SAD ROBOT: an autobiography of my unfortunate existence

27. ROBOTS ONLY, NO HUMANS ALLOWED

27. ROBOTS ONLY, NO HUMANS ALLOWED 

When Milo departs on his regular excursion by 10 p.m., I leave the apartment, locking it behind me. I take the elevator to the top floor and walk to Jasperʼs apartment where I knock three times, producing a loud metal-on-wood sound. Nobody ever emerges from their doors to see what has made the sound, nobody ever cares. If they are home, then they are too entrenched in their own little worlds to care, anyhow.

I can hear Jasper removing the deadbolts and sliding chain from the door before he opens it. His small, narrow head pokes around the door frame and his glass eyes, the color of green human eyes, settle on me and he, unlike me, has an actual mouth—or the closest thing to a mouth—that opens when he speaks, though the voice does not form from those lips but from a piece of hardware somewhere just inside.

"Welcome, olʼ friend," his human-like voicebox speaks with its slight French accent. He has the body of a store mannequin, as all Class Twos do. Skinny, but muscular,

with the artificial look of having some degree of muscle tone to his upper arms, shoulders, and abdomen. He is wearing a plaid cardigan today, however, making him look much smaller. His head is small and narrow, with a finely-etched jawline and short brown hair that is routinely messy, yet still managing to look just right.

"Come in," he says, ushering me inside.

We go over to Jasperʼs Ownersʼ bar on the far side of their apartment where there is a large, marble table with four stools on the one side and countless bottles of liquor onthe shelves behind it. Behind the bottles is a glass mirror, out of which I glimpse the reflection of our odd rendezvous scene.

Jasper moves behind the marble-top counter and takes his place behind it and I take mine in between two of the stools. I cannot sit on them because they are too small and it is too awkward for me to balance on them. I would just fall off and be mistaken for a drunk.

Robots do not drink, of course. Jasper doesnʼt offer me a glass, nor does he take one for himself. Itʼs the character of the setting, he says, that makes a bar what it is. Humans go to them to drink—oftentimes way too much for their systems to handle —and they do this because they either feel sorry for themselves or they want to be sympathized with. Places like these are generally massive pity parties for humans.

Jasperʼs pub is Robots Only, No Humans Allowed. Good riddance. They would just start telling us long-winded stories about how they fought with their partner, or their parent, or their co-worker, and that their girlfriend/boyfriend is such a (insert appropriate cuss-word), how theyʼre broke and their job is a horrible, soul-sucking Hell-portal, etcetera and etcetera.

"Will Armand be joining?" I inquire.

"No, his Owners are at a symphony and he has the child for the evening, probably until late."

Sometimes Armand joins us on these Friday nights when at least one of his Owners is home and he has been relieved from child-sitting duties. He will usually then look for an excuse to leave the apartment, such as saying he is going to take out the trash, or he is going to put in a complaint to the landlord that the heat is not working properly.

So tonight, it is just Jasper and I. We could always try and get the sexbot to join us, but we are not ʻlooking for a good timeʼ as she would be so apt to suggest. I would rather converse with a concrete wall. (Probably a much more thought-provoking exchange that wouldnʼt lower my Intelligence Quotient level.)

"Lost any more faith in the human race lately?" Jasper asks me.

"No more than usual. I tried to set up Milo with what they call a date with another human, a female. I havenʼt been able to inform him about it yet. He has not spoken to me for more than two-point-five seconds in the last two days."

"I see. Eetʼs been those kinds of days late-a-leh, eh?" Sometimes, Jasper would exaggerate his French accent, like he is trying to be one of those bartender types you see in movies—sympathetic and introspective, often foreign. I donʼt know what accent he is doing here. Maybe a bad French-Canadian one.

"Been those kinds of weeks, actually. Months, maybe. Years. Itʼs been one of those years."

"Ah."