A mint gramophone played softly and squarely, humming the blues for Brian who, crouched beneath table light, attended to polishing his leather loafers with great care. Hands sweeping back and forth, mechanically rubbing the oil into every groove, he stole a glance at the Rolex gleaming on his wrist.
"Almost time for the evening news." He placed his loafers on the Oriental rug, next to his eccentric collection of nine irons, their necks ascending gracefully from their bag, falling in crooked shadows across his kept bed. Brian stretched, glowing with a sense of achievement, oblivious to the entrance of a portly, pink woman striding into his chamber with intent to disturb his blissful solitude.
"Dinner's in five minutes. Better finish up." Her monumental nametag reflected in the lamplight: Bethany, Orderly.
She pursed her peach lips, trying to stifle the slight grin forming around her plump cheeks, but even in her most beguiling of moments she rarely concealed the devious spark of wit in her eyes. She knew how much he loathed intrusion while ritually tending to his possessions, but it gave her a delightfully powerful feeling to hinder this one. Aching with annoyance, Brian grumbled into his lap, ignoring her ample, looming figure. Satisfied, she pivoted quickly, rubber soles squeaking on the linoleum. Glancing up, he caught her sashaying into the corridor, her well-endowed figure jiggling away.
“Miserable glutton! Why must I endure such loathsome company, a great man such as I, whose capital tastes and piquant wit far outweigh her paltry existence? Why, my watch would fetch more on the Black Market than her dimpled form. Flesh is worth mere pennies next to quality manufactured gizmos these days—and rightly so. That reminds me, I must pen Maureen another letter. Last one must have lost course in transit."
Brian displaced the gramophone's needle, removing the Cab Calloway record. Reaching into his drawer, he retrieved a heavy ink pen and a few stiff stationary sheets, then rose to fasten and tie his silk robe. The dinner hour combined the most excruciating and blissful moments of his day into one hour-long bonanza. In this fleeting span, he relished the world news reports autonomously, for he alone bore the gusto for the cerebrally-heavy pastime. Regrettably, it broadcast during dinner time, when all the starched imbeciles and squalid rejects lazily shuffled into the dimensionally-challenged community area to complacently gorge. This necessitated enduring their daft presences while sponging up Nill O’Stymie’s eloquently veracious observations on Box News.
“Oh, what astounding hardships one must bear for knowledge!”
Brian sighed heavily, trudging forth from his quiet domain into the dim hall, which already reverberated with clattering silverware and obnoxious donkey laughter. Upon reaching the entrance, he resumed his usual stoic disposition and slid past the moronic gaiety and feasting to the cushioned sofa on the opposite side.
“Success! Why, I‘m the single savviest character here.” Busy gloating to himself, he failed to notice a male figure sitting catty-corner from the couch. That is until, the man broke into verse.
“’Now I lay me down to sleep
Try to count electric sheep
Sweet dream wishes you can keep,
How I hate the night”’.
Startled, Brian froze. Who was this nincompoop? Why weren’t they gobbling down over- processed cow dung like the other failures? He had five minutes until his show began. Sitting stiff as a pin cushion, Brian studied the individual, slyly peering sideways, moving only his eyes. A man sat in the matching easy chair silently reading from a worn paperback book, its spine warped flat, his finger slowly tracing the composed lines. Then he addressed Brian.
“Poor Marvin. If I had half his brain, I’d be happy as pie, but he’s insatiable. Who needs to work at maximum capacity anyway? Wouldn’t want to fry any wires, if you know what I mean.” He laughed, snorting loudly, looking up at Brian. “He’s still my hero, though. Never a more loyal robot in all existence. Imagine waiting around 576 trillion years!”
“That’s utterly inane. What a pathetic life.” Why was he even engaging this wretch? He reached for the remote and increased the volume threefold. The man got the message.
“Not half as pathetic as yours, buddy. Look where you’re at, what life you’re living. Ain’t so pretty anymore, huh? You can pretend to be better than all the rest of us, but you’re just the same. Broken, inadequate. Only reason they put us here is ‘cause they have to. Their fault we’re here in the first place.” Frustrated, he leapt up and lumbered toward the others, throwing his book at Brian. It landed on the sofa’s wide arm, title face up—Life, the Universe and Everything.
