SAD ROBOT: an autobiography of my unfortunate existence

28. EXISTENTIAL ANXIETY

28. EXISTENTIAL ANXIETY

 When Milo gets back to the apartment, Hiram is sitting on the sofa, back arrow-straight, legs perfectly bent at the knees at ninety-degree angles, the only way he can sit. Some program about the newly released Class Threes is on, an employee of the company was being interviewed, talking about how technology has been entirely leading up to this point, or something like that.

"Turn that off," Milo says to him.

Itʼs unable to be able to tell what a robot is thinking, but watching something that is essentially explaining how obsolete you are, cannot be good for anyoneʼs mental health. And the last thing Milo needs is a suicidal robot on his hands.

Hiram listens.

"Iʼm going to bed," Milo announces and heads to his room, closing the door behind him.

He is too wired to sleep though. It was a shitty night, just like every other night. He went to one of the pubs to have a drink or two, maybe strike a conversation with somebody.

He started talking to this one guy who did nothing but explain how he doesnʼt trust the people who make the robots. Apparently the robots are all secretly programmed to one day go off all at the same time and get rid of all of pesky North America and countless other places, leaving those in specific countries, the ones where the robot company is. You canʼt trust those Japanese, the man constantly tells Milo. Gathering where this conversation was headed, Milo secretly tuned him out and lost himself in the swirling liquid of the drink in front of him.

A conspiracy nut to the extreme. Milo was surprised he wasnʼt claiming that aliens were the ones who built the robots and sent them from the future via time travel to exterminate the human race entirely. He might be more inclined to believe that story than his ramblings which, having finally heard enough of, propelled him to finally leave his seat and saunter elsewhere to interact with hopefully anybody who was less high up on the crazy scale.

When he went outside for fresh air, he was the only standing who wasnʼt gathered in the small circle of a group besides a woman leaning on a light post, blowing the smoke from a cigarette. People still used those things?

"You look out of sorts," the woman said to him. He wouldnʼt be able to differentiate her from any other woman in the bar; to him everyone mostly dressed the same, talked the same, had the same desperate look in their eyes.

"I donʼt know what Iʼm doing here," Milo said, uncertain as to why he was confiding to a stranger.

"Do any of us?" the woman paused her cigarette mid-air, looking off into the skyline. She reminded Milo of a model posing for a photo. Something a bit more grungy; harsh street lights, heavy make-up, leather jacket and cigarette, as if trying to entice the cool crowd.

"Good point." 

"What are you looking for here, anyway?" 

Somehow this random woman at a bar, likely a decade older than Milo, had become his spontaneous life councillor.

"Iʼm not looking for anything. Well. I donʼt know. Maybe I feel like I need to look for something, but I donʼt know what. I know that Iʼm dissatisfied. Iʼm not very happy. I donʼt entirely know why. Everyone I take an interest in leaves. Everything Iʼve felt passionate about has died away. I donʼt know what I expect to find here, honestly. Itʼs always the same. The same people, the same disinterested looks, the same drinking to quell the existential anxiety. No offense, of course."

She shook her head as if saying none taken.

"Weʼre all trying to ease that anxiety, you know." She spoke with a slight rasp, as if sheʼd been doing this a long time; smoking, drinking, and having philosophical discussions with half-drunk failures like Milo. "Some of us just do it in more destructive ways. Itʼs cause thereʼs something internally wrong inside of us. Inside all of us; just most of us donʼt realize it. Donʼt know how to stop it either. So some of us just stopped trying to think about it."

She gave another puff of her cigarette. "Though Iʼm not sure thatʼs the way to go." 

"What do you mean?" 

"You can only stave it off for so long before it comes roaring back. Then itʼs all you can think about. Then youʼre screwed. Then you try and dull it even harder, with more and more things, but none of it works, only makes it worse."

"Thatʼs thoroughly depressing," Milo remarked. 

"Thatʼs the way it is, darling." 

"Thanks for the pick-me-up." 

"My pleasure." Another puff of the cigarette.

Milo stood there awkwardly. She was still eying him up nonchalantly, her dangling cigarette emitting a faint glow.

"If youʼre lookinʼ for someone to help soothe that existential anxiety -" 

"No," Milo said quickly. "No thanks." 

He walked away.