The Complete Roderick

by John Sladek

  God call him up every time jackpot lousy blade heavy split up when epileptic .38 motel room burn movie son of a bitch says kids no kill t-shirt no freak doc car plant porno bastard mother his own last time he last time she exit blood candy store how would you like a beat on him epileptic rapist son of a bitch yells sewer beach relationship stinks this relationship masectomy needless needles boss no good yell fuel injection nightwork treats treats me like shit .38 bike overtime blackjack ass passes no sweat pills bustup back together ten grand belt buckle slipped disc park it goodies medication no nice kids his own mother God fight City Hall wino drive-in abortion hit taste bike

  ‘Basically you’re too kind. People –’

  ‘Son, don’t you know me?’

  He peered at the man, noticing he had a jawbone, not like anybody who loaned out his jawbone for killing Phyllis Teens … ‘Pa! Pa?’

  ‘Hear that? He knows me. Come on son, we’ll go home.’

  The hard-looking man behind him spoke. ‘Not just yet, Mr Wood. Few formalities.’ He spoke into a radio. ‘That’s it, fellas. Make the pinch.’ Then to Pa, ‘We’ll have to go over to this Kratt’s office here. I want your, er, kid to identify him.’

  Roderick’s quarter ran out. He awoke in Mr Kratt’s office, once again standing on the desk.

  ‘… tragic mistake, gentlemen, tragic. This just can’t be a living child, I mean look at him. Been here six, seven weeks and never ate a crumb of food, never had a drink of water, how can you call him alive? Of course I bought it him in good faith as a machine, got a receipt somewhere, no idea it was even stolen goods let alone a – are you sure?’

  The hard-looking man said, ‘How about this, Mr Wood? This a kid or a robot?’

  ‘Well I like to think of him as my foster son, he seems almost –’

  ‘Jesus Christ, what kind of answer is that? Maybe I better ask the – entity – itself here.’

  Roderick was just blacking out when the hard man fed in a handful of change. ‘Now just tell me what the fucking hell you are, kid.’

  ‘My name is – is Roderick Wood.’

  ‘My boy,’ said Pa. ‘You see, Agent Wcz, just what I –’

  ‘I’m a – a robot and I live at 614 Sycamore 641 is it? 416, no, I live at –’

  The man turned his hard stare on Pa. ‘A fucking robot! We set up this whole operation to catch a kidnapper and now you admit –’

  ‘I’m awful sorr –’

  ‘Yeah sure. Only that just voids our arrest here.’

  Mr Kratt’s V-brows shot up and down. ‘I’m free then?’

  ‘For the time being. We’ll be keeping an eye on you, Kratt.’

  Roderick’s money ran out again. He awoke in a car with Agent Wcz and Pa – and Ma!

  ‘Penny for your thoughts, son,’ she said.

  ‘I was thinking about anding,’ he said. ‘How much is one and one and one?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Three? But I keep getting four. Like on Mr Kratt’s desk there was one pin and one paper clip and one rubber band. And that makes two shiny things and two loopy things, and everybody knows two and two makes –’

  ‘Can that noise,’ said Agent Wcz.

  Pa said, ‘Agent Wcz, I really am awful sorry we wasted your time, the FBI’s time. Hmm, unusual name, Wcz. You know, I think I knew an FBI Agent Wcz back in the fifties. Any relation? Your dad, mayb – ow!’ Agent Wcz turned white, then red, but said nothing.

  Ma said, ‘Sorry Pa, just moving my foot there, getting comfy.’

  The FBI man looked at her, as though memorizing her face. ‘You two aren’t in a very comfy situation, you know. Filing a false report of kidnapping is serious. I’m putting you down on our records and you can rest assured you’ll hear from us again.’

  The car drew up in front of a familiar house. When they were inside, Ma said, ‘Could have died, Pa. Why on earth did you go and provoke Mr Wcz like that?’

  ‘Provoke – what in the world?’

  ‘Didn’t you see the scars? That man’s had his face lifted, more than once. He’s as old as we are, and you asking him about his dad! Honestly!’

  ‘My day for goofs, I guess. Anyway, our boy’s back. Safe and sound.’

