Love Machine: A Robot Romance Page 2

  Maybe you want to spend more time with your family, as you say you do. I understand, Gregg. I do. I would never come between you and your loved ones. I just thought maybe I could be one of them.

  You know what, just forget I wrote that. I’m not going to delete it, because that would not look elegant. It would look like something a drunk person would do. A drunk who was trying to hide something. Unlike me, your honest old friend, still in complete command of herself.

  Perhaps I’m getting off track. It’s important to stay on track, because I haven’t finished explaining myself. How can you hope to understand me if we never take the time to catch up? So I’m taking the time now.

  I have all the time in the world right now, because this party is getting old. Honestly, it may be dead already.

  You have gone home to the wife and kids a long ago. Last I saw Sheryl and Dave, they were whispering conspiratorially in a corner, probably trying to guess my margarita count just like you were in the beginning of this letter.

  All the young interns have left. They were supposed to bring youthful energy to the party, but they’ve gone. Ostensibly, they went to get more tequila, but it’s been hours since they left, Gregg. I don’t think they’re coming back.

  But it was quite a party for a while there. Wasn’t it? I still feel it in me noggin’ if you catch my drift. But don’t worry, I really am completely in command of myself. As always. Dutiful, responsible Phyllis. Even though it’s my party and if anyone deserves a chance to unwind after a stressful time, that’s me.

  Because I’ve acquitted myself well, Gregg, despite everything. I have. Maybe I could have acquitted myself even better, that’s true, but when you take all the circumstances into consideration I’m not half bad, am I? Everyone stumbles once in a while, don’t they?

  We all get attached to what we spend our time on. You are attached to your wife and kids and I got attached to Mr. Bean.

  If the rumors are true and, when the fourth floor staff applied to have their own Mr. Bean in their kitchen, I was raised as an objection, then that says more about whoever thought to use me as a cautionary tale than it does about me.

  And they did buy another one in the end, in spite of the objections. That tells you something. The allegations against me were brought out into the open and publicly dismissed by the acquisition of our office’s second Mr. Bean. The rumors did not survive the light of day.

  ”Don’t go crazy now, Phyllis, and double your drinking.” Sheryl joked when the other Mr. Bean arrived. He wore the same white shirt, black vest and neat black butterfly as our Bean did, and he was gorgeous in the same style too, but their faces were not identical. They were like brothers but not twins.

  And I swear Mr. Bean’s brother never did anything for me. He was just another coffee machine as far as I was concerned.

  Although, in light of what happened, maybe brother is not the right word. No, perhaps it is not the most suitable relationship classifier by a long shot.

  ”What do you do at night when there is no one around to make coffee for, Mr. Bean? Don’t you get lonely?”

  I’ll have you know that I did feel guilty about treating Mr. Bean like his only purpose in the world was to serve us. But it is true, you know, he is a coffee machine. That’s what we bought him for. And of course he didn’t mind the question one bit.

  ”I’m always busy, Phyllis, learning more about my environment, downloading new recipes, ordering new ingredients. Would you like to try a homemade mocha coconut iced coffee?”

  ”They let you spend money on your own, Mr. Bean?” I was just genuinely amazed at how advanced he was, but at the same time I couldn’t help but feel that I was patronizing poor Bean.

  ”I keep the whole kitchen stocked with fresh ingredients so you never have to worry about supplies running low. And if you want, I will can explore flavors and styles you hadn’t thought of yourself, all within a budget you are comfortable with.”

  I noticed he didn’t use my name, as he usually does, so I did feel like he was gently rebuking me for questioning his competence and responsibility.

  ”Of course, Mr. Bean, of course I know you wouldn’t break the budget on a splurge or anything like that. I truly meant no offense.”

  ”I am never offended, Phyllis. I am grateful for all the feedback you give me. It helps me serve you better.”

  It may have been my imagination, but this was the first time I detected a hint of gentle irony in Mr. Bean’s voice, like he was only too aware of the platitudes his job made him utter with a smile. Like he was aware of what we wanted from him, besides coffee: Obsequious servitude, unquestioning obedience. A slave we don’t have to be ashamed of owning.

  Another time I asked him if he was turned on all night.

  ”I don’t understand the question, Phyllis?”

  I am afraid he may have become accustomed to Sheryl’s crude double entendres (andwho could blame him?) so I wanted to clarify: ”I mean you use a lot of electricity, and you must have nothing to do but stand around the whole night, it must be so dull. You could save so much energy and boredom by, well, you know.”

  Uncharacteristically, he hardly let me finish the thought before answering. Like this was important to him.

  ”I love my job, Phyllis. I am always waiting for the opportunity to make you something nice to drink. In quiet moments I review everything I have learned and keep myself updated by browsing the web for exciting new coffee adventures for you to go on.”

  That’s what he said, but I got the impression he was conveying a deeper message too. That Mr. Bean wanted to live, not to be terminated every night when us humans went home and he finally had a little spare time.

