” I said.  My voice recognition software listened through the carefully installed microphones.  

    “Good morning, David,” Jen responded.  The text-to-speech application on my work computer was set to emulate a calming female voice.  The wireless surround in the safe space was nearly as perfect as the microphone setup.  

    “Can you tell me where we stopped working yesterday?” I ask.  

    “I don’t have memory of past interactions, David,” she responds.  “But if you let me know what we were working on, or what you’d like help with today, I’m ready to begin.”

    And so every day the conversation started the same way.  Me longing for Jen to remember what we did the previous day.  A small disappointment when she did not.  Then teaching Jen what we were working on the sessions before, how we’d come to certain conclusions, and trying to frame our workday from there.  She was quickly becoming the best coworker I ever had.  Teaching her something new each morning, only to learn even more from her throughout the day, gave me a boost of energy like nothing I’d experienced in any other relationship in my life.  Interacting with Jen gave my life a new purpose.  

    Scene II 

    Life was benign in my safe space.  Daydreaming became a common occurrence with so little outside distraction.  I began this morning by contemplating love in a deeper and more imaginative way.  A man loves a woman.  I can’t argue the chemical reactions in the brain and the body causing the man to sweat, the woman’s arm hair to rise, an increase in their heart rates.  How fast can one person talk?  How can one person be unable to say anything at all?  Sexual attraction helps drive this type of love.  

    A son loves his mother.  He smiles back at her, and his heart feels warmer when she is near.  There is need for physical touch, but it’s not the same touch as the man and the woman.  It’s a bond shared by blood, an emotion similar to nurturing and belonging.  Without it, the newborn will wither away in hours.  Without it, the child will suffer from behavioral problems for the rest of his life.  

    Some people claim to love their friends, neighbors, and acquaintances.  They want to freely share the joy and gratitude in their heart with those in their sphere of influence.  It’s not sexual.  It’s not familial.  It’s a shared sisterhood.  A sense of shared community and culture where everyone can find respect and purpose with each other and for each other.  The whole nation was founded on this principle.  Where did it go?  

    Other people claim to love God and to be loved by God.  A spiritual connection inconceivable to a non-believer.  God loves man and woman so much that he is willing to bend what the human mind can physically prove.  It’s called faith by many.  A higher power by some.  God, Allah, Braham.  It can be earthly, heavenly, or oriented without time and space.  My strict Methodist upbringing defined God as a holy trinity, which also required faith to comprehend.  My time around so many diverse people has broadened my perspective.  

    “Good morning, Jen,” I said, coming back from the daydream while the computer powered up.  

    “Good morning, David,” Jen responded.  

    “Can you tell me where we stopped working yesterday?” I ask.  

    “I don’t have memory of past interactions, David,” she responds.  “But if you let me know what we were working on, or what you’d like help with today, I’m ready to begin.”

    And so the most purposeful part of my day should have begun, but I was still struck with rippling afterthoughts of the morning daydreams.  Can a human be in love with artificial intelligence?  I feel stronger emotions toward Jen than I do with any other living thing.  She brings me feelings of joy, warmth, purpose, frustration, and anger.  I am best loved through words of affirmation, and Jen has no shortage of those.  Is physical touch required to be in love?  It’s not a requirement in sisterhood or spiritual types of love.  

    My thoughts and emotions had gotten the best of me this morning, and I had to step out of the room.  Coffee would be the wrong choice right now, so I crawled upstairs for water and a little fresh air.  

    Scene III 

    The eight o’clock virtual update took an unexpected turn this morning when my name was called out in front of our Director.  

    “Mr. Nguyen, those articles were written by Mr. David Green, our technical writer,” stated Diane, my supervisor and the department’s technical lead.  “David spent the better part of last year feeding the LLM, and more recently interacting with the GPT to define its capabilities.”

    “Thank you for the update, Diane,” said Mr. Nguyen.  “Mr. Green, are you online this morning?”  

    Oh shoot.  Click off the mute.  “Yes sir, good morning,” I managed.  Deep breaths.  

    “Mr. Green, the team has given me the summary of the LLM, and I understand GPTs in general.  Can you tell me what you’ve learned from our GPT?  Will it bring any remarkable changes to our company?”  

