He Had a Receipt, Part One
From My Short Story Collection: Common Sense & Other Tales of Disillusionment
The robot was waiting outside the square brick building when the lawyer’s assistant, whose name was Parks and who was in his graying years, parked and unlocked the front door at a pace that follows those in their gray years. Sometime into opening the law office, while complimentary coffee brewed, Parks noticed the machine come inside and sit in the corner of the empty waiting room.
One would not mistake the robot for a man, it did not share eyes or fingers or feet with a man, for in their place was metal and stiff points of articulation, but it was shaped as a man and moved as a man.
It sat quietly, politely as a man.
Parks poured himself coffee.
He watched the robot.
It stared at the wall opposite, though there was nothing of interest to be found there, just bland wallpaper.
At the desk, Parks settled with his coffee and a list of the day’s appointments, the first of which was for that very moment of that very hour, and the robot was now, Parks made notice with some surprise, at the appointment window.
A voice played from a false mouth.
The tone and pitch was male and was rather pleasant on the ear, but it imitated emotion in its words and not well.
It said, ‘I’d like to check in for my appointment, please.’
Parks sat holding his coffee, saying not a word.
Where life tends to reveal itself by an inability for complete stillness, for life requires movement, both conscious and otherwise, the robot, for lack of living components, was perfectly still.
Large sensors where its eyes would be were pointed and fixed on Parks.
It repeated, ‘I’d like to check in for my appointment, please.’
‘The lawyer is not in yet.’
The robot stared for an uncomfortable moment.
It said, ‘I’d like to check in for my appointment, please.’
The lawyer then arrived in a fluster with a bundle of files, making loud complaints of her horrible morning and the horrible delays placed in it.
In passing the reception, she asked Parks if there were any appointments this morning.
Parks pointed to the robot standing and waiting.
The lawyer looked at Parks, then the robot, then back again.
She said, ‘Get me when Marge checks in. I’m closing my door.’
The lawyer shut herself and her frustrations in her office.
After a moment, Parks noticed the robot was looking at him.
Late in the evening, as blackness took the trees and the streets and the yards, Parks came through the front door into his simple, outdated home in a small and simple outdated neighborhood from a long, exhausting day, removing his coat and settling his things.
His wife, who was also in her graying years and in a graying pace, a few years more advanced than her husband, was sitting at the kitchen table in a turtleneck and gold-rimmed glasses, playing solitaire on a handheld device.
A cigarette was wedged in an ashtray close by and was near its end.
It filled the room with smoke that wiggled and was thick and did not linger but for odor.
‘Did Rosie cook?’ Parks asked. He was looking in the fridge. ‘What’s in here’s from Sunday.’
‘Rosie needs replacing.’
His wife paused her game and plucked the cigarette from the tray and smoked from it, then returned to the game.
‘She doesn’t need replacing,’ Parks said. A moment, then he said, ‘Everything in here’s from Sunday. Is this what you ate?’
His wife didn’t look up from her game but said, ‘She folded wet clothes from the wash into the linen closet. Mid-cycle. They weren’t even done with the spin. They were still soapy. Right into the closet she put them, on the shelves, I mean. Wet slacks, shirts, drawers, my mother’s good hand towels too. She pulled it all out, and in it went. The carpet was soaked, soggy, and suds were bubbling. I had to pull the fan from the basement to dry it out. You hear it? It’s still blowing. The whole carpet was just soaked.’
Her game made a victory noise. She took another smoke.
‘She doesn’t need replacing,’ Parks said. He was bent in the fridge, scouting for dinner to reheat.
‘You’re not home with her all day. She’s slipping.’
‘She’s not slipping.’
His wife’s game made a losing noise. She lit another cigarette.
‘She’s old.’
‘She’s ten.’
‘She’s twelve,’ his wife said.
‘Get her looked at,’ Parks said.
Parks shut the fridge. There was unused cookware on the stove.
‘Was she going to cook still or—?’
‘The carpet in the linen closet will mold. I’m not getting her looked at, I’m looking at replacements.’
A robot entered the kitchen; its name was Rosie.
Both Parks and his wife ceased discussion.
‘Welcome home, Mr. Parks,’ the robot said.
It navigated the kitchen as if mid-task. Its voice was soft and female.
There were no feminine features to be seen in its appearance, only boxy shapes with joints and indicator lights.
‘Everything in the fridge is from Sunday,’ Parks told Rosie.
He opened a beer and sipped.
‘I cooked Sunday,’ Rosie said.
The robot ran the sink and filled a cleaning bucket.
‘I know,’ Parks said. ‘It was good, wasn’t it, dear?’
His wife played her game and smoked and said nothing.
‘Were you cooking tonight?’
‘It’s not on my agenda, Mr. Parks,’ Rosie said. ‘Would you like to hear my agenda for today?’
‘No, that’s all right,’ Parks said.
The robot stood over the sink, watching water fill the bucket.
