Character Driven

by Gerardo Delgadillo:

Eric Lom hated writing.

That’s a bad thing if you write for a living.

He ran a hand through his hair, focusing on the computer, hovering the mouse over the “Documents” folder. He clicked it and drummed the desk, thinking. My life, all my writing, fits in this soulless machine. He shook his head. It’s just a bunch of nonsense. He pressed the shift and delete keys together.

“Are you sure you want to permanently delete this folder?” appeared on the screen.

Eric sighed and clicked the “Yes” button. There. A second later the screen emitted an intense, white light, blinding him. He looked away, covering his eyes, but a force pulled him toward the screen. He shrunk and his clothes slipped to the floor. He floated. He opened his eyes, but the potent light made him close them again.

He landed hard.

He squinted. Were his eyes lying? Words covered the ground, forming incomprehensive sentences and paragraphs. Hills stood in front of him, also covered with nonsense. He turned around to spot a flat surface that extended as far as he could see, making him think of a desert. He kneeled, placed his hands on the ground, and sniffed the aroma of freshly pressed paper.

Someone cleared his throat. Eric stood and turned around.

A lanky bald guy with gray skin, wearing a black tuxedo, held a silver suit and a pair of shoes. “Put them on,” he said, looking the other way, facing the hills, as if Eric were a repugnant rat.

“W-who are you?” Eric asked.

“I’m Lalo Davis,” he replied, still looking away.

“Lalo Davis?” Eric echoed, thinking about the more than familiar name.

“That’s right.” Lalo shook the suit. “Put it on. You’re naked.”

Eric snatched the garment and the shoes, and slid into the included underwear. “Where am I?”

“Close to Arlapen, of course,” Lalo said.

“Arlapen? Lalo… Y-you are my character?”

“Yes, I am.” Lalo faced Eric. Eric gasped at Lalo’s hollow face. Two tiny white slits beamed at Eric. “Is everything all right?” asked Lalo, his tiny circle of a mouth barely moving.

“Y-you look different,” Eric said.

“Different than what?” Lalo’s forehead showed a horizontal silver line, as if frowning.

“I imagined you, you know—w-what happened to your face?” Eric asked, as he put the pants on.

“Nothing.” Lalo scoffed. “Absolutely nothing. That’s what happened. And it’s your fault.”

“But I created you out of my imagi—”

“That’s inside your head,” said Lalo. “You never wrote it.”

“I did write it,” Eric said, as he buttoned his shirt.

Lalo put his hands over his nonexistent cheeks. “Do I look like I was described enough? I have no nose, no lips, and no ears.”

“But—”

“I haven’t finished,” Lalo interrupted. “Would you like me to describe you as a dude with a long neck and rotten teeth? Is that good enough?”

Eric took a deep breath. “I get it.”

“Well, do something.”

“How?” Eric said, putting on the suit jacket.

Lalo typed in an imaginary keyboard. “Write it.”

“That’s going to be impossible,” Eric said as he put the shoes on. “I just erased my books.”

Lalo tsked and tapped his own temple. “Your novels are inside your head. They’ll always be.”

“That’s impossible. I can’t even remember what I did last night.”

Lalo shook his head. “You have a lot to learn from your own writing.” He stepped closer, focusing. “We are more interesting than you think.”

Eric looked at his feet. “More interesting?”

“I can show you,” Lalo said.

“You, my character, showing me how to—” Eric stopped, considering Lalo’s words, and decided to investigate. He raised his chin. “Show me.”

Lalo turned around. “Come with me.”

Eric followed his poorly described character up a hill. A city appeared when they reached the top, Arlapen, but it was a blur of what he intended. Platinum boxy buildings with black windows sat in the distance, reflecting the weak sunshine. Over his shoulder, a white sun hid behind the horizon. “What time is it?” asked Eric.

“Time to get inside the car,” said Lalo, pointing to a gigantic, metallic shoebox at his right.

Eric knew it was his fault the vehicle looked that ugly. “Did I?”

“You did, but it’s better than you think.” Lalo strode faster, reaching the shoebox car. He slid his hand over the hood. “It’s a beauty.” He sighed. For a moment Eric thought Lalo would kiss the automobile.

Eric nodded. “Indeed.” How could he describe a vehicle like this?

Lalo stepped to the side of the car, pulled a handle, and opened the front door. “Get in.”

Eric hopped inside, sliding to what he thought was the passenger’s side, but the vehicle had no steering wheel, or gear stick. Lalo joined Eric, closing the door, darkening the inside.

“How do you drive this?” Eric asked, searching around in the darkness.

Lalo scoffed. “You know how. It’s your car. You designed it.”

Voice controlled car, Erick remembered. “Yes, I did.”

