Pink Slip Prophet (9 page)

Jack smiled and went back to his game.

“How did you get such a good head on your shoulders? Definitely not from Mom and you’re much wiser than me.”
Failed inventor. Failed father. What will go wrong next? Failed man? Thank God I already got married — Well okay, I guess I did fail as a man given that my wife is living with another man.
He felt the icky morass of self-loathing coming on and put all his mental energy into pushing it back.

Hold the line
, he said to the Spartan warriors in his head.
Just hold the goddamned line already. More self-loathing will do nothing for me. It’s laziness and masturbation, that’s all.

“Let’s do it anyway. I need this. It’s a deal, okay? A done deal.”

Jack nodded. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.” The thought of suicide crossed his mind. It would be a tidy end. No need to suffer in the streets, beg food from overloaded shelters, jockey for position in cockroach-infested boiler rooms and sewer grates.
There’s just nowhere else for me to go from here. I put everything into this and I’m tired. One last hurrah, one last swing through a normal, decent life.

And then nothing. A clean end, one that won’t bother or burden anyone. Should I even leave a note?

***

Ian lay in the hammock, his son Jack snuggling below his left shoulder while watching a video on his mobile screen.

“You can do anything boys and girls, anything at all, as long as you put your mind to it and never, ever, give up.” The speaker bounced around the screen as if he - or was it she - was in zero gravity. Balloons popped, reappeared, grew and the announcer grew as he ate them. One popped in his face and the man - or woman, it wasn’t clear - made a face of mock surprise.

Jack giggled.

You can do anything, my ass. Maybe you can do it. But someone can steal it from you. You won’t even see them coming. They’ll cozy right up and be your best buddy. Take your job, your accomplishments, your wife, your house! You can do anything.
Ian guffawed.

“Do you like it, too? Come on, watch with me,” Jack said.

Ian smiled and watched.

Jack snuggled up closer. “I love you, Dad.”

I better give the kid some time - my undivided attention - for the rest of the day and tomorrow. He deserves that before I, uh, kill myself
. His thoughts wandered to how he would do it. It had to be far away and not leave a mess to clean up. It wasn’t fair to saddle anyone with that, much less burial costs.

His screen flashed. Someone was calling.

“Dad,” Jack said. He jerked his head in the direction of Ian’s desk.

Ian looked away. The screen flashed again.

“Dad, phone call! It might be important.” Jack went back to his video.

Ian looked away from the flashing screen.
I’m not going to answer it. I just wish I could silence the notifications from here. Jack deserves my time.

The hammock bounced and Ian swayed up against the rough, cinder block wall. “Ow, hey.”

Jack was at his desk. The boy grabbed his father’s earbud and tossed it to him. He gestured a thumbs-up at the screen to answer the call.

“Jack, no!” Ian caught the earbud and hastily put it into his ear. He glared at his son. “Hello, I’m afraid—”

“Is this Ian Blake?” The voice was old and not terribly formal but definitely British.

“I’m sorry, this—”

“The inventor of the Maria domestic robot?” the man asked.

“Yes, but I’m spending time with my son right now,” Ian said.

“I can appreciate that. Can we schedule another time to talk?”

“I’m afraid it’s just not…” Ian choked up.

“I understand what it’s like to be an inventor and an entrepreneur,” the man said.

Ian wanted to speak but his throat seized up. If he spoke, he knew the man would realize his pain and he refused to let anyone know what he was feeling.

“I will call you back in, say, five minutes, alright, Mr. Blake? Just so you know, this is Clifford Fanson of the Divergent Group here in the UK and I aim to license your Maria technology.”

***

It was several hours later when an exhausted Ian and a sleepy Jack exited the elevator on the twenty-third floor with their final Maria in tow.

Larry waited for them inside the front door. “Why did you hang up on me?” he asked. His arms were crossed and his eyelid ticced. His body radiated a nervous tension that Ian thought could break out at any second.

Ian skirted around him into the kitchen and pushed Maria until she was behind him. He frowned at Larry a second then, without taking his eyes from the man, asked Maria for a sandwich.

“What kind of sandwich would you like, Ian?” she asked.