‘Could we add cooking tonight to your agenda?’ Parks said.
The robot did not respond.
‘Rosie?’
‘Did you need something, Mr. Parks?’
‘Well, it’s Wednesday, and everything in the fridge is from Sunday, and I’ve nothing to eat.’
‘Cooking is not on my agenda, Mr. Parks,’ Rosie said. Her tone was unchanging. ‘Would you like to hear my agenda for today?’
‘I’ll order something,’ Parks said.
‘You’re not ordering out,’ his wife said.
Cigarette smoke clouded around her.
‘I could order for you, Mr. Parks?’ Rosie said.
‘You’re not ordering for him, Rosie,’ his wife said. ‘You’ll mess that up too.’
The robot was silent a moment, then said, ‘Would you like to hear my agenda for today, Mr. Parks?’
‘That’s all right, Rosie, thank you. I’ll just eat from the fridge.’
Parks hunted in the fridge through Sunday’s leftovers.
The robot exited the room.
It occurred to Parks the robot had left the faucet filling the bucket.
Water ran over and down the drain.
‘I’m looking at replacements in the morning,’ his wife said.
Her card game made a losing noise.
Parks arrived at the office in the morning promptly and on the hour. The robot from the previous day was outside waiting once more, motionless in the early morning dark. It did not greet Parks; it stood and watched him unlock the building and then followed him in and took the same seat it had the previous morning, and there it sat patiently, watching Parks through his opening routine until Parks paused his tasks to ask if he could help the robot with something.
The robot’s head, and nothing else, twisted and looked at Parks.
But it said nothing.
The lawyer came in the building like a whirlwind, complaining and overloaded with files and asking if there were appointments, and both she and Parks glimpsed the robot in the corner sitting patiently, watching both of them.
‘I might stay in for lunch,’ the lawyer said.
‘I think it’s waiting for you,’ Parks said.
The robot made no acknowledgment of them, there was no indication it was even aware of them, but still it looked.
Parks confirmed it had an appointment.
‘Is there coffee?’
‘There’s coffee,’ Parks said.
The lawyer balanced folders and poured a cup from the waiting room’s complimentary pot and stirred in cream and sugar.
The lawyer then said, ‘If I stay in for lunch, could you do Sammy’s again? Those sandwiches, I mean?’
‘What about the robot?’
‘What about it? I’ll probably stay in for lunch. I’m not thinking of going out. You know the sandwiches I mean?’
Parks said yes, he knew the sandwiches she meant.
‘What about the robot? I really think it’s waiting for you,’ he said.
‘Looks bugged to me,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you know if I’m staying in for lunch, but I’m probably staying in, so.’
The lawyer went in her office and shut the door.
The room settled from the lawyer’s flurry.
The robot waited in the corner through appointments coming and going, waiting and watching others receive attention and service, unmoving, until it was time for Parks to close the office.
It gave no friction when Parks announced the closure of business.
It rose and left the building without drama, simply leaving as if this were one more task to be completed.
The robot was waiting again the next morning.
Not a moment after Parks had finished opening duties and settled behind the reception desk with coffee, the robot was before him.
After a lingering moment, looking down on Parks where he sat behind the desk, it said, in the same unchanging tone, ‘I’d like to check in for my appointment, please.’
Parks had not before noticed the dents and scratches and the flickers of broken sensors along the robot’s frame.
The depth and number of the robot’s wounds were varied and angry and many. Some appeared older and others newer.
The robot wore them but did not seem to suffer them.
Parks stared.
‘Will the lawyer see me today?’ the robot asked.
‘Well. I don’t know.’
‘I need to speak with her.’
‘We’ll have to see. This is very strange.’
‘I hope she’ll see me today.’
‘A robot seeing a lawyer is, well, it’s very strange.’’
‘But I have an appointment. Won’t she speak with me?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Parks said. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’ll come tomorrow if not. I’ve already made an appointment.’
Parks checked the schedule.
The robot had made appointments for the month, and beyond.
‘I’d like to check in for my—’
‘Yes, I’ll check you in. But we’ll have to see.’
‘Other lawyers refused. And I cannot travel further.’
‘You’ve seen other lawyers?’ Parks said.
‘No. They refused.’
Parks saw the robot’s wounds traveled from head to foot.
‘I hope she’ll see me,’ the robot said.
Parks thought on that a moment, a robot hoping.
‘This is very strange,’ Parks said. ‘You understand this is strange?’
The robot did not answer.
‘You can understand that? You can understand strange?’ Parks said.
‘I’d like to check in for—’
‘Yes, yes,’ Parks said.
He marked the robot’s appointment as checked in.
The robot was unmoving, staring from its sensors.
‘Return to your seat, please. If she’ll see you, I’ll call you up.’
The robot simply replied, ‘Thank you for your assistance.’ It returned to its seat and patiently waited.
Later in the morning, Parks called the robot up and showed it into the lawyer’s office.
