by Ira Nayman
“Umm…hello, everybody,” Noomi, overwhelmed, said. She had had no idea that anybody other than the stove could speak. But, then, when she hadn’t eaten take-out at work, she had eaten left-overs from the take-out she ate at work, so it wasn’t like she had given herself a lot of opportunity to become acquainted with the denizens of her brother’s kitchen.
“We had a vote,” the stove told her, “and I was chosen to speak for the kitchen until you were comfortable with everybody else.”
“That’s good,” Noomi replied. “Let’s go with that.”
The other appliances softly protested, but didn’t speak further.
“What would you like to accompany the roast?” the stove asked.
“Umm…mashed potatoes and peas?” Noomi answered.
Whir. Bubble bubble. Swish swish swish.
Whir (different pitch). Plop.
“Anything else?” the stove asked.
“Peach cobbler?” Noomi suggested.
“We’ll get to that right after we’ve finished the side dishes,” the stove assured her.
“I was kind of kidding,” Noomi said. “I wasn’t expecting –”
“It’s not a problem,” the stove assured her.
“Is there anything I can do?” Noomi asked.
“Enjoy the meal?” the stove suggested.
“When I was a teenager, my family owned a restaurant,” Noomi told it. “You know, I am actually a really good cook.”
The stove didn’t understand. “But, why would you want to do all that work when your Holistic Food Processing System can do it for you?”
Noomi shrugged, unable to come up with a response to this question. (Did the stove know she shrugged – could it understand the meaning of the gesture? Noomi unconsciously looked over her shoulder.)
“So,” the stove continued, “tell me about the man who’s coming to dinner.”
Noomi thought for a second. “He’s pretty good looking,” she allowed. “Strong, broad shoulders, ruggedly handsome face. Sandy brown hair. Smart and dedicated to the job.”
“He sounds great,” the stove told her.
“Oh, he is. He is,” Noomi responded.
“But?”
“Well…he is dour. Gloomy. Positively grim. I’ve worked with him for a couple of months, now, and I don’t think I have ever seen him smile.”
“That’s important?’ the stove asked.
“Oh, absolutely. Life shouldn’t always be serious – you’ve got to be able to have fun, too. Still – oooh, those blue eyes!”
“So…eye colour, that’s important?” the stove, becoming increasingly confused, asked.
“Not really,” Noomi allowed. “I mean, they shouldn’t be, but they can be. But, no. What should be important is that he doesn’t reveal much about himself – I don’t really know much about him. What if he did something really bad in the past, like axe murder a family or join a Justin Bieber fan club?”
“I…I…think I’m going to go back to overseeing the dinner preparations now,” the stove, totally out to sea, stated.
“Yeah, okay,” Noomi said.
“Good talking to you, though,” the stove assured her.
“Thanks.”
Noomi went into the bathroom to prepare herself.
“So,” the mirror snarked as she applied moisturizer to every exposed part of her body (and a couple that were not), “can we expect little Noomis running around the place soon?”
“NO!” Noomi quickly said. When she had finished with her face, she more thoughtfully added, “Look, it’s just dinner. Nothing going’s to happen. Probably. With my luck. But, if it does, we will be taking precautions.”
“You’ll show him pictures of what your hair looks like in the morning?” the mirror asked.
“Noooo,” Noomi, trying to exercise patience, responded, “I always use protection.”
“You always – so, you do this sort of thing all the time?” the mirror asked.
“What?”
“Don’t you think,” the mirror mercilessly continued, “that you should tell the headboard and the foot of the bed not to get too attached to the mattress?”
“Okay,” Noomi, accepting that her patience was destined to be an overweight slob that spent most of its time in front of a TV screen playing Star Blap Online, remarked, “now you’re just being mean.”
“Hey! I’m a bathroom mirror!” the mirror protested. “You would not believe the crap I have seen! Can I help it if I’m not exactly sensitive to human boundaries!”
They spent the rest of Noomi’s prep time in icy silence. When she was putting on her lipstick, the mirror started: “That colour –”
“Ah ah ah!” Noomi cut it off. “I don’t care if you are an artificial intelligence with little understanding of human sensitivities. Your nasty comments still reflect badly on you!”
“I can’t believe you gave me that opening,” the mirror said.
Neither could Noomi. She quickly finished, then went into the den to spend the rest of the afternoon playing Get a Life. Noomi’s avatar in the virtual environment was a former military lawyer who was currently taking a break from her day job as a movie star to raise a family. One of the many ways she enjoyed herself in Get a Life was to go to virtual art openings and compare the works to famous war battles. “I suppose the artist meant that black velvet painting of kittens to be an ironic statement on the banality of current art practice,” she would say, “but it reminds me of the battle of Culloden, without the pathos, of course, but with more mud.”
At precisely 6pm, the doorbell sang, “We have com-pa-ny!”