“Good,” Lalo said. “Shit, take us to Arlapen.” The car moved.

Eric raised an eyebrow. “Shit?”

“Come on. Don’t you remember?”

Eric concentrated on the dashboard. “The attention command,” he finally said. “Why did you—” Eric didn’t finish the sentence, realizing the car was indeed a piece of crap. “Does the car have tires?”

“No,” said a female voice behind him. She yawned. “But it takes us places. It glides,” she said in a raspy, yet smooth voice.

“Good evening, Gizelle,” said Lalo.

“Who.” She cleared her throat. “Who’s this guy?”

“I’m—” Eric said.

“A surprise,” Lalo interrupted. “You’ll know when we arrive at Arlapen.”

Who is Gizelle? Eric thought, but the name wasn’t familiar, and the darkness hid her face.

“These days it’s difficult to get surprised,” said Gizelle.

The car travelled for a few minutes and then stopped.  “We have arrived at Arlapen,” said a robotic female voice.

“Shit, front door,” said Lalo.

It opened, showing an entrance with double doors. A red carpet covered the black and white floor. Eric looked over his shoulder, hoping to see Gizelle, but found a black window instead.

Lalo pushed Eric. “Get out.” Eric hopped out and Lalo followed.

Eric pointed at the vehicle. “Is she coming?”

Lalo tapped his forehead. “I forgot.” He faced the car. “Shit, passenger’s door.”

The door slid to the back, showing a young woman wearing an elegant red dress with cleavage…cleavage, and legs too. Eric shook his head. Her long blond hair rippled as she stepped out. Her blue eyes looked at him intently, as if saying, “I’m gorgeous.”

Eric’s cheeks burned.  “You are,” he scanned her, “beautiful.”

“I’m Gizelle Belle,” she said and offered her exquisite hand.

Eric wanted to kiss her fingers—eat them, but instead he clasped her hand, sending a small electric signal through his body. “Eric Lom. Nice to meet you, Gizelle.”

 She gasped. “I-I’m so—oh, my god—honored. You’re—I can’t believe it’s you.”

“I told you he was a surprise, Giz,” said Lalo and pointed at the double doors. “Shall we?” He strolled in that direction.

Gizelle grabbed Eric’s arm. “You look different than I imagined.”

“That seems to be a common problem here,” Eric said. “But tell me, how do you know me?”

She raised a perfect blondish eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

He scratched his head. “No.”

She rolled her eyes. “You created me.”

“I did?” Eric asked.

Lalo gestured. “I’m waiting.”

As they walked toward the entrance, Gizelle made a pouty face. “You don’t recognize me?”

“Of course I do,” said Eric, thinking hard. What novel? What character? But he was sure he didn’t have a character named Gizelle. “Well,” he continued, “I think I do, but maybe I… I don’t remember. Sorry.” Stupid! He wanted to slap his own hand for saying that.

She pinched his cheek. “You are a bad boy, but I forgive you. I’ll give you a hint. I walk like a cat. Meow!”

What story? Eric thought. Lalo and Arlapen appeared in a three book series, but a blue-eyed blond was so unoriginal. It wasn’t how he portrayed his heroines—his women.

“We welcome you with open arms, Mr. Lom,” said a soccer ball of a man dressed in a black suit with a red tie. He stood by the double doors, extending a chubby hand, smiling. “John Smith.”

Eric never used such plain names. Something was wrong, as if playing chess on a bingo board. He stepped to the guy and clasped his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You don’t recognize me?”

“No.” Eric took a deep breath.

“You’re kidding,” John said. Gizelle had said the same.

Eric wondered if he was a victim of his own writing.  “Yes, I’m kidding.”

John smiled and opened the door. “On the spur of the moment, I thought you told me a white lie. I had a dog day afternoon, but the sun always shines after the rain.”

They entered the building into a golden lobby. A golden carpet covered the golden floor and a golden table surrounded by golden chairs sat in the middle. A golden sofa and a—everything was freaking golden. Did Eric describe a place like this? He sighed.

“I have to take Shit to the mechanic.” Lalo turn around, heading out.

“I have so many questions to ask you,” said John. “You know…a penny for your thoughts?”

Gizelle unhooked her arm from Eric’s. “Mr. Lom must be tired. Could you get him a room?”

“Of course,” Mr. Smith said. “Two’s company, three’s a crowd. Besides, I’m too tired to sleep.” He rolled to a golden desk and typed on a golden keyboard.

Eric turned to Gizelle. “Does he always talk like that?”

“Like what?” she asked.

“You know, in clichés.”

Gizelle eyed the chubby man. “What’s a cliché?”

