in search of an estranged companion

I’ve been avoiding this writing thing.  The keyboard is an estranged companion.  I’m two beers deep and it feels a little like searching for a lost lover on the internet.  They don’t make private investigators for this kind of thing.  They wouldn’t know where to begin.  They might show up at my apartment and rifle through old notebooks, scratch paper, bar napkins.  Aha, they’d say.  Here she is, she’s been hiding in this tattered old notebook the whole time.  And here again, in this drawer of junk, and in those forgotten files on that old laptop that can no longer keep its eyes open.  

I’d have to tell him that there’s been a mistake.  I’m looking for an estranged companion.  Those are all ex’s.  Things that were, but no longer are.  Memories, carbon copies, wet dreams.  But, you see, none of those have any life to them.  They fall limp when you hold them up to any kind of light.

The private investigator tries to entice a memory.  When was the last time you saw her – the estranged companion.  And I’ll say, I hardly remember.  He tries to jostle the memory loose.  Go ahead, put your hands on the keyboard – close your eyes.  

The keys feel dull under my fingertips.  I adjust my hands, close them and open them again, wringing them like wet cloth.  I double check that they’re set properly.  Then I shrug my shoulders.  I don’t remember.  

The private investigator tells me to give it a shot.  See what happens.  He needs somewhere to start – some scent to catch, like a bloodhound.  I jam into the keys and they squeal like an engine that won’t turn over.  Keep trying, he urges.  I give it another shot and there’s a cough and spitting sound.  It’s all underlined in red squiggles.  Another attempt shoots a big cloud of black smoke out the back of the machine.  Still nothing.

Maybe it’s gone.  I should just leave it be.  The private investigator is a persistent pest.  He nags on.  I need a beer.  He hands me a can of something cheap and I pour it into my mouth then over the top of the keyboard.  I press into the keys again.  There’s a grumble and a shutter and the thing shoots backfire that rattles the windows.  The noise startles me, but the keys feel less stiff suddenly.

Give it another go.  I try again.  Then again.  I spit and curse.  Maybe a private investigator isn’t the man for the job.  Maybe an exorcist would be better equipped.  I tell him the effort is useless.  He reminds me that I’ve already paid.  And I remind him that I’m perfectly capable of hitting him in the head with a brick and taking my money back.  He persists – keep trying.

I poke at the board.  It growls.  I press and prod.  It spazzes and sputters.  I grit my teeth and slam my fists into the keys, then bounce my forehead into the apparatus.  It grunts and hisses and rolls over half-way.  

There you go.  That was it.  Keep going.  The bastard urges more.  I don’t want to give more.  The keys are hot to the touch.  They’re sticky with beer and covered in a film of exhaust smoke.  There’s no use.  It’s gone, I tell him.  He shakes his head and the gesture agitates my nervous system.  

Fuck off.  I’ve already paid you.  Take your money and go. We’re kicking the carcass of a dead mule.  It’s a waste of time.  My fingers hurt.  My eyes are stinging from the fumes.  It’s pointless.

But he won’t leave.  He watches me.  I’m sweating with frustration and I’ve got the feeling of vomit coming up my esophagus.  My mouth is acidic and my temper gauge is twitching into the red.

I try and try again.  Then take my hands off the keyboard and put them through my hair.  I try some more.  This private investigator character is leaning into me on the balls of his feet.  His expression makes me want to shit in my hand and pelt him with it.  

What are you so eager about?   It’s bullshit.  It’s smoke and mirrors.  There’s no life to any of it.  He smiles.  Give it another shot.  And then what?  I ask.  Then another, and another, for how long?  Until it kills me?  

His eyebrows rise on his face.  Perhaps.  How bad do you want to find this estranged companion of yours?  You wouldn’t have hired me if you didn’t care.  You wouldn’t have come this far.  Your fingers are bleeding, you’re sweating like a pig.  I can see it in your eyes, you want this more than I do.  

The provocation pushes me over the edge and I vomit on the keyboard.  I bash both fists into the mess.  Are you happy now?  

As the statement came out of my mouth the machine kicked over and howled and rumbled.  The noise caught me by surprise and I pulled my hands away.  It chugged and backfired and died.

Ah, that was it.  It was alive, you heard it.  The private investigator saw my eyes and noticed the surprise.  Go for it.  It’s what you want.  Are you afraid?

I pounded the keys and the thing came alive with smoke and rancid heat again.  This time I kept my hands on the board and hammered down.  The red underlines continued.  The machine  stuttered and threatened to stall, but I didn’t let up. It went this way for five minutes, then ten, then twenty minutes passed. I was dripping in sweat and my jaw hurt from clenching. 

Eventually the redlines started to fade.  The keys stopped feeling dull and rubbery and occasionally some of them regained their old sharpness.  I stayed at it.  The private investigator was sitting back on his haunches, nodding, rubbing his hands together.  I think we’ve got something. 

I woke up fourteen hours later in a puddle of my own drool.  The room smelled like vomit and cat food, but the machine was still on, purring gently.  I looked around for the private investigator, but he was long gone.  I sat there for a long time, in my own stink, wondering what to do next.