Sex Robot Cuddle Party

by David Raffin

  “Clown,” said Sunny, “you are full of surprises!”

  “I studied at the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey school of music,” said Theodore. “I was there on a music scholarship.”

  “It shows,” said Rain.

  “But it is hard. So hard. To make it in the music business,” said the clown. “Everybody wants a piece of you. It’s a sick power dynamic.”

  “Always,” said Rain.

  “The problem is capitalism,” said a voice from the door.

  Everyone turned.

  “Richard!” said Rain. “You came!”

  “I was invited,” said Richard. “I come where I am wanted. Also the entry was open.”

  “This is Richard Johnson,” said Rain. “He is the distinguished gentleman from next door. A scientist.”

  “I brought a Dutch apple pie.”

  “I’ll put it on the buffet table,” said Rain. She did.

  The film resumed linear perspective. The scene shifted to another place. Two people were playing a board game. After a few minutes the lady swept the game board with her arm and grabbed the man by the collar, pulling him close for a kiss. At first he looked bewildered, as he was not expecting this move. Moments before he was winning. The outcome was forgone. But now the past lie in a failed jumble of pieces on the floor. And the future was a passion play. Close contact. Face to face action. And it took place on the table in place of the commodified entertainment, a diversion of attention. All hands on board. And that’s not all.

  The action moved to the couch. It was a flurry of arms and legs. Until the woman said, “Sorry. I’m just not feeling it.” And then she said a lot of things that were not on the screen cards, and there were reaction shots of the man’s face. And the title card projected her final words in the scene, “Maybe later.” The door closed with finality. And he left. And the scene changed.

  A title card read: “Oh, Eros! God of Love! Forgive me!”

  There are street scenes of people of all ages walking alone in the city. At the park. Eating alone in a restaurant, an act Rain considered the impetus for the creation of drive-through windows, and then, as she thought this, a shot of cars lined up at a drive through window, each car with one passenger. A shot of exhaust spilling out of the tail of an idle car, ready to go but confined in line, waiting for full satisfaction, only to be thwarted by industrialized processed food from which most nutrients were removed, prompting a drive to continue consumption in order to fill the resulting void which was bottomless. Top off. Always.

  “It’s amazing the director can relay that through image alone,” Frankie said.

  “Hush,” Rain said. She was not ordinarily a shusher but she hated when people talked through a movie.

  In a living room people are gathered to strike a blow against the system. People of all stripes, united in passion. There is a table of shared food. Comforts. The people are ready for change. To cast off the old ways. To bring about full satisfaction, the dream of the ancients never realized. Do people want what they desire or do they desire what they want? The idea of what they want. The shadow looming larger than the object of desire. The desirability of desire. Something to dream. Something to hope. Something to strive. But if one never arrives at their destination will they not grow tired? Depressed? Alienated? Will they not grab at anything with desperate grasping hands reaching out for the hope of relief for a sublimation? Latch onto half measures? Regression. Create a new problem to replace the old? Become a warning to others not to stray from the path of unsatisfactory convention? The best of a bad deal? But they are a room of revolutionaries and they are intent on smashing the oppressive system. And it evolves into a scene of group love as Rain, Richard, Frankie, Theodore, and Sunny watch.

  “Gosh how I love cinema,” said the clown.

  “When there are so many characters acting at once I find it difficult to follow the story,” Rain said.

  “It’s an action film,” the clown said. “It’s about action.”

  “Action doesn’t exist in the void,” said Rain.

  “Hardly ever,” Richard added.

  “He’s a scientist,” Rain whispered loud.

  This is the type of film,” said Frankie, “You have to watch more than once to see all the nuances of. That’s art, baby. When the screen approaches the nuances of the page, each transitioning from the oral tradition.”

  “Ooo,” said Sunny. “I’m a new traditionalist.”

  “Damn right you are, baby.”

  There is a shot of a nightstand with a copy of My Disillusionment with Russia, by Emma Goldman24 on a side table. Then a shot which is referred to by its proximity to capitalist payday where workers save up for rushed leisure while lower paid workers serve them in the pursuit, each exploiting the other and in turn being exploited by other actors. The Money Shot.