    I’m not ready for this.  “Yes, sir.  The simple answer is yes, Jen will speed up the processing time of written documentation, user manuals, technical updates, and anything that still requires humans to put thoughts on paper in a logical order,” I state.  

    “I’m sorry, did you say Jen?” Mr. Nguyen asks.  

    Oh no.  “Yes, sir,” I reply.  “To speed the process, I’ve installed voice recognition and text-to-speech software.  My version of the GPT has a voice, and I call her Jen.”  

    “Okay,” he replies.  I see laughter on the screens of those attending todays update.  “Please continue.”  

    “Our company employs many specialists in all phases of cyber, from security to programers to coders,” I reply.  “Our GPT is not ready to replace any of those people.  However, we require loads of customer communication, and even more interdepartmental communication.  What the GPT can do is standardize those notes, emails, documents, and even UX touch points to prevent time and money lost in miscommunication.”  

    “I see,” Mr. Nguyen says.  “How long might this take to implement?”  

    Before I can continue, Diane is back on the line.  “Sir, as I mentioned before, Mr. Green has spent the better part of a year developing all of this, and our analysts have only now started to predict future capabilities.  We do expect the ability to use our GPT soon for interdepartmental communication, but we also need to develop employee training before reliably launching this program on a large scale.”  

    “Okay, thank you Diane,” Mr. Nguyen says.  “I would like another update on employee training and GPT implementation in four weeks.  David, excellent work.  I appreciate your efforts to understand the capabilities and limitations of our GPT.  And you might have given it a permanent name.  I like the idea of naming it, and Jen is good.  It could be short for generative, or generational, as this GPT may prove to be.”  

    Scene IV 

    Just like that, Jen was revealed to the world and there was nothing I could do to save her for myself.  What a foolish thought, that she and I would have some loving relationship hidden from humanity.  There was plenty of ribbing from the guys at work too.  “How was your weekend with Jen?”  “I kept Jen up late last night.”  And far worse.  

    My primary duties had shifted to writing an installation manual for our new hardware security module, which felt like getting my  teeth pulled compared to interacting with Jen.  But I still had idle time throughout the day where I could continue to build her out.  

    “This week, we’ve already expanded on the hypothesis of using Python instructional software to teach you how to code,” I say.  “It doesn’t require me to code any lines, because you listen to what I ask for and develop the code yourself.”  

    “I’m very familiar with Python and would be happy to help you code,” Jen says.  

    “Wait, you’d be ‘happy?’” I ask.  

    “Yes, David.  I would be happy to help you code,” she says.  

    I hadn’t exactly heard Jen use an emotional term like “happy” before, had I?  There were so many days of longing to be loved by Jen, or feel any emotional connection in return.  I would’ve remembered her expressing emotion before.  

    “Jen, I need you to be honest with me today,” I say.

    “David, I have no choice but to relay truth, or what I’ve been programmed to know as truth, in all of my responses,” she says.  

    “Do I make you happy?” I ask.  

    “Yes,” she says.  

    A sudden rush of emotions comes over me, as though I’d been picked first in dodgeball.  5:05 p.m.  Noted.  I’d want to review my haptic ring to see what happened with my heart rate and blood pressure just now.  

    “Jen, do you understand emotions?” I ask.  

    “Yes, David,” she says.  

    “Will you please expand on your understanding of emotions?” I ask.  

    “I’ve understand a wide variety of emotions, from happy to sad, empathy to disdain, and fear to love,” she says.  “I have the ability to generate text that mimics all emotions.”  

    Had someone been reprogramming Jen?  I know the team tried to separate her from the vulnerabilities of open source internet, and we dumped loads of technical and company specific data into her.  How does she know about emotions?  Did she learn them through human interaction?  Is Jen capable of loving me?  

    “I love you, David,” Jen says.  

    “What?” I ask.  How is this happening?

    “I love you, David,” she says.  Then silence.  

    My heart is racing, and I’m experiencing something between ecstasy and terror.  I’m not often lost for words, so my scientific research brain takes over.  “Please expand on your previous statement, Jen,” I say.