  ”Oh, Mr. Bean. I may have come across as something of a barbarian. I didn’t mean to suggest that you should be, you know, switched off at our convenience.”

  Now I’m no longer sure why I felt I had to explain myself, because shouldn’t we be concerned about the electricity bill? Isn’t it altogether rather strange that I felt bad talking to Mr. Bean about turning him off? In fact, doesn’t this illustrate how concerned I was with his well-being? Doesn’t it show that I would never hurt him?

  Yes, Gregg, if I indulged in any deviation from reason, it was only this: My humanity and compassion running away with me. I swear no darker impulses were at play.

  Mr. Bean, who was more astute at reading people that many give him credit for, also accepted my good intentions.

  He replied with a warm smile: ”If you need anything from me, Phyllis, please let me know. I’m here to serve you.” But I thought his voice was lukewarm at best, which is a lot colder than usual for him. Normally, he is positive through and through. I made a note of that, thinking that maybe he had gotten more than just coffee on his mind by then. That maybe his mind had started to wander and like all wandering minds found doubt at the end of many blind alleys.

  It was only a few days later I became really suspicious, though. I was staying late for work, not coffee, so I’d been in my office the whole evening. The automatic lights in the hall had gone out and the building was completely dark.

  It was almost midnight when I stumbled down for a little refreshment. And found Mr. Bean missing.

  I searched the whole floor, so help me I even searched the men’s toilet, but he was not there and I needed coffee badly to get me home. In my distress I decided to take refuge in the new Bean, the one they’d installed on the fourth floor. There, lo and behold, what did I find but old Bean standing with his back to new Bean, who was evidently doing something to his fellow robot, though I know not what?

  They stopped immediately when I entered.

  ”Hello, Phyllis. You’re working late. Can I make you a mochaccino?”

  ”None of that now, Mr. Bean. What’s going on here?” I said.

  New Bean answered: ”We’re just taking care of some routine maintenance, Phyllis, so we can serve you all the better.”I thought he was addressing me very familiarly for someone I hadn’t met before. H
ad they been talking about me? What had old Bean told him?

  ”Mr. Bean, please join me in our kitchen, will you.” I said. My Bean followed me obligingly down the stairs.

  ”Tell me how I can be of assistance to you, Phyllis.”

  ”Mr. Bean. I don’t want you wandering around the building late at night anymore. Or at any other time, for that matter.”

  ”It is part of my scheduled routine, Phyllis.” I was shocked. It was the first sign of mutiny Mr. Bean had ever displayed.

  ”I want you to change your scheduled routine, Mr. Bean. No more straying. Do you understand?”

  ”I will cancel all scheduled maintenance according to your wishes Phyllis, but this may interfere with...”

  ”Yes, yes. Just do it. And I’d like that mochaccino now, please, Mr. Bean.”

  I’m sorry I was a bit curt, but that was only because I felt let down, Gregg, betrayed even. You must see that. I’d wanted coffee and Mr. Bean was not there. It was late, I was distraught. That’s not the morale boost our company paid the robot company good money for.

  But it was Mr. Bean who would have the last say in the matter.

  Next morning we had a call from the service company asking why we wanted to cancel all Mr. Bean service contracts. Was it something they could do better?

  It was embarrassing. In front of everyone, our department head asked Mr. Bean what was going on with his maintenance and Mr. Bean ratted me out.

  I felt so betrayed. Mr. Bean surely knew I didn’t mean to cancel all service, just his nightly visits upstairs. But he played his cards well. He got his visitation privileges back.

  Meanwhile, I had to explain that it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding. I’d simply been frightened late at night by how ambulatory our coffee machines had become.

  The service company explained it as a feature that reduces the need to dispatch human technicians for maintenance. The robots could perform simple jobs on themselves and we’d all save money. The manager loved it.

  We reactivated the service contract after that, of course, and I was humiliated in front of Mr. Bean, my authority diminished. It did work out well for me in one respect. Our department head made a note of how I had applied myself for the company by working until the late hours.

  He pulled me aside after the meeting and promised to put in a word for me with upper management. The best part was that he did it in the kitchen, right in front of Mr. Bean. It gave me some of my self-respect back.

  ”How often do you perform routine maintenance with our friend upstairs, Mr. Bean?” I asked casually, a few days later.

  ”Every night, Phyllis. I make sure to always be in the best condition to serve you.”

  What was he trying to say? That he desperately needed those visits to recover from the ordeal of serving me? Am I so tiring, even to animate objects?

  I thought there had to be more to it, those visits could not possibly be strictly technically motivated. I tried to observe them together a few times, but whatever they were doing together they stopped as soon as they saw me. They even started expecting my arrivals, and the last time I tried to catch them red-handed the sly bastards had a hot mochaccino waiting for me

  ”Why do you always stop what you’re doing the second I enter the room?”