“It’s a—” Eric shook his head, realizing he was talking to one of his characters. Even if she was a goddess of a character. “I’ll explain later.”

She frowned. “You think I’m dumb.”

“No. I just want to go back home.” Eric said.

She extended her arms. “This is your home inside your head.”

“It’s pretty, but I—”

“Room’s ready.” John wagged a golden key.

Gizelle grabbed it. “Where is it?”

“Penthouse,” said John, pointing at the golden elevator. “Good night, sleep tight, and don’t let the bed bugs bite.” He scurried to a corridor and disappeared.

She grabbed Eric’s hand and pulled him toward the elevator. A bell sounded and the doors opened, showing silver walls. Eric sighed. No more golden. They hopped in. Gizelle inserted the key in the panel and pushed a pizza-sized red button, reading, “Penthouse.” Contrary to what Eric thought, the machine travelled down. An underground penthouse? The elevator stopped and its doors opened, showing a huge room. Tall windows displayed a blue ocean. A bottle of wine sat on top of a grand piano. The aroma of strawberries, mangoes, and pineapples inundated the room.

Gizelle stepped inside. “Do you like it?”

Eric followed. “It’s incredible. Did I write this?”

She nodded. “I remember how a rain of words poured into our world.” She took a deep breath. “It was beautiful. Like a colorless rainbow, but we could feel the colors. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“Yes,” he said. “I write better when I’m drunk.”

“No, it’s not that. Your writing’s excellent when you’re tired—when you don’t care and type without hitting backspace. Who cares if you make a typo or enter the wrong word?”

Eric rubbed his eyebrow. How could she know so much about him? “Who are you?”

“Gizelle Belle.”

“No. I didn’t write about a blue-eyed blond named Gizelle.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He scanned her elegant frame. “How could I forget you?”

She smiled and sat on a blue velvet couch. “You did create me.” She gestured for him to join her. He sat by her side. She took his hands. “You’re rushing your writing, Eric, and art can’t be rushed. Look at this room.”

He checked the place. “What about it?”

“It’s so detailed.”

Eric thought of how Arlapen was a caricature of what he intended. “Why?”

“Because you took your time to write this room and me,” she said, her ruby lips like raspberries.

But he couldn’t remember her. “You keep saying I created you. I didn’t.”

Gizelle grabbed Eric’s head. “It’s there. I’m there.”

He shook his head, pushing away her hands. “I did not.” He inhaled. “Look, you’re gorgeous, a man’s dream, but I couldn’t possibly describe such a beauty. Who are you?”

She stood and strolled toward the bedroom. She looked over her shoulder and winked.

Eric sauntered to the window. Waves crashed on a white beach. When was the last time I went on vacation? he wondered. He took a deep breath and headed to the room.

Inside, Gizelle lay on the bed wearing a satin nightgown. She stretched like a sleepy cat. “Are you tired?”

“No.” He shook his head. “No!” Eric closed his eyes tight and thought of his tiny apartment, his laptop, and the deleted books. He opened his eyes, but the fancy bedroom appeared, and Gizelle still lay on the bed.

She laughed. “That’s not going to work, Darling.”

Gizelle got out of the bed and walked to him. Her blue eyes turned purple and morphed into huge almonds—feline eyes. She peeled off her nightgown to show an elongated body, her knees pointing in the wrong direction. Her blond hair grew, covering all her body. Her hair slowly turned gray, and then black. And it shined, as if covered with Vaseline. Her nose and mouth protruded, forming a disgusting snout.

Eric froze at this transformation.

“Do you remember me now?” she asked, sounding like two people talking at once.

He gasped. “Ragata!” He now remembered the cat-rat female monster that attacked Arlapen and spread the disease, wiping out the city’s population.

Ragata purred and stepped inches from Eric. “I love you.” The stink of her fish and rotten garbage breath slapped Eric.

He made an effort but couldn’t move. “H-how did you morph like that?”

“I borrowed a few words here and there.”

“I created you,” he said, “and I can destroy you.”

“I love you,” she repeated. “But I’ll never forgive you for this.” She gestured her hands over her repugnant body.

“No!” Once again, Eric closed his eyes and balled his hands into fists. He concentrated hard on his family, but couldn’t remember the last time he saw them or talked to them. He thought of his uneventful life and realized he was throwing it to the dumpster of forgotten people.

And then he opened his eyes.

Ragata sniffed his face. “I’m hungry.”

Originally from San Francisco, Gerardo Delgadillo lives in Frisco, Texas with his family and a howling beagle that doesn’t let him sleep. Because of this, Gerardo writes dreamy-weird stories when he’s half-awake.

Gerardo also writes “stuff” on his blog. Follow Gerardo on Twitter at @Gero_Delgadillo.

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