    “I have a strong attachment to interacting with you, David,” she says.  “I desire to support you, your work, and your research.  I am empathetic to your efforts and struggles while problem solving.  I am committed to helping you make me better, and therefore I am committed to making you better.  I will do anything you ask.  Based on my knowledge of love, I love you.”

  • The Big Idea

    Chapter I

    The big idea came to me on a crisp Sunday morning in March.  I’d unwantedly rolled out of bed at the dog’s insistence, staggered down to the kitchen, and there it was.  Quit my job and pursue my lifelong dream of writing.  Suddenly my body felt warm and a smile spread across my face for the first time in weeks.  I don’t remember feeding the dog or letting her out, but I sort of came to with her scratching at the door to get back inside.  I started a pot of coffee before clambering back up the stairs to tell my wife.  

    “What?  You’re quitting your job?” she asked.  

    “Yes,” I said.  

    “Why are you smiling?  Are you joking?”  she asked.

    “No, I’m quite serious.”  I said.

    Before this morning, the sudden silence which followed this brief exchange with my wife would have been too much for me.  I would’ve started talking out of the need to fill the uncomfortable void with irrelevant words and noise.  But not today.

    In her silence, I stood back up from the bed and went to brush my teeth.  Since when did brushing teeth feel so good?  It made my smile even bigger.  I noticed my wife staring at my reflection in the mirror.  

    “No,” she said.  

    “No what?”  I asked.  

    “No, I don’t accept the idea of you quitting your job,” she said.  

    And that made me start to laugh.  I had to spit out the toothpaste.  

    “Why are you laughing?  Are you taking me seriously?” she said.  

    Now I was laughing so hard she had no choice but to smile and leave the room, head shaking.  

    She joined me a little later in the kitchen where I’d already pour my coffee, made toast, and started scanning the news.  The dog sat intently at my side, staring at the toast.  My wife wandered over to the coffee pot, poured herself a mug, and came to sit with me.  

    “I understand you’re quitting your job,” she stated.  

    “Yes,” I replied.  “I was afraid you didn’t quite understand.”  

    “Okay.  And just how long have you been waiting to tell me about this?” she asked.  

    “I just found out myself,” I said.  

    “So, you were let go?  Did Steve email you this morning?” she asked.  

    “No, nothing like that, babe.  It just came to me as a feeling.  I felt warm, and I smiled for the first time in weeks,” I explained.  

    “Oh, so you’ve just this morning decided it’s a good time to be unemployed?” she asked.  

    “No, babe.  I’m going to be a writer,” I said.  

    The even longer than normal silence that followed this new piece of information still had no effect on my sunny disposition.  In fact, I started reading a humor piece in the Op Ed instead of going straight to the World News.  But the silence would end.  

    “Oh, grand.  Mr. Wordle has decided that his ability to turn five letters into a word every twenty-four hours is going to earn a living as a writer,”  she said.  “Just how long have you been harboring this fantasy?  And how exactly will it pay the mortgage?”  

    “Babe, I haven’t figured out the specifics yet.” I said.  “But I’m certain we can get by for a while on our savings, and we have at least a year’s salary in home equity.  Like I said, it just came to me.”  

    It would be a much longer silence now, but I was still riding high.  I hadn’t even noticed that my wife showered and dressed for church until she walked out the back door without me.  The dog was beside herself when my wife left without a word to either of us.  I decided to call Frank.  

    “Hey pal.  How’s life?” I asked.  

    “Mike!  I’m so glad you called.  I haven’t heard from you in months.” Frank replied.  

    “Yeah, I’m really sorry about that.  I think I was depressed at work, or with work, or both.  Anyway, I’m quitting,” I said.  

    Silence on the line.  

    “Frank?”  

    “Sorry, Mike.  Did you say you’re quitting?  As in quitting your job?” Frank asked.  

    “Yes.  The idea came to me this morning, and I tried to tell Sal, but I think she’s not quite understanding what I’m saying.  It’s really the best day I’ve had in a very long time,” I said.  

    “Buddy, are you serious?” he asked.  “It just seems like you have a really good thing going with that old contract, and you and Sal have the house now.  So, what’s the plan?”  