Ian kept his eyes on Larry. “Something high protein with a touch of sweetness on unusual bread but, of course, working within the limits of whatever is in this kitchen.”

Larry trundled awkwardly over to the black leather couch and laid back on it. He then sat forward and looked at Ian. “I wouldn’t have approved it anyway. Robots in the home are too dangerous. Look at what happened to Jacky.”

Jacky?
Ian wanted to lash out but he thought better.
Just wait before responding. He wants you angry.
The thoughts burst back in.
Jacky? He’s a boy and you won’t turn him into anything else!
He gritted his teeth.

“In fact,” Larry said, “I want him out of here.”

Ian laughed. “You want my robot out of my house?”

“It’s not your house anymore,” Larry said. “And the robot? You didn’t build it, not by yourself at least. You live in a tax-supported ecosystem that empowers you. Lots of people helped you.”

Ian smiled but kept his thoughts about that to himself.

Next to him, Maria expertly sunk a knife into a jar of peanut butter - except it was empty, or nearly so. Ian watched as she used the dull side of the butter knife to scrape every last smidge of peanut butter out of the jar and place it evenly on the slice of fluffy whole wheat bread.

“Careful not to scrape any plastic off now,” Ian said to Maria with a chuckle.

“Do not worry. That is not happening.”

The jelly pot looked relatively fresh for some reason and it was completely full. Maria selected a spoon, deftly popped the vacuum-sealed lid off of it and gently slid the spoon into the gelatinous mass.

“We usually use a knife for that,” Ian said.

Maria continued working. “Due to the nature of the grape jelly, sir, a spoon is less likely to spill any of the raw material.”

Ian thought back to all the times he had jammed a flat knife into the jelly jar only to have the gloopy goo slip right off and onto the counter or floor.

Jack entered the kitchen. “She’s smart, Dad. Smarter than you,” he said with a nod.

Ian looked at him, a twinge of hurt and envy in his gut.
I guess that’s quite a compliment. I was so smart that I created something smarter than me. Yes, I think I’d better look at it that way.
He laughed internally at himself.

Larry stood up. “You can’t count on third world programmers, Ian.”

Oh my God. The Somalians. Ian pulled out his screen and typed off a message to Qasim. If he doesn’t respond… Maybe that’s what I’ll do. I’ll go to Somalia and do… whatever it takes to free them.
Ian nodded.

“So you agree?” Larry asked.

Ian awoke from his reverie. “What?”

“I said, you can’t count on third world programmers. You should try again, Ian. I know a great programming team. They can fix all the bugs in Maria and they’re not really that expensive.”

“A new programming team?” Ian asked absently.

“It’s just what you need. I can help you finance it, too. They’re very flexible.” Larry looked up at Ian and rubbed his hands together. “And I can practically guarantee regulatory approval with the right team. We have to ensure appropriate quality standards, of course. That’s just basic. Everyone knows—”

“You’re babbling!” Ian said.

Maria handed him the completed peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was centered on the plate and the bread was pristine - nothing spilled or smeared.

Ian took a bite and through a mouthful said, “Seems fine to me.”

Larry shook his head and walked up to the breakfast bar. “Good inventions simply can not come out of a garage, or a storage box or be funded by the sale of one’s kidneys! That’s not the twenty-first century—”

Ian’s eyes went wide and a choking gasp like a rolling snore came out of his mouth. He tried to exhale but only sputtered. He looked at Larry and pointed repeatedly to his back.

Larry relaxed and shook his head. “I warned you, Ian.”

An intermittent gasp came from Ian’s throat. He pointed more frenetically to his back, then collapsed to his knees and issued a final puff of air.

Larry turned his back to the kitchen. “I warned him. Damned terrorist programmers probably sabotaged it.”

Jack scanned the morning’s headlines on his screen. He sighed. There was nothing new about it. He rolled up the screen and stuffed it into his special cargo pocket. He walked into the kitchen. “Maria, I need a drink,” he said.

“If you are referring to an alcoholic or vitalic drink, then your father has asked me not to give you any until you are at least sixteen,” said Ian’s final Maria. The last of its kind, it traversed the kitchen with grace, opened the refrigerator and retrieved a pod of milk. She popped off the plastic cap, which was connected to the body of the rounded pod by a thin tether, and poured some into the tall, thin, tubular glass that already sat on the counter.