  But in an alternate universe would there be a world where things are not bought and sold but given and received freely and without coercion? It was the talk only revolutionaries at the far edge speak of. They to whom anything may be possible can dream of a world where anything is possible and they are the requirement to spark radical change in a system stagnated by automatic respect for authority.

  “Now, I respect the man,” Frankie said. “There were problems on the set but that’s the way things are in a group effort. But he is a genius of subtle manipulation. The way the Communist writers in the 1950s moved into the writing of children’s books to further their end goals. To sell the children. On the values of sharing and protecting the environment. Being inclusive. Fair. Non-Judgmental. That good stuff we all learned growing up.”

  “Not everybody learnt it,” said Rain.

  “I had a three point nine GPA25!” said Sunny. “Dean’s list! Most likely to succeed.”

  “I had a full ride scholarship to Barnum and Bailey,” said the clown. “And look at me now.”

  “I’m what you would call an autodidact, self-taught, self-made man,” said Frankie.

  “School of hard knocks,” said Rain. “Majored in R and R26.”

  “And I taught advanced theoretical physics and artificial intelligence at University of California Berkley. But it is clear we here are all a part of the underground intelligentsia. Mediocre individuals do not think of these matters even as the world changes around them.”

  The film reflected back on the eyes of the clown, and as it entered his brain, upside down, it skewed his sense of time and place. “Hey,” he said, “Isn’t that you mister?”

  Everyone looked at the film projected on the wall, even Frankie, who side-eyed it.

  Frankie had entered the scene as a pant-less butler. He had bottles of Moxie soda on a silver serving tray and wore a Formal Butlery jacket.

  “He made you be the butler in a porn film,” said Rain. “How low. To think…”

  “He didn’t have the heart to fire me,” said Frankie. “I committed the cardinal sin in Adult Film. I failed. As is the cardinal sin in life. Still we go on.”

  “Mister,” said the clown, “You’re a Star.”

  “The Dogstar,” said Frankie.

  “No matter the size, a star is a star,” said the clown. Still, the clown was transfixed by the screen. Clowns are very visually oriented. “Hey, a clown! They say you never see a clown in a porn film, but Myrtle can eat her hat, a clown!”

  A clown entered the scene and relieved Frank the Butler of some of his precious Moxie. It made the tray tip and Frank stumbled around the room in a clumsy but effective fashion. The clown joined the fray that made up the set, wide smile painted on permanent big as life.

  “I couldn’t get it on under pressure,” Frankie said. “So they replaced me with that clown. And instead of firing me he asked me to be the butler. ‘Non-action roles are very important,’ he said, ‘Besides, you came all this way, show up on time. You’re a stand-up guy. Don’t be down about being down. From each according to abilities and to each according to need. You’ll work your way up.’”

 
At last the drinks smashed down to the floor and the butler stood watching the bottles empty as if they were his dreams of eros running out. A final human indignity. Cut to the clown making out like mad with a blond lady on the floor by the couch.

  “That’s me!” Sunny said.

  “Whooda thunk it,” said Rain.

  Frank, relieved of Butlery, jumped into the action, pushing the clown aside. The clown pushed back. Clowns are no stranger to a slap-fight. And they tussled like that. Back and forth. Until there was a shot of the blond lady, arms spread open, and a title card saying: “I have missed you so much. In these dark times, can’t all people come together as one?”

  And the ex-butler and the clown looked each other, face-to-face, and then formed a human triangle with the willing lady, with clown white smudged all over everything and everyone. The film faded to white.

  The projector clattered to the end and the film flapped. “I’ll rewind,” said Rain. She worked the machine.

  “Well,” said Frankie. “There is some tradition of male on male action in adult films made for straight men. Score, SOS: Screw on Screen, The Story of Joanna…

  “Jamie Gillis!” said the clown.

  “Exactly,” said Frankie.

  “You needn’t defend anything here,” Richard said.