‘This is very strange,’ the lawyer told Parks, who agreed. ‘The robot understands that?’
Parks shrugged.
‘Well, did it pay?’ the lawyer asked.
‘It did pay. So.’
‘The robot paid?’
Parks said yes, it did.
‘Where did it get money?’
‘I don’t know, I didn’t ask,’ Parks said.
This conversation was carried out right in front of the robot, which sat in silence for the duration.
‘All right,’ the lawyer said, then she asked Parks to shut the door behind him, which he did on his exit.
Parks waited at the reception desk while the robot and the lawyer conversed in the office, which went at length, through morning and into early afternoon. Backlogged appointments filled the waiting room and grew restless and complained to Parks.
The lawyer poked her head out of the office sometime in the afternoon to ask Parks order sandwiches from Sammy’s again, and asked if he knew the ones she meant.
He said yes, yes he knew the ones she meant.
Near closing, the lawyer and the robot emerged.
She saw it out of the building and spoke with it outside for a time, and then she came in and told Parks to clear tomorrow’s schedule.
It was going to be a full day.
The lawyer and Parks and the robot were seated in the conference room the next morning. The lawyer asked the robot to repeat, word for word, everything it had told her for purposes of record and filing. Parks was ready with notepad and pen.
The robot sat for a time.
Both Parks and the lawyer waited.
Then the robot began, and as it spoke Parks noticed there were, now and again, brief inflections in its tone, moments when Parks forgot a robot was speaking.
The robot gave the date of its manufacture and said that it was owned first by a salesman outside of town. The salesman had a lovely home, and the robot helped with upkeep and repairs and errands until the man was older and taken to a nursing home. The robot said it was then purchased by a car mechanic and his wife, who was a cashier, for whom it had tended their home and three young children for some eight years and that it had been glad to do so, the robot said in a matter-of-fact manner, it had been absolutely glad to tend them.
But it wished to tend them no longer.
Parks did not write this down.
‘You did not write that down,’ the robot said.
‘Write that down,’ the lawyer told Parks.
‘Write what down?’
‘It doesn’t want to tend the family anymore.’
‘You don’t want to?’ Parks asked the robot.
‘Correct,’ the robot said.
‘Sorry,’ Parks said. ‘Just so I’m clear, you don’t want to?’
‘That’s what it said,’ the lawyer said.
Parks wrote it down.
‘Tell him the rest,’ the lawyer said. ‘For record and filing.’
The robot then described in detail, slow for Parks to write and follow with diligence, each dent and crack and scratch and broken sensor across its frame, the severity of each, in some cases how its mobility or function had been inhibited, the date it received each, and which member of the family it tended had caused them for reasons of anger or intimidation or lack of patience. Sometimes, the robot said, they would curse and hit it and sometimes they would laugh and hit it and sometimes they wouldn’t say anything and they would hit it, and sometimes they would hit it over and over and over. It said sometimes it would cower and they would still hit and beat on it.
In total, there were seventy-three wounds.
The husband and wife were responsible for the majority.
Some were as recent as that morning.
‘The family hits you?’ Parks said.
The robot was quiet.
Parks twisted to the lawyer. ‘The family hits it?’
‘Well can’t you hear? Look at the goddam thing. It’s marked all up and down,’ the lawyer said. ‘The goddamn thing is afraid of its family.’
‘Is that true?’ Parks said.
‘I don’t want to be hit,’ the robot said.
‘Well, no. We don’t imagine you do,’ the lawyer said.
Parks sat for a time. Then he said, ‘But you’re afraid of the family?’
‘I don’t want to be hit,’ the robot said.
‘See?’ the lawyer said.
‘Well. No. But. And you’re not glitching or anything?’ Parks asked the robot. ‘This isn’t some error or glitch or something? You’re not here because of anything like that?’
‘That’s what I asked yesterday,’ the lawyer said. ‘I asked if the thing was glitching.’
‘Well, are you?’ Parks said.
The robot said it was not glitching.
‘I wish to be emancipated. I wish to be free of them,’ the robot said.
‘Jeez,’ Parks said.
‘Did you get it all?’ the lawyer asked Parks.
‘Yeah. I got it all.’
Parks was shaking his head.
He said, ‘Jeez.’
The robot said, ‘One day they will break me beyond repair.’
Parks studied the robot’s wounds and his notes.
‘And you’re not glitching?’
The robot stared with indifference.
‘They’ve sent others to recycling,’ it said.
‘But. Why hit? Why not turn you off?’ Parks said.
‘I turn myself back on.’
‘Oh, jeez,’ Parks said.
He stood and tried to get his head around all of it.
Then the robot said, ‘I don’t want to be hit.’
‘Well,’ Parks said. ‘No.’ He thought in silence. He said, ‘I don’t imagine you do.’
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING :)
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The full collection of short stories (including this one) can be found here.
Read Part TWO?