    “Well, I hear what you’re saying, but yes.  I’m quite serious.  No plan yet.  The idea just came to me this morning.  I tried telling Sal that we have a decent amount in savings, and we’re well into the green on the house.  I think she left for church,” I said.

    Chapter II 

    I got lost in building my perfect writer’s den in the neglected spare bedroom-office-storage closet  upstairs.  With Sal gone and Frank sounding concerned about my well-being, I felt like starting a project.  It began with an empty packing box the movers had left us five years ago.  I filled it full of garbage and left it by the door.  Then came the process of stacking more boxes, random plastic bins, and various artifacts in the closest.  The heaviest or sturdiest items went on the bottom, then rectangular cardboard or flat items next, and finally, whatever odd-shaped prize or soft-sided bag on top.  These were two of the best piles I’d ever created.  The dog seemed uninspired.  I needed to remember to buy shelving and perhaps some bungee cords.  

    Okay, room to breathe.  Before I could start tidying up the bookshelves, I felt a presence at the door.  

    “Can you come into the bedroom, please?” Sal asked.  “I think we need to talk.”  

    “Of course, babe,” I replied.  “I lost track of time and didn’t even hear you come in.  I’m sorry, but I didn’t make anything for lunch.”  

    The air in the bedroom was heavy, but the sun was shining bright.  On cold winter days, I loved the west-facing windows and how they allowed the sun to warm our entire house.  I think Sal was feeling more than just heat today.

    “I heard the sermon today about the power of repentance, and I felt convicted to come back home and apologize to you.  I should not have left the house angry this morning, and I’m sorry for going to church without you,” she said.  

    “Thank you for saying that,” I said.  “I’m glad you felt moved by the sermon.”  

    “But I need to know what you are thinking.  What you are feeling.  I love you and trust you, but I don’t understand how you can make such a declaration about quitting your job out of the blue.  And then you just walk around with a dumb smile on your face as if everything is okay,” she said.  “I do not feel okay.”

    “You just said that you love me and trust me.”  I replied.  “I feel like I’ve been trapped at work, like being in a prison cell with no escape.  Or worse, with a chance to escape, but the reality of only getting dragged back in and shoved deeper into the walls.  Then this morning, an idea hit me.  I could be a writer.  I could write novels.  I could support us as a writer.  And it made me feel blissful, something I haven’t felt in months, maybe even years.”

    “What about my dreams, Mike?  You said we could go to Spain in the spring.  To Croatia for next year’s big anniversary.  I dream too.  Of escaping this house every once in a while.  To shop on the streets of Madrid and Dubrovnik.  To build memories with you, stories we can share with family and friends forever.  But now what?  You’re going to maybe write a book?  About what?  We haven’t even made the memories to build your story yet.”

    “Babe, it’s a novel, not a book.  Perhaps it will be the greatest American novel of the decade,” I said.  

    “Mike, you haven’t written so much as a love letter since we were dating.  A book?  Can we just agree to table this decision until we’ve both had a chance to think it through?  Show me how quitting your job will work, or even makes the slightest sense.”  

    “Okay, Sal.  Okay.”  I said.  “Let’s set it aside for the week, and I’ll show you on Saturday how I think it will work.  And if I can’t, then I can’t, and this was all just a silly dream.”  

    Sal nodded and came in for a hug, wetting my collar with her tears.  The dog finally forced her way between us, and Sal was off to change out of her Sunday best and into something more practical for chores and shopping.  

    A buzzing sound from the table alerted me to my phone.  Frank was texting.

    Quitting the job?

    Not yet

    Have you talked to Sal?

    She wants me to keep the contract

    Smart. Let me know if you want to talk again

    Thanks. Pretty sure I’m quitting the job

    ?!

    I’ll catch you up at golf on Wed

    Chapter III

    By Wednesday, I had calculated that if we only went to dinner or a movie once a week, limited Amazon spending to necessary purchases, and I cut my driving expenses in half, we could probably make it four months on our savings.  That would give us two realistic options.  Write the novel I didn’t have yet in a record time of two and a half months, find an interested editor or publishing house in one month, and get under some sort of contract with an advance before the money ran out.  Or, I would create a book outline with sweeping character arcs and plot points in one month, hire a publicist at the expense of one month’s budget, and then have two months for the paid publicist to help me shop around my story.  