  “Yes,” said the clown, “We are all friends here.”

  “I’m starving,” said Rain. “Let’s eat.”

  “Oh,” said Sunny, “It’s Time for The Thomas Middle show on Access. Can we watch?”

  “Sure,” said Rain, “Let’s do that and eat. I’ve seen that show. It’s silly.”

  Sunny turned on the television. Rain said, “Everybody dig in, there’s a table full of food.”

  The announcer said:

  “You’re watching

  Stuck in the Middle with Thomas Middle.

  Brought to you by Freedom Cola. In the beginning there was freedom. A marketing word so overused the word itself was stripped of all meaning. It seems like gibberish there, now, in front of the word cola.

  “I tell you, it’s going to be one of those days,” sighed Thomas Middle. “One of those days when you fall into a pit and turn toward the sky and scream, ‘Help, I've fallen in a pit!’ And a crowd assembles above because they think it’s performance art. Even when you shout ‘It’s not performance art. I have fallen in a pit. Who put the pit here?’ Which was the wrong thing to say, because then the crowd became excited about the audience participation portion of what they thought was a performance art piece. And they began, one and all, to debate who, who would put a pit there so a man could fall in it and spark debate? Yes sir, one of those days.”

  “And then the man from the Ace Cement Truck company came. And he had a dump truck full of cement which had been scheduled to be poured into the pit that morning. And he was screaming, ‘Out the way! Got a load of cement to deposit!’

  And I shouted, ‘I don't want any cement!’

  And there was so much murmuring and excitement up there he couldn't tell that my response was coming from down here.

  And he shouted, ‘It’s not really cement when it's wet. Least I never think of it that way. I always think of it as cement with added water that is yet to be concrete. Potential concrete. It's my sunny outlook on life, which has done nothing but harden in my years in this business.’

  And I shout again, ‘No cement!’

  And he says, ‘Cheerio!’ and dumps a load of wet cement on me.

  Yep. One of those days.”

  A voice from above announces: “You’re watching Stuck in the Middle with everyone's favorite little man Thomas Middle.”

  Middle, having struggled up to the surface, at least his right arm and his neck and head, says, “Oh, Dear!” An unseen audience laughs welcomingly.

  “Stuck in the Middle is brought to you daily by Freedom Cola and the Privatized Waterworks Amalgamated.”

  Thomas Middle says, “Oh, Dear, Oh, Dear, Oh, Dear.” The audience erupts again as a light comedic jingle signifies the beginning of the program.

  “My, that was a sticky situation,” says Middle. “Now if I can just get out of here.” He struggles. “Mphh. Umph. Useless. No worries. I, a modern man, have both patience and verisimilitude. I can get by.” He is quiet for a while. “Ridiculous that a crowd always disperses after the screaming stops.” He hums. He is quiet. Then he screams, “Help! Help!”

  “Oh, dear. Never a copper when you need one!”

  A policeman arrives and the audience cheers. “What’s all this, then?” he asks.

  “Officer! I was walking along and fell in a pit! Then the cement man nearly buried me alive in wet cement!”

  “No, No,” says the policeman, “There is no such thing as wet cement. Cement is a powder. Granulated. Wet cement is just concrete that is yet to be. In fact, not even that certain, concrete which may yet be, determined by the circumstances, the mix, the set, whatall…”

  “Yes,” says Middle, “Well I was nearly buried alive in potential concrete which is potentially becoming concrete concrete around me now. Help?”

  “Well,” says the officer, “You tell an interesting story, but you’re blocking the road. I must ask you to vacate that spot immediately or face retributive action of the state.”

  “Retributive action of the state? Just dig me out.”

  “Your well being is your own regard in this life, Mister Middle. You can’t depend on the good will of the collective to help you out in times of trouble, now, can you? Stand up for yourself Mister Middle. Pull yourself out of your own troubles. And get out of the street. Now, here, sign this ticket for obstruction of a throughway and loitering.”

  “Five hundred pounds!”

  “If you don’t like it, would you like me to run you in?”

  “Yes, please!”