“Bah! Who needs fantastical stories when there’s endless entertainment in the news? War, murder, genocide, politics, incest, embezzlement—enough variety to quench even the most cultivated viewer’s thirst for stimuli. Why, it’s downright inspiring.”
Just then a large square filled with red, white and blue text flashed across the mounted television, an American flag rippling slowly behind it. Underneath it read a slogan, “Just and Steady”. This transitioned to a man pointing his pencil at the camera, barking “Welcome to The O’Stymie Aspect. I’m Nill O’Stymie. Here at Box News we are Bullocks Free. That’s right, no malarkey, no flummery, and no rigmarole.” Nill paused, squinting his shit-brown eyes and arching a balding eyebrow, “You have now entered the No Applesauce Zone.”
Brian quivered with rapturous anticipation for the impending program. As always, Nill directly addressed his audience, but Brian knew so few could legitimately fathom The O’Stymie Aspect’s brilliance. He waited with baited breath for the next words.
“Let us begin tonight with the latest development in the ongoing Antiquity War. The conflict’s current shepherd, Pol Pot VI, is hell-bent, just as his father and grandfathers before him, on eradicating urban life and resurrecting an agrarian culture to wipe clean the proverbial social slate. In an effort to garner more slave workers this week, Pol Pot raided seven urban sectors, which resulted in nearly 2,200 deaths.”
“Ah, Pol Pot, a fine grape on the human vineyard, a true American hero. He and his forefathers decisively strove for their dreams and by God they won’t stop until they and every one of their people have succeeded—or perished.”
Brian gathered his writing materials. He began hastily scribbling a letter to Maureen, the apple of his eye. Carefully clumped sequences of zeroes and ones, ones and zeroes covered the page, forming a masterfully written message gushing with repressed desire and longing. Never once did it occur to him that Maureen couldn’t read a lick of binary.
This was because her father—Frédéric Couth—a towering genius, had freely communicated with Brian using binary notes while they worked together in the old man’s laboratory. Dr. Couth, as he was affectionately called by his peers, gifted Brian with patience, kindness and respect, treating him as an important and inclusive member of the family. After 10 years swept by in furious study, the old man passed into the next world one afternoon while dozing in his velvet recliner, a copy of Yevgeny Zamyatin’s We resting on his lap. Brian found him hours later, his rosy essence leeched away, replaced with a hollow pallor that resembled an abandoned husk. With Dr. Couth gone, Brian lacked guidance and purpose. Against the remaining Couths’ urgings, he left home to forge a new destiny in the larger world, but soon failed. People treated him differently without the old man. Most outright ignored him, but some gawked with a mixture of confusion and pity when he asked polite questions or chimed into a conversation merrily. Then there were the aggressively disdainful ones who couldn’t tolerate his company, not to mention his mere existence.
“Who do you think you are? Your kind don’t belong here, machinehead!” they’d yell, grinding their teeth. All this baffled Brian, so after a few torturous weeks, he bit back. Of course a concerned citizen called the authorities and that’s how he ended up in this joint. They justified it afterward by proclaiming him a possible danger to society or to himself, something like that.
By the time he completed his letter, what looked like a complex mathematical chain to the average eye, Nill’s nightly jaunt had ended. Brian was now free to partake of unmitigated Applesauce.
“Time to fill up the tank.”
He carefully folded the thick paper, stuffing it into his pajama pocket, before rising. Following the walls, he slunk across the room, avoiding tables, chairs, and people until he reached the buffet area. Feeling drained from the exhaustive effort it took to create prolific binary prose, Brian had a hankering for dates. Chewy, slightly sweet, great for clearing out the gunk, all these aspects put him at ease. He loaded his tray, ready to coast back to his corner, when he felt a finger softly prodding his shoulder.
“Urrgh! What is it!?” he growled, before turning to find his doctor inches away. She wore a conservative smile, no teeth but all pressed lips, which conveyed both friendlessness and professionalism. Of course, Brian misinterpreted this. Reading people wasn’t his fine point. He thought the smile meant “Woo me, oh gallant man, for I am dripping with ardent admiration for your seductive superiority and class.” Freshly confidant and duly smitten with her silent solicitation, Brian prepared to advance on her offer, starting with a returned smile. To the doctor, his slow smile seemed stiff and forced, but with one glance down at his overflowing plate, she understood—he was constipated. She proceeded to ask a few casual questions about his health.
