The UN-expected Vault

The UN-expected Vault

I screwed my eyes shut and scrutinized the panorama displayed on the backs of my eyelids. An alarmingly stark landscape lay before me. Nothing lay behind me, not even the shambles of what had once been. I approached the single identifiable feature that stood out among the nondescript monochromatic lumps littering the central plain of my imagination. It was a vault, a formidable-looking vault as big as—well, it was big. Warehouse-big.

Several versions of me flanked its door, sitting or leaning on cast-iron park benches with gray seat and back slats.

"What's going on? And, didn't those used to be green?" I asked my selves.

"They were," confirmed Analytical-Me.

"What's green?" Artistic-Me wore a forlorn expression.

"I can't write! There's nothing to write about anymore," wailed Writer-Me.

I scoffed. "What are you talking about? We've always had plenty of ideas. You just had trouble focusing on any one plot line long enough to get the whole thing down on paper."

Pedantic-Me wagged a finger. "Point of order: we don't jot ideas on paper, we use a word processor. A computer, actually, with a word processing program."

"Of course, Pedantic," I replied. "We also don't hang up the phone, but we still use the expression from when phones were mounted on walls. And we don't drink coffee, but we still take coffee breaks."

"Fair enough."

Writer couldn't keep the exasperation out of his voice. "I finally got a quiet afternoon where I thought I could dedicate a block of time, but now I have nothing to write about. Nothing." He stopped Analytical with a glare before he opened his mouth. "Don't even suggest it. I'm not going to write about not being able to write. That's not a reasonable alternative to nothing. At least, not again."

Practical-Me piped up, "Well, actually, I could use the time to get some other things done around here."

"No," insisted Writer, "we all agreed this was going to be writing time."

Analytical shrugged and bobbed his head in agreement.

"But you have no ideas," I remarked flatly. "Last week, I couldn't come in here without tripping over at least three of them. Or ten. What happened?"

"It's all his fault," Writer said, pointing an accusing finger at Romantic-Me. "He switched out my muse. Now, all of our ideas are in that stinking vault."

"The next robot story?"

"In the vault."

"The shape shifters?"

"In the vault."

"Even the Archangel story—nevermind, I know. In the vault." I released a long sigh and tried to think of something to suggest.

"Not to be pedantic," said Pedantic, "but you said stinking vault. I don't smell anything."

"Well, that's also the point," said Writer. "All of my creative triggers are locked away in there with my scenarios and character sketches. Places I've visited, flavors, aromas … plus all of the random topics I've researched to weave into stories later."

"The maps? The medieval-life documentaries? Grandpa's diary of the year he spent in Burma? The dad we saw following his little kid around the playground the other day?"

Writer answered with a stolid stare.

I raked my fingers across my scalp and then did it again for good measure. "Okay, so it's all in the vault," I acquiesced. "And we can't just do a few minutes of new research and start with a fresh idea?"

"No muse," said Writer, glaring at Romantic, who had begun humming quietly to himself.

"What about the green-eyed blonde—the one who's managed to get featured in the stories of nearly every guy in our writers group?" I raised my eyebrows suggestively.

"Imaginary. Not a real muse."

"Well, what about the Spanish lady who—wait, what? Why is not a real muse an issue? We haven't relied on a real muse for years. We are a writer, so we use our imagin—"

Analytical bounced an empty soda can off my chest. "Look around. Do you see any of our favorite imaginary ladies around here? Can you think of a reason you might not?"

"In the vault?"

"Bingo."

I finally turned my full attention to the solid steel wall that rose in front of me like the, like the, like the—

"Don't bother," said Writer. "All of our similes are locked up in there, too. Just say that it's a big, smooth steel wall. With a door."

"Oh, good grief!" I exploded. "How can we call ourselves a writer if we can't even come up with one good simile?" I stormed over to the huge door, where Technical-Me stood in front of a keyboard, staring at a display screen. "You can open this, right?"

Technical grimaced and shrugged one shoulder. "I'm not so sure I can."

"If we can't open the door, can we drill out rivets and remove a panel somewhere to get in?" I asked.

"Do you see any rivets?" Analytical flipped a coin. "That makes three hundred in a row."

"What are rivets?" asked Artistic.

I looked at Technical. He pointed at the display.

"It says, reset your password," he said.

"What password? We've never had a password."

Technical shot me a look from under his eyebrows. "We've never had a vault before, either."

"Okay, so do the reset."

Technical pressed a key and read the new on-screen message. "It says we need to enter the old password before we can create a new one. Who among us knows the old password?"

I puffed my cheeks and spread out my palms, hoping I looked as helpless as I felt. I gazed around my group of selves. As our eyes met, each shrugged or shook his head—until I got to Writer, who jutted his chin at Romantic.

"Romantic's the one who deprived me of my muse," he said, "right before everything else disappeared into that vault I've never seen before."

"Well, clearly he's in Lala Land right now. I guess I have to shake him hard to get any meaningful dialogue."

"Good luck," chimed Technical and Analytical in unison.

I grabbed Romantic by the shoulders.

"I met someone," he said dreamily.

"Who? Who did you meet?"

"You know—you're me, I'm you, and you were there …"

I racked my brains trying to think of anyone Romantic could have developed a romantic interest in recently.

"Oh, no … " intoned Analytical, and it dawned on me what he was thinking.

"Not the redhead, Romantic, say it's not the redhead."

Romantic closed his eyes, sighed, and adopted the contented expression of a pig in a sun-warmed mud pit.

Analytical frowned. "This is not good. We don't have a good track record with redheads."

"Not that we've enjoyed a string of rousing successes with brunettes or blondes, either," retorted Pedantic.

"But redheads especially," said Practical. "They can be somewhat insane—infectiously so. Remember Suzanne?"