  “Well, tough. I don’t want to do the paperwork. Just be gone by tomorrow. And pay the ticket by the end of the month. Penalties accrue.” He leaves.

  Thomas Middle says, “Oh, Dear, Oh, Dear, Oh, Dear.” The audience erupts again as a light comedic jingle signifies the beginning of the commercial break.

  A little girl skips over to Middle. “Are you thirsty Mister Middle?” she asks.

  “Oh, yes, dear child. And do you have a shovel?”

  “I have Freedom Cola and that’s made from Privatized Waterworks Amalgamated water. You know what they say, Mister Middle, in this life you don’t own water, you rent it.”

  “Except,” says Middle, “for the people who own the water sources.”

  “Yes,” says the girl, “But they are water providers. And if we didn’t have water providers how would we ever get water at prevailing market cost?”

  “Well said, little miss. And do you have a shovel. A pick axe?”

  “I have Freedom Cola made from Privatized Waterworks Amalgamated water!”

  “Well, it is awfully hot. I’ll take a cup.”

  “Five pounds!”

  “Five pounds! Your stand on the corner says a shilling!”

  “Mister, it’s a shilling over there. Over here it’s five pounds.”

  “Oh, Dear… FINE. If you could help dig me out I could get my wallet…”

  “I’m a salesgirl, not a rescue worker. I can run a tab but you have to pay a high interest of 35 percent compounded…”

  “FINE.”

  The girl places the cup of Freedom Cola in front of the man.

  “Now, I have some limited mobility issues, Could you give me a hand?”

  The girl claps enthusiastically. “Very nice Mister Middle.”

  The unseen audience laughs.

  The girl leaves.

  Thomas Middle says, “Oh, Dear, Oh, Dear, Oh, Dear.” The audience erupts again as a light comedic jingle signifies the end of the commercial break and resumption of the program proper.

  “Excuse me, Miss! Miss! You Who!”

  “I’m waiting for a bus. I don’t talk to scruffy street people.”

  “I’m not a street p
erson, Miss, I’m Thomas Middle!”

  “You’re actually sunk in the street. Street person.”

  “Well, yes,” said Middle. “Do you have a shovel?”

  “Do I look like I have a shovel?”

  “Hope abides, Miss. I think I really need a pick axe. You haven’t one of them, do you?”

  “Be quiet.”

  “I’ve been nice and polite. I have every right to speak. This is still a free country. And I’m here, minding my own business stuck in the street. Trying to better myself. Mmpthpt.”

  A sloshing dribbling sound of Freedom Cola being poured out over Middle’s head. “Hey, I BOUGHT THAT FREEDOM COLA. On credit!”

  “And You got it, didn’t you?”

  “I never wanted it poured on my head. Now I’ll be sticky! Oh, Dear.”

  “Don’t call me ‘Dear’ you Nasty little man.”

  “You just can’t talk with some people,” says Middle. The audience laughs.

  The sound of a bus pulling away.

  “Life certainly does have its unexpected pitfalls,” says Middle. The audience chuckles.

  A young voice cries: “News! Infotainment! Frequently requested tips for what to do about being trapped in thickening concrete! Celebrity death pools!”

  “Newsboy! Newsboy!” shouted Middle, “Over here!”

  “Hey Mister Middle. Want in on the celebrity death pool?”

  “I was interested in the tips on thickening concrete escape. But… While I’m here, what’s the hot celebrity action now?”

  “Well, while you’re here, things aren’t looking good for Thomas Middle, are they?”

  “The tip, boy, the tip.”

  “Five pounds.”

  “Outrag… FINE. But my wallet is in my pants in the cement. If you could give me a hand…”

  “Your pants ain’t none of my concern mister. I can give you a tip on credit. 45 percent interest compounded…”

  “FINE. Agreed.”

  “Here’s the tip.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Watch where you’re stepping.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t walk into open pits. Be aware of your surroundings, Middle. An ounce of prevention is worth more than all the troubles occurring due to the lack of preparedness. I’m giving you a real value with this tip.”