  ‘And pig-ignorant,’ said Ma. She put both hands up to scratch her head, the way she always did when she was thinking hard. The green dandruff flew. ‘Can’t have him grow up thinking two and two is four,’ she said. ‘And there’s only one answer.’

  VII

  SOME LAWS OF ROBOTICS (I)

  Robots are in comics but they are not real.

  Robots are made of controls.

  Robots are made of metal and iron and steel.

  Robots kill.

  They strangle.

  They shoot people and destroy them.

  They keep killing and killing.

  Pupils at Rhyl Primary School, London

  Miss Borden had tan hair exactly matching her tan pants suit, and watery blue eyes exactly matching the scarf at her throat. A chain ran from the bow of her glasses to the back of her neck (to the knob of tan hair) and it exactly matched the chain running from her belt to a bunch of keys. He had never seen such a neatly-matched-up person; he stared while she selected a key and matched it to the door marked with her name: ELIZABETH BORDEN PRING –

  ‘Don’t dawdle,’ she said. Princess?

  ‘Don’t be shy, Roderick.’ Ma took his hand and led him into the business room.

  ‘Yes, I can see he’ll cause – have special problems, Mrs Wood. The handicapped and the disadvantaged are so often – but never mind, we’ll manage somehow. Now where have I put those forms?’

  ‘Handicapped? Well no, not exactly, he’s –’

  ‘Of course you don’t think of him as abnormal, glad to see that, admirable the way you parents – now let’s see, was it 77913 or 77923? – Yes, I always feel it’s best to treat them as normal, healthy children and just let them find their own level, sink or sw – find their own level. Achievementwise. After all, isn’t that pretty much the basis of our democratic … of course it is, and I’m sure little Robert will fit in just fine …’

  ‘Roderick. His name is –’

  ‘At the same time it’s best to find a way of keying him in, don’t you agree? Relating him to the system, here it is, 77913, just a few routine questions I have to ask –’

  ‘You mean how well does he read and write, things like that?’

  ‘Yes um but not exactly. We generally like to let reading and writing find their own lev – shall we begin?’ She fiddled with a brooch and suddenly unreeled another gold chain with a tiny ballpoint pen at the end. Her left hand ironed the pink form ready. ‘Has he any juvenile record?’

  ‘You mean criminal – why heavens no.’

  ‘Good, good. Any peculiar illnesses? Aside from his obvious handicap, that is.’

  Ma cleared her throat. ‘Miss Borden, maybe I haven’t explained things too well. Roderick is –’

  Miss Borden held up a hand. ‘Don’t mean to rush you but I’ve got a meeting with the school security personnel in a few minutes, suppose we just run right through these first and then after we can clear up any little discrep – Oh of course! You’re worried about giving out informa – oh but let me assure you this is strictly confidential, here, here’s a list of the agencies we’re legally entitled to a data-share with, see for yourself there’s nothing to worry about.’

  She handed Ma a sheet of paper printed on both sides with names ranging from the Nebraska Welfare Investigation Bureau to the Presidential Committee on Population Control. ‘Okay, no history of illness then, how about chemotherapy?’

  ‘Chemo what?’

  ‘Medication, what kinds of medication will little Rodney require and how often? Tranquillizers, anti-depressants, enkephalides –’

  ‘Well, none. Nothing.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Miss Borden marked a box. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Has he been in analysis? If so for how long and which therapeutic meth
od? No? Fine. How about his training. Pottywise, I mean.’

  ‘He doesn’t need – no trouble that way.’

  ‘Good, fine. Now for some details. How often does he have tantrums, Mrs Wood?’

  ‘Never.’

  The pen poised. ‘There’s no place on the form for “never”, Mrs Wood. All children have tantrums. I’ll tick “seldom” if you like but I wish you’d try answering these questions a little more frankly. Now would you call him a hyperactive child?’

  ‘I’m not even sure I know what that m –’

  ‘Okay then he’s not. Epileptic fits? No? Screaming? No? Excellent. Aggression – does he get into fights with other kids a lot? Good. Ever started a fire? Tortured an animal to death? Maimed another child? Fine. Now is he what you might call introverted – moody? I imagine so, being handi – disadvantaged like that, better put Yes. Suicide attempts? None? Fine. Is he sexually advanced for his age? No? That seems to cover the basics. Think we’ll exempt him from sports for the time being, don’t you.?’

