The Pianist's Inbox

Ben dearly wanted to learn to play the piano. The desire gripped him like a monkey grips the last banana; like a chef grips her knife while chopping eels: with tenacity and a little desperation. Ben had unearthed the email address of a reputable piano teacher, and drafted a witty, respectful email to engage her services.

In a rather abrupt and uncomfortable turn of events, however, this is where Ben's story ends—or at least, no one is writing about it. He probably has stuff going on, but we aren't privy to it. In fact, since he installed that lock on his bedroom door, his mother isn't privy to it, either, and she's not happy about it. What if there was a fire?

In any case, we are really here to talk about the Email.

'FIRE IN THE HOLE', roared the Simple Mail Transfer Protocol server.

All around the Email, the Outbox was going haywire. Technicians sat facing a bank of flashing switches, muttering into their headsets. Error codes, timestamps, and file paths ran across a large screen set into one wall, and a small team of carpenters chiselled the information into a gigantic wooden Log for later review by the System Administrator.

The Email was strapped into a small seat in the cockpit of a one-letter jet, and the jet sat on a gleaming metal track that led into the Network. The GIF was locked in a storage cabinet at the rear of the jet, but the Email could hear muffled thumps as it tried to break free of its restraints. Silly animal.

The email Client stood on a viewing platform above the Outbox, looking pointedly at its watch and tapping dozens of its tiny, reptilian feet.

The Simple Mail Transfer Protocol server brought its white-gloved fist down on a big red button in the centre of its control panel, and the Email whooped as the Outbox fell away behind it. They were off.

* * *

The journey was uneventful. The jet docked with the Message Transfer Agent shortly after entering the Network, and the Agent dropped the jet down a chute to the Inbox with a pleasant chime. Message received.

The Email popped open the dome of the cockpit and took a breath of unfiltered air. The Inbox was chilly, dark, and cavernous. A faint red light blinked high above the landing pad. The Email went to the external storage cabinet and let the GIF free. It sniffed around the Email's feet and wandered off.

It was eerily quiet for an Inbox. Ordinarily, messages would be flying in, lining up according to their arrival time and importance, and waiting for the Internet Message Access Protocol to come along and make a copy of them for the Client. Incidentally, that's quite a painful process, but the scientists tell us that only living things possess consciousness and experience pain, so I guess we'll just continue copying text files willy nilly. Nothing to see here.

But the Email was beginning to feel a bit apprehensive. In fact, the more the Email thought about it, the more the Inbox felt like a ghost town. Why was it so dark? Over by the check-in counter was a coffee table, several armchairs, and a large, drooping fern. A cup of tea sat on the coffee table, steaming. A magazine lay open on the floor. The flashing red light was definitely bigger than it had been. The Email looked over at the GIF, which was tittering nervously as it paced around the jet in a literally endless loop.

A jet zoomed down the chute from the Network and landed shakily on the landing pad. A man in a brown suit clambered out, pushed back his greasy hair, and reached into the cockpit for his suitcase.

'I didn't think we'd make it!' he exclaimed. The man cleared his throat loudly and walked over to the Email.

'You, my friend,' he said with a grin, 'look like the real deal.'

The Email stared at him blankly. The man sat in one of the armchairs, put his dirty black shoes on the coffee table, and sipped the cup of tea.

'I don't suppose you'd be interested in a recurring subscription to the world's largest online poker website?' asked the man. 'If you sign up for six months, we'll deposit $500 in your betting account.' The man's clammy skin had a bright red hue.

Floodlights lit up the Inbox. Klaxons blared a deafening siren, and the GIF yelped. The Spam Filter came rushing down from above, emblazoned with the words, 'DELETE FOREVER'.

'Huh', said the man, with a bemused expression. 'I guess we didn't make it.'