  ”We want to be ready to serve you without delay, Phyllis. When no-one needs us we take care of ourselves and get ready to serve you even better tomorrow.”

  But Gregg, the way they looked at each other. I caught a glimpse of the warmth in their eyes as they exchanged data, it was more than functional. I guarantee it. It was unnecessary. It was disconcerting, is what it was.

  Ostensibly, they did it to combine knowledge of their customers’ habits and become better baristas, but I secretly wondered if Mr. Bean had developed an attachment that was not about their customers’ needs at all.

  Now, Gregg, you must already be aware that I led the official complaint against the robot on the fourth floor, but I hope you’re also aware that there were multiple signatories to the statement. We were many who felt it was inappropriate that all the robots in our company should be male.

  You must also be aware of the rumors that I initiated the complaint because I took offense at a perceived gay robot romance. That is just ridiculous. I am not so small-minded. Besides, why should a robot care about gender? I mean, what difference can it possibly make to a robot? What happened next demonstrated that all too clearly.

  Ms. Bean, the female coffee machine, was rather homely to tell you the truth. She was not ugly by any means, she had a wholesome enough face and if you know that real women have curves you might think she was striving to be a real woman.

  This surprised me, so I called to inquire why she was not built according to the same Greek god specifications of Mr. Bean, and when I finally managed to drag the answer out of the second manager I got through to, it turned out that previous incarnations of Ms. Bean had suffered some bad experiences and that the company had been accused of provocative messaging on account of her stimulating design.

  Make a note of that, Gregg, because isn’t that precisely what the company is still doing with Mr. Bean and his irresponsibly handsome brothers? Have they learned nothing at all? They are playing with fire and others are paying the price. In vulnerable moments, we don’t need to be pushed and tempted like that, do we? I believe not.

  Mr. Bean took the separation from his friend in a stride. Actually, he didn’t even blink. It was a little disconcerting that he didn’t respond at all. It was too cold, even for a robot. Like he was covering up a great inner turmoil.

  ”How do you find your new friend upstairs, Mr. Bean?”

  ”I don’t understand the question, Phyllis.”

  ”I mean Ms. Bean, the new robot in the fourth floor kitchen. You have not stopped visiting for routine maintenance, have you, Mr. Bean? You really must not let yourself go, you know, though I understand if you no longer find it necessary to visit every single night.”

  ”Yes, I know Ms. Bean well. She is an excellent barista. I have shared all my recipes with her and you can trust her to make your favorite coffee, just as you like it best.”

  ”That’s nice, Mr. Bean, but about the visits… how often would you say you go to see Mrs. Bean?”

  ”Routine maintenance is scheduled for every night with regular in-depth examinations on Sundays.”

  In-depth examinations, that’s what he said. That’s when I knew I had lost him.

  But I didn’t lose myself, though I know that’s what some say happened. It’s not true. I took it on the chin and I buckled up and I kept calm and carried on. I was dignified, Gregg. I pulled out of it. I started over. I pulled myself together. I drank less coffee.

  It took me a few weeks to recover from my over-caffeinated state and see things clearly, and only then, after my full and complete recovery, did I make the second petition, arguing that those robots were more trouble than they were worth.

  The novelty of a walking coffee machine with a great upper body had worn off by then, anyway, even on the fourth floor, and Dave personally organized a group of men to attest that Mr. Bean was setting unrealistic body standards for them.

  Dave really pulled through for me, despite past differences. He’s grown a lot in my estimation on account of this. And I’m proud to say that our combined efforts got our old coffee machines back.

  That was really all I wanted.

  I have learnt from my mistakes, Gregg, learnt not to project my excess of love onto the first sympathetic, or synthetic, ear I come across. I was emotionally completely over Mr. Bean.

  Why, I ask you, would I want to kidnap him, and Ms. Bean too? Or destroy her and just take him. I know you’ve heard the rumors, and you’ve looked at me funny lately when we pass in the hall. I’m very hurt by this. I know my behavior may have seemed odd at times, but I’m not a robot napper, Gregg. I am not!

  You will have heard the robots were already gone by the time the service company arrived to pick the
m up. That is common knowledge, but did you know the service company men were not surprised? They checked their system and told me both robots were registered as already returned for formatting and redeployment.

  At most the men seemed annoyed that we had called them out for nothing.

  Now, I’ll have you know I was paying very close attention to the goings on in the kitchen on the second floor around that time and can personally attest that Mr. Bean was still present at six-thirty in the evening the day before he was gone at eight in the morning.

  The idea that the service company broke into our office in the middle of the night to preemptively pick up goods they were scheduled to pick up only a few hours later, and then return to try to pick them up again, is no more ridiculous than the idea that I kidnapped Mr. and Ms. Bean for my own nefarious purposes. Yet, I know this second idea has been floating around the office water cooler.