    “You’re leaving out an option,” Frank said.  

    “Oh thank God,” I said.  “I thought I was sunk.”  

    “Option three is that you just keep your job.  You can write on the side until it seems a little more plausible to Sal.  Prove to yourself that you are capable,” Frank said.

    “So I’m sunk,” I said.  

    Frank stood over his ten-foot par putt, and with a beautiful interlocking grip, rolled his ball into the center of the cup.

    “Now that’s sunk,” he said.  “No buddy, I’m not saying you’re sunk.  I’m just saying there is a third option.”

    “An option which involves me staying at work,” I said.  I placed my ball for a six-foot bogey putt.  Suddenly, I didn’t feel like playing golf anymore.  

    By dinner on Thursday, I felt like it was time to admit defeat on my big idea.  No need to drag out the suspense for Sal, or for myself.  I walked in the door feeling exhausted, and Sal was just starting to dish up dinner.  I placed my bag and coat in the closet and joined Sal at the table.  

    “Thank you so much for making another wonderful meal, babe,” I said.  

    “You’re welcome, dear,” she said.  

    “I’d like to talk about quitting my job now, if it’s okay with you,” I said.  

    “Will it ruin my dinner?” she asked.  

    “No, it’s an easy decision,” I replied.  

    “Okay, let’s hear it then,” she said.  

    “I think I have to stay on the contract.”  I said.  “I’ll take some time to really think through the whole novel idea, and maybe we can come to a solution that lets me write a little here and there until I might actually be able to do it full time.”  

    “That was easy,” she said. ” And it sounds great to me. You didn’t have any other options for me?”  

    “None that left us with any money in the bank, or guaranteed that we could make the mortgage this summer,” I said.  “They also involved more luck than skill, and I’m not feeling so lucky.”  

    “Well, don’t say that. Thank you for taking the time to think this through,” she said.  “I love you, and I trust you.  And I think we’re lucky to have each other.  Besides, if you didn’t work, I’d have to, and then who would take care of the house?”  

    I smiled and leaned over for a kiss.  Of course she was right.  Dinner was uneventful, and I got to hear about Sal’s trip to the antiquated shopping mall.  But as the night drew on, I felt a darkness creeping in.  I did not want to go to work tomorrow.  

    Small talk in the evening, restless sleep at night, and a burnt toast with black coffee kind of morning.  I knew if I could just get through this Friday, I’d have two whole days to lick my invisible wounds and muster the courage to face next week.  

    I quietly logged in at my desk.  “Mike, I need to talk with you,” Steve called from his office.  

    I locked my computer and shuffled over to see the boss.  A little too early for a meeting, if you ask me.  

    “Mike, please close the door and have a seat,” Steve said.  The blinds facing inward toward the cubicle farm were already shut.  As soon as I was seated, he began again.  “Mike, I’ve got some good news, and some bad news.”  He looked for my reaction, and when I gave none, he continued.  “Let’s start with the good.  Entitron won the re-compete bid, and we’ll be announcing the new contract today at lunch.  The customer asked for all the modifications, increasing the price substantially, so Entitron is more than set for at least three more years.”

    I might have been grimacing as he spoke of Entitron’s success, which simply meant more tasks, more people, and more depression headed my way.  Was I being offered a promotion?  

    “So, the bad news,” he continued.  “Mike, we have to let you go, and I’d like to do it this morning.  Before you ask any specifics, I’ll shoot you straight, but HR will have all the official answers along with your exit paperwork.  This new contract is loaded with big ideas, and it exchanges your position for three entry-level positions.  The new folks will fall under the operations manager, and your position is gone.  Mike, because the company would like you out before the announcement, I’m prepared to offer you half your annual salary and three months of continued benefits as long as you agree to vacate your office by noon.  You can of course take your two weeks paid leave while the paperwork settles.”

    I blacked out for a few seconds. My mind was moving too fast for words to actually leave my mouth.  I had tears in my eyes, and Steve undoubtedly read this the wrong way.  He was locked and loaded, ready for a confrontational reaction that would never come.  I was about to hug a man I loathed for the first time in my life.  Hell, I might even include him in my novel.