“But that glass isn’t clean,” Jack said.

“I pulled it out especially for you, Master Jack, as you ask for a glass of milk around 11 AM every morning.” Maria replaced the pod of milk in the refrigerator.

“Oh, okay.” Jack grabbed the glass and downed it. He put the empty glass in the sink. “Thanks Maria,” he said. He went into the living room and laid down on the couch. He sighed.

There was a knock at the door. Jack ran and opened it.

“Can you help me with this old junk?” Ian asked. His hands were full with Maria parts, desk components and other stuff from the storage box.

The boy grabbed a plastic box of Maria parts. “Where should I put it?”

“Michael’s old room,” Ian said. “That’ll be our office now,” he said with a wink and a smile. Ian was clean-shaven, his hair neatly cut, his skin clean, his nails trimmed and a healthy glow was returning to his face.

“Did you see the
Guardian
article? They said there are more than a billion Marias now!” Jack put his box down and pulled out his screen. He brought the article up. “Look, Dad, here’s one in the Congo Republic that’s carrying water!”

Ian set his boxes down in Michael’s old room and came back. He nodded approvingly.

“How did Divergent distribute them so quickly?” Jack asked.

“Apparently,” Ian said, “they had an autofac all set and ready to go, to produce domestic robots. They predicted it was coming, they just didn’t have a design yet. We came along at just the right time.”

“Wow,” Jack said under his breath.

“And you contributed to that Jack. You helped at more than one critical juncture and made important contributions. Those Marias out there all carry a part of you, too.”

“No, Dad, this was all you. No,” Jack said.

Ian laughed and tousled his hair. “You know it’s true.”

A key zipped into the front door lock from the outside and Larry burst in. “This is my house, mine now, my family and I got them fair and square!” he said with a slur. He burped and went into the bathroom. The sound of a generous and fast-moving stream of urine hitting toilet water reached Jack’s and Ian’s ears.

Jack looked at his father. “Are you going to beat him up?”

Ian laughed. “I don’t think I’ll have to.”

“I’m glad you’re back, Dad, but are you going to change much? I kind of got used to the new furniture and Larry’s way of doing things.”

Ian frowned. “A lot is going to change, kiddo. Get ready. If I could burn this place out and start over, I would.”

“You would?” Jack arched an eyebrow at him and a tense worry spread across his face.

Ian studied his face. “No, not you! I wouldn’t burn you, just the stuff, not the people.” He laughed.

Jack crossed his arms and grunted his disapproval.

Larry let out a deep, echoing burp, flushed the toilet and came out of the bathroom at a half-run.

“Larry, your stuff is in the storage box, downstairs. It’s unlocked, so I suggest you get it this morning. Those boiler room guys are real scavengers.”

Larry laid down on his leather couch. “What about this couch, and…” He burped. “And all the money I spent on rent and food and stuff for your kids?” He farted, first a short burst then a long, thundering emission.

“Send me the bill,” Ian said.

“It’s not fair,” Larry said. “It’s not right and it’s not legal.”

Oh this should be good.
Ian raised his eyebrows and leaned against the kitchen counter, next to the refrigerator. Maria dumped a batch of clothes into the washing machine and twisted the dial to the proper setting.

“I told my boss. I think you violated export restrictions…” He hiccuped. “When you sold your…” He waved his hand dismissively in Maria’s direction. “…whatever to the British.”

Ian’s face darkened.

“He’s looking into it. He could freeze your deal. Reclaim your technology for national security and public health reasons, you know.”

“The tech is out. Divergent has it all, the schematics, the source code, the algorithms, the whole thing.”

“You have to file all of that with us if you want a patent, you know.”

“What if I don’t want a patent?” Ian asked.

Larry sat up and drunk-frowned in Ian’s direction. His head wobbled slightly from side to side. “If you don’t get a patent, then anyone can steal your tech and patent it for themselves.”

Ian shrugged.

Larry shrugged. “What’s that? You don’t care if someone steals your tech?”

Ian smiled.

“He’s not that worried about it,” Jack said. “Everybody’s busy collecting basic income and playing VR games anyway.”