Romantic opened his eyes wide. "Oh, yeah! I remember Suzanne …"

Analytical jumped up, waving his hands. "Stop, don't say her name a third time—you might summon her! We have enough problems as it is, and we don't need to open up that—"

"Shut up, all of you, and focus," I said firmly. "We need that password. This calls for drastic measures." I took a deep breath and a half step back, then I leaned into a full-force slap. Romantic's eyes bulged and his jaw dropped. A chorus of "Ow!" and "Hey!" rang out behind me.

Romantic rubbed his face. "That was uncalled for."

"What's the password, Romantic?"

"Did you try her name?" He glanced from me to Technical.

"I haven't tried anything yet," Technical said.

"Her name is Annette. Try Annette," I told him.

He keyed in the name. "Nope, that's not it. What next, Romantic?"

"Hey, look at that!" said Artistic. "When you said her name, a bunch of tulips sprouted on that lump, and they're red and pink, not gray."

"Ah, yes, tulips," Romantic murmured. "She definitely had two lips …"

"Stop that. What's the password?"

Romantic raised an eyebrow. "Try her phone number?"

"You heard him, Technical. Try her pho—no, we don't know her phone number," I snarled. "We finally go to Mom's place around noon out of curiosity because she told us the new lady making her weekly deliveries is a gorgeous redheaded dancer, and—"

"—and I wanted to see if she was right," said Romantic. "Or, at least, to see if her assessment might match up with what we would consider gorgeous."

Analytical let loose a low whistle. "Hoo-boy, there was no miscommunication there."

"Fine, fine, fine. I know," I said. "And all you did was ogle her for a half hour while she chatted with Mom."

Romantic rankled. "I didn't ogle. Sure, I looked, but she and Mom and we were all kind of having a conversation. And I couldn't not watch—the way she moved was just … lyrical."

"Well, she is a dancer after all," said Practical. "This delivery thing is just a side gig for her."

The whole group's heads moved up and down slowly in agreement.

"So, if you were so enthralled with her, Romantic, why didn't you ask for her number?" Pedantic asked.

"Why didn't you? It's not like I was the only one there. You're all looking at me because I appreciated how beautiful she was—rather, is. And graceful, and smart, and personable. And, did you pick up on how sweet she is to Mom and that she noticed the butterfly flitting around Mom's flowers and pointed it out? But how does my noticing these things make me responsible for asking for her number? I didn't see any of you guys being practical or analytical—or pedantic, for that matter."

"Romantic is right," I said. "We all dropped that ball."

Analytical interrupted our reverie. "If it's a side gig like you said, Practical, there's a good chance it's temporary." Every head snapped up in alarm.

"That means she might not show up next week," said Practical. "If she were to quit the side gig and stick with her dancing, we wouldn't see her again."

"We could find her," said Romantic. "She's not just a dancer, she's a dance instructor. So all we have to do is find out where there are dance clas—"

Pedantic interrupted with a cutting tone in his voice. "Sure, that's brilliant. We walk into her class, and then she gets a restraining order because we decided to become a stalker. Freak. This is why no one trusts you to have ideas."

"I'm good at romantic ideas, and I wasn't done. When we find out where she teaches, we walk in with a bouquet of flowers. Or a plant. She said she likes plumeria."

"No, we don't," I interjected. "Pedantic is right—but be nice about it, Pedantic. We get enough negatives in the real world without beating ourselves up in our thoughts."

"You slapped me. Hard."

"Yeah, sorry about that, Romantic. I didn't know what else to do. You were near-catatonic."

Practical spoke up. "If it makes you feel any better, we all felt it." He turned to me. "So, what's our next step?"

"If she does the delivery this week, we've got to ask for her phone number, because there's no guarantee we'll get another chance." I surveyed my gathered selves, prompting them with a nod. "Are we all in agreement?"

One "I'm in" was accompanied by a variety of affirmative grunts.

"Hey guys," said Technical. "When you all just said that, this wheel turned and the vault door's bolts shot back."

"And the reset your password message?" I asked.

"Gone," he said.

"Try pulling."

Technical grasped two handles and leaned back. Slowly, the immense door moved on well-lubricated hinges. A crack appeared and then an opening wide enough for Technical to wedge his shoulder behind the door and push. It swung wide, revealing a jumbled interior of story ideas, abandoned first chapters, excerpts from favorite novels, grammatical essays, and other miscellany typically collected by writers.

"Hey, there's my research stack," declared Writer, pushing past Practical and wending toward a teetering pile of video clips and conversations.

Artistic just stared into the depths of the vault. "Look at all the colors. That's what green is. How did I forget?"

"He fell in love," Analytical said, jabbing a thumb at Romantic. "That messed all of us up, so we had difficulty thinking straight."

"So we never needed a password?" asked Practical.

Analytical tapped his lower lip with his index finger. "I don't think so, not in the strictest sense. We needed the key, and that was recognizing the problem, formulating a plan of action, and then having the resolve to act on it."

"I get the first kiss," said Romantic.

"If there's ever a first kiss, we all get it," I said. "But don't even think about that yet. I think the next item on our plan is to keep you reined in so you don't embarrass us all. Pedantic, make sure Romantic doesn't act like a deranged stalker or like a hormonal schoolboy. We are a fun, considerate, and imaginative writer, and we're going to present ourselves as such. Got it?"

"Do you think that'll work?" asked Practical. "Will we get her number?"

"I think it might. It's our best shot, anyway. Ask me again in a couple days. Now, everybody sit back a while and let's see if Writer can get anything down on paper in the next few hours."

* End *

Thank you for reading. Please follow my Facebook author page here:

https://www.facebook.com/BenWaggonerAuthor