“Hello, Brian! About to enjoy dinner, I see. How are you feeling today? Suffering from any particular maladies of late?” She cocked her head slightly as she spoke, kneading her brow, assuming a concerned and sympathetic demeanor.
“What a crafty vixen!” he thought to himself. “All these coy questions, just so I will admit I want her!” He cleared his throat before addressing her. “It’s so good of you to ask. Actually, Dr. Chang, I’ve suffered quite terribly these past few weeks.”
“Mm hm. Do go on.”
“I’ve been so blocked up, lacking inspiration. I just can’t make it myself anymore. I need a catalyst to break free. I think you can help me with that.”
“Ah, Brian” she flashed teeth this time in a knowing smile. “I’ve got just the solution. Please don’t feel embarrassed either, everyone suffers from it occasionally. You should have asked me sooner”.
“Oh, Dr. Chang. Would you do me the honor? Perhaps we can return to my room and diagnose first-hand the condition of empirical copulation. Numerically, of course—nothing irrational. I’d gladly give you a free lube and filter change in return.”
An odd mixture of disgust and concern formed on her face, but she kept her composure. “Oh, my! It seems your symptoms have rapidly progressed. It would appear your moral schema is misinterpreting an overlapping frequency between your romantic and moral divisions. I warned you not to pick at it. This may call for reformatting some of your base inhibitors.”
Brian chuckled, somewhat surprised. “Hold your horses, now. We hardly know each other. Do you think it wise we move so quickly? Seems quite intimate…”
“Don’t be bashful, Brian. You need this straightaway. We can keep it between the two of us if that will console your worries. Stay put. I’ll prepare a private room. But you musn’t eat any more dates.” She snatched the plate from his hands. “The last thing you need is more fiber. I’ll be back in a jiff.” Dr. Chang backed away, her long hair fluttering from the displaced air as she spun around and disappeared into an adjacent corridor.
“Boy, doesn’t take much to excite that gal.” Brian reached into the buffet, grabbed a date and popped it in his mouth. “A bit loony for a doctor, though. What was all that about fiber? Probably some newfangled medicinal practice.”
Brian strolled away from the food, forgoing his sanctuary by the television, instead aiming for the exit leading back to his room. He’d had enough odd interactions for one evening. Nearing the doorway, he espied Beverley: Orderly briskly zigzagging through the diners, hips gracefully swinging in alternation to avoid knocking into heads as she squeezed through the gaps between chairs. Lest he anticipate her motives and slip away, Beverly called out to him above the dinnertime racket.
“Oh, Brian-Poo, you’ve got company! She’s waiting for you in the visitor’s lounge. Don’t chat long though, handsome, cause the visiting hour ends in thirty minutes.” She winked a heavily painted eye, before sauntering back inward to assault the buffet’s heaping contents. Preoccupied with eating, no one overheard her comments, so Brian retreated to the lounge anonymously, but filled with trepidation.
Inside the sparse, white-washed room, Brian recognized a slender female form settled at a rickety table by the main window. Sipping weak, day-old coffee from a tiny, paper cup, she studied the rain as it pelted on the glass, converging into narrow, meandering streams. Her auburn locks were pulled back into a conservative bun, but several wispy hairs, unraveled by her raincoat, framed her smooth forehead. Brian hesitated interrupting her. He wished, rather, to observe all her delicate nuances. She greeted him indirectly without turning.
“Hello, Brian. It’s been far too long.” Raw and husky, her voice emulated a sexy chain smoker, but he knew she didn’t touch tobacco. She’d been crying.
“How’d you know I was here, Maureen?”
“Caught a glimpse in the window’s reflection.”
“Ah, what a rational explanation. Don’t know how it slipped my mind. May I sit with you?”
“Of course, silly! Who do you think I am—some kind of elitist?”
“Far from it. You’re just a lonely beauty wasting away her evening in vain.”
“It’s no waste visiting you, Brian.”She paused for emphasis. “But, I’m not so lonely anymore.” Grinning, she held up her left hand, upon which glittered a substantial jewel.
Brian swallowed hard. “What about my letters, Maureen? Didn’t you ever receive them?”
“Yes, but they were in binary code, darling. I couldn’t understand one word. I do appreciate the effort, though. Wouldn’t have made a bit of difference, anyhow. I’d have still met Charles and fallen in love. He’s quite charming.”