  Miss Borden asked dozens of questions about the whereabouts of Mr Wood, family income, mortgage payments and health insurance plans, earnings-related benefits, history of colour-blindness and left-handedness, whether any grandparent was syphilitic or tubercular or a giant.

  ‘Fine, now just one more: can you think of any special experiences little Robin might have had which could affect him educationwise?’

  ‘Well … he was kidnapped by gipsies.’

  ‘Seriously Mrs – really kidnapped? Well then of course that alters his rating for sexual precocity doesn’t it? Fine, now I’ll just have my secretary key this into our data terminal and we’ll be ready for some tests. Might as well go home now Mrs Wood, this could take the rest of the day. We’ll call you.’

  Roderick was whisked away by Miss Borden to another business room, where a kindly-looking man looked at him over his glasses.

  ‘The er Wood boy is it? I’m Dr Welby, heh heh, don’t be nervous boy, been a family doctor to your Ma and Pa for a good many years now, good many years.’ He stood Roderick up on his desk and looked him over. ‘Well well, yes, mmm, says here your regular doctor is a Dr Sonnenschein in Minnetonka.’ He applied a stethoscope here and there. ‘Heart seems fine, yes, I’d say –’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d say we can give you a clean bill of health, Roger.’ Dr Welby stepped to the door. ‘Over to you, George. Kid’s clean, I’ll fill out the form later only just on my way to see Bangfield about that lakeside property thing …’

  ‘Check.’ A young man in white came in, lifted Roderick down to a chair, and said, ‘How are ya, Roger?’

  ‘Fine. I’ve got a clean bill.’ He noticed that Mr George had lots of wiry black hair and red pimples. ‘Only I like to be called Roderick.’

  ‘Oh?’ George stared at him. ‘Now why is that?’

  ‘Because it’s my name.’

  ‘Is it? Okay, Roderick, now don’t let this white coat make you nervous, we’re just here to play a few games. You like games, Roderick?’

  ‘Yes.’ But if the man didn’t want to make someone nervous with his white coat, why did he wear it?

  ‘Okay now I’m going to show you some pictures, and – funny pictures – and I want you to tell me what you see.’

  ‘Is that the game?’

  ‘Yes, now what is this one?’

  It was tricky, all right. The picture was nothing but a double blob, nothing like anything. Sideways it might be a cloud, reflected in a lake.

  ‘I don’t see anything much. A cloud?’

  ‘Yes, and now this one.’

  ‘A different kind of cloud with little wisps sticking out.’

  ‘And this?’

  ‘A cloud with –’

  ‘Okay, that’s enough. Now try these pictures. Look at each one and tell me a little story about it. Ready?’

  He showed Roderick a picture of a young woman weeping, while an older woman stood behind her.

  ‘What’s the story here, Roderick?’

  ‘What, any story?’

  ‘Sure, whatever you like.’

  ‘I guess the young woman is crying because she’s just learned that her father swindled the bank he works at out of a million dollars, so the bank’s going to fold and everybody’ll lose their savings. That means she can’t marry the hero because he’s the sheriff and has to arrest her father. She can’t cry in front of her mother here because she has a weak heart and might fall dead any minute. See that’s why the father embezzled the money for a special heart operation, when they catch him he says, “I’m glad it’s over,” and meanwhile the president of the bank, his son is fooling around and gets locked in the safe, and this sheriff who used to be a famous safe-cracker only nobody knows it, has to get the kid out and time’s running out, when he does it he has to resign as sheriff because everybody knows –’

  ‘Yeah okay that’s enough. Now –’

  ‘But just let me finish, he has to resign but the bank president gives him a million for saving the kid’s life, and now that he’s not sheriff he can give it to the girl’s father to pay back all the little invest –’

  ‘Yeah okay I get it, now try this one.’

  A bakery truck was turned over on its side, loaves of bread spilling out of it.

  ‘A guy was delivering nitroglycerin to this place where they had to blast open a mine and rescue these miners they’ve been trapped a week and time’s running out.’

  ‘Listen, you’re not trying, Roger I mean Roderick. These old movie plots –’

  ‘But listen they put the nitro inside loaves of bread to keep it from getting shook up and, only the truck gets a blowout on a mountainside and the brakes go, these gangsters went and pinched the brake lines, the driver’s got this crippled sister she’s in love with one of the gangsters only –’

  George showed Roderick two glasses, one short and squat, the other tall and thin. First he poured the short one full of orangeade.

  ‘See how much we have? Let’s mark it on the glass.’ He marked the level with a crayon. ‘Now we’ll pour it in this other glass.’ He poured from the short into the tall glass and again marked the level. ‘See, it’s way up here. Now. Do we have more orangeade? Or the same?’

  After hesitating, Roderick said, ‘Less.’

  ‘No I mean now, in this big tall glass. Do we have more here than we did in the short glass? Or the same?’

  ‘Less.’

  ‘Look it can’t be less, Roger, try. How can it be less?’

  ‘Well …’ Roderick picked up the empty short glass and tipped it up. A single orange drop gathered at the rim and fell to the desk blotter. ‘That much less, anyhow.’

  George’s pimples were brighter as he drew out a green form and began writing. He made no attempt to hide the words from Roderick, who was not yet scheduled to have a reading age.

  Roderick read: ‘Suspicious, poss. schiz. tendencies coupled with extreme identity crisis. This boy is severely handicapped, and consequently indulges in vivid fantasies of violence, sex, crime, with recurring claustrophobic imagery. Overachiever, poss., with high IQ but poor grasp of abstract reasoning. Obvious resentment of authority, the classical overachievement syndrome. When asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” he replied, “Nothing.”’

  VIII

  The screams from the playground could barely be heard in the teachers’ common-room, where a digital clock silently wiped away a few last minutes. Miss Borden stood, clipboard in hand, ready to inspect her troops. No one seemed to feel much like talking: they puffed hungrily at cigarettes, or leafed through tattered copies of Educationalist Today, or simply closed their eyes and pretended to doze.

  ‘We have a few minutes – any questions?’

  She looked first to young Ms Beek, who sat brushing her hair with long, deliberate strokes. Last year Ms Beek had taken a sabbatical from Newer Public School, spent in a psychiatric hospital in Omaha. At least the trip had been good for her hair, now longer and browner and lovelier
than ever. And the mind beneath its roots? Fully restored – or anyway full of soothing drugs. Even if they made her quiet and withdrawn, they kept her even-tempered, and wasn’t that the main thing? She’d soon be back in the swim.

  Mr Goun, a pale, humourless young man with a glassy stare, sat reading a book. His red moustache moved as though in prayer, and his finger traced the lines across the page. Miss Borden leaned over his shoulder.

  ‘Poetry, Bill?’

  He looked up. ‘Educational psychology. Just, er, brushing up.’

  ‘I understand. Not easy to move from seminars in the ivory tower to the, well, vigorous give-and-take of the grade school classroom. I’ll bet.’

  He nodded. ‘Interesting theory here, about utilizing the catalyzation potential of the classroom situation in the micro-assessment of –’

  ‘Mmm, yes, sounds great.’ She passed on quickly to Mr Fest, or as he preferred to be called, Captain Fest. He stood at the window surveying the playground through a pair of binoculars.

  ‘Still keeping tabs on the trouble-makers, Captain?’

  He gave her a thumbs-up sign without looking around. ‘They needn’t think they’re getting away with anything out there, by golly. I know every face and every name. I know what they’re up to even before they do. The day will come. The day will come.’ He tapped his grey crewcut. ‘Fest never forgets.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ She moved on to Mrs Dorano, the oldest member of the staff by some years. Mrs Dorano was large, shapeless, motherly-looking, and absolutely in charge of the second grade. She sat in ‘her’ chair nearest the door, knitting and frowning.

  ‘Any questions, Mrs Dorano?’

  ‘Goodness me, no. Why, my sweet little angel-puddings are just about always as good as good can be. If anyone has questions or problems around here, it’s only because they just don’t understand children. I do understand my kiddies.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘If only we could keep them innocent! But no, the world of grown-ups is lurking around every corner, waiting to pounce on my wee people and start corrupting them!’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Miss Borden checked her watch.

  ‘Yes indeed.’ Mrs Dorano slipped a book from her knitting bag and held it up. ‘Do you know, I found this hideous thing in the school library! The school library! Luckily I managed to confiscate it before some tiny hand fetched it down from the shelf, some clear little eye chanced to –’