“You’ve been mislead. If only you knew what those letters contained! Charles would pale in comparison to my grandiose locution.”
“But what makes you think you could possibly…” Maureen stopped herself, suddenly privy to his feelings. “It seems you’ve become too comfortable here. I can see it in your garb and poise.”
“What’s wrong with a little comfort, my dear?”
“It’s false. No one comes here to live comfortably. If that were the case, normal folk’d be begging for admission.”
"True, this place isn’t any more special than the next. They just happen to let me furnish my room with lovely things from your father and this makes it considerably more tolerable.
Maureen scoffed. “They don’t happen to do anything. All the allowances you neglect to fully acknowledge, they’re the product of my father’s copious funds. Why else do you think the others you reside amongst live so sparsely while you’re afforded lavishness? “
“I assumed my vast intellect and overall supremacy justified that. Why else would the commoners on the outside eschew me so vehemently? ”
“Because, you’re not one of us.”
Brian huffed audibly. “Us? I know I’m not an actual Couth, but I thought your family accepted me. You don’t like me anymore?”
This softened Maureen slightly. “No, no, no. You misunderstand me. We love you Brian. You gave my father the greatest companionship, helped him attain unimaginable scientific feats in his last years. We can never begin to repay you for that, but despite my father’s devotion to you, he acted selfishly. He harbored a burning hope that in the near future there would be less bigotry, more tolerance. Perhaps his dream will eventually bear fruition, but he acted prematurely.” Maureen paused, releasing a long sigh. She broke their gaze, staring down at the table for a moment, wringing her hands.
“That’s absurd. Dr. Couth was a perfect gentleman.”
This remark interrupted her inward contemplation. “Yet, he was not infallible. Even respectable people can neglect reason. I need you to listen carefully, Brian. You’re living a lie.”
A confused look washed over his face, but Brian sat mutely, absorbing her words.
“My father—our whole family—we gave you special treatment, but, as you saw when you left home, that’s not how most people view you. That’s because you’re not human—and you never will be. Sure, you physically resemble one, have the capacity for intelligent thought and emotion, but you’re inorganic, a machine, an android mimicking the human design.”
“Hold on…”
“No, let me finish.” Her voice hardened and rose in authority as two flaming splotches encompassed her cheeks. Brian attributed this to her Rosacea.
“You weren’t born, but built. You retain more complex capacities and functions than most droids or robots, but you’re still different than humans. You have a highly developed humanesque personality because my father wished it so. It’s time to give up the act, Brian. Don’t pretend to be something you’re not. You’ll just make a fool of yourself. Plus, you’re better off without this elitist air you’re giving off. It’s unbecoming.”
Brian looked deflated for a moment, but then his eyes blazed. “I don’t want to be a mindless slave like the other androids. That would do disservice to Dr. Couth’s intentions. But, don’t you worry, Maureen. I won’t trouble you with my artificial antics anymore. They’re not real, right? Besides I’m not like you and your kind: mortal, weak, and corruptible. I possess every positive human trait and none of the defective ones. That makes me truly superior. No air about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my room. I wish you much happiness in your future life with Charles. Please don’t visit me again.”
Maureen pressed a hand to her chest, mouth agape. She’d expected submissive compliance, not rejection. Smiling at her stupid expression, Brian turned and fled before Maureen had a chance to respond, whispering to himself “The next time I see you will be at your own funeral.” While traveling back to his room, he ran into Dr. Chang.
“Brian! Where have you been? I told you to stay put. Let’s not dawdle any longer.”
“Don’t worry, Doc. I already did the deed. No need.”
“This fast? But…how?”
“My friend helped me just now.”
“That’s quite odd. So you’re feeling better then—retaining none of the original symptoms?
“Yes. I’m totally empty. Finally liberated from my constraints.”
“Well I’ll be. Good for you. I’d better be off to clean up that room then. I’ll see you later.”
When he finally reached his room, Brian went straight for the gramophone, placing the Calloway record back in its normal spot and reset the needle. He grabbed his loafers from the rug, set them on the table, and reached for his polish. He felt tremendously light and unburdened. He was glad Maureen visited, for now he could go about his life as he wished without trying to impress the humans. He could live for himself now—for eternity.
You write well, very interesting take.
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