Noomi quickly logged off, put the game gear away and, smoothing her slinky black dress on her way to the door, opened it.
Investigator Chumley stood in the doorway. “I brought this for us to share over dinner,” he said, handing Noomi a bottle of red wine. Thoughtful.
What would have been even more thoughtful, Noomi mused, would have been if he had asked me first if I drank alcohol.
“Thanks,” Noomi said out loud. “I’ll put this in the fridge, and, if the appliance is in a good mood, it will allow you to drink it.”
“I know what you mean,” Investigator Chumley responded. “I once brought home cartons of leftover Franco-Chinese food, and my fridge sulked for three days – you said me. Do you not drink alcohol?”
“’Fraid not.”
Investigator Chumley appeared to be perceptive. That was a quality you expected in an investigator. Of course, after you’d worked in the bullpen, where they wallowed, for a few weeks, your expectations were thoroughly dashed. Still, even then, like a teenager at the end of Elm Street, you live in hope.
“How do you feel about chocolates?”
“Mildly lactose intolerant.”
“Flowers?”
“Allergic. I break out in songs about hives.”
“Rocks?”
“Rocks?”
“I have a cousin in the industry. I get a discount.”
Perceptive, and with a hidden sense of humour. At least, Noomi hoped it was a hidden sense of humour.
As she ushered him into the apartment, Noomi noticed how well Investigator Chumley wore his charcoal grey three piece suit with a crisp white shirt and smart blue tie. Unfortunately, he was also wearing Butch, a new cologne that made a man smell like an idling sports car engine in a stand of trees next to a beach on a spring day in Ireland. Why, she wondered, did otherwise sensible men not know the limits of masculine body scents? If she didn’t last as a Transdimensional Authority agent, Noomi vowed to open a masculine cologne consultancy.
“Dinner,” a nasal voice Noomi hadn’t heard yet rang through the apartment.
“I was going to show Crash around the apartment before we –” Noomi started.
“But, dinner is ready,” the voice insisted.
“Can’t it wait?” Noomi asked.
“It’s getting cold even as we speak,” the voice argued.
“I don’t mind going
straight to dinner,” Investigator Chumley said.
With a shrug, Noomi led Investigator Chumley into the small dining area of the apartment. The lights were low, most of the illumination coming from two candles on the table. One wall held a large screen on which was playing Escherotica, featuring M. C. Escher drawings morphing into soft-core pornographic images (taken from the Internet in real time) and back again. As they sat down, Noomi nodded slightly to herself, acknowledging that, whatever issues she may have had with her smart house, it sure knew how to set a romantic mood.
Soup bowls had already been placed on the table. Noomi and Investigator Chumley started to eat.
“So…” Investigator Chumley began to ask, “How are you enjoying –”
“The soup you are currently enjoying,” the table, revealing itself to be the voice from the vestibule, stated, “is a peppercorn, sun-dried tomato and anchovy mixture with a yak’s tongue broth. We hope you enjoy it.”
“Very nice,” Investigator Chumley responded.
“Great,” Noomi mumbled.
They ate in silence for a few seconds. Then, Investigator Chumley tried again: “So, Noomi, are you enjoying –”
“Because,” the table interrupted again, “if the soup isn’t entirely to your liking, we have a variety of seasonings, including: salt; pepper; ketchup; parsley; sage; rosemary; thyme; crushed onion; crushed peppers; crushed hopes; and jumbo shrimp.”
“Really, it’s very good,” Investigator Chumley assured the table.
“Fantastic,” Noomi grumbled.
They ate in silence for another few seconds. Investigator Chumley furtively looked around, then blurted, “AreyouenjoyingbeingaTransdimensionalAuthorityinvestigator?”
Noomi smiled to herself. “It isn’t what I expected,” she answered. “But –”
“Did you know –” the table started.
“Hush,” Noomi told it. “The humans are talking.”
“Fine!” the table irritably responded.
“I imagine,” Noomi started, but was cut off.
“I won’t say a word!” the table sulked.
“Fine,” Noomi responded. “I imagine that every case is diff –”
“Just act like I’m not here,” the table grumpily insisted.
Noomi rolled her eyes.
“Well, exactly,” Investigator Chumley responded to what he thought she might be getting at. “Since we go into different realities on every case, each experience is unique. That’s one of the things I…” a small cart trundled into the dining room. “I…uhh, really enjoy about the job.”
“Aroo finish?” the cart asked in a baby’s voice.
“Uhh…sure,” Investigator Chumley, not wanting to disappoint the cart, responded. The cart’s retractable arms tracted and took away the bowl and spoon. Then, the cart trundled over to Noomi.
“Aroo finish?” it asked.
“No,” Noomi peevishly answered.
“Okay,” the cart gloomily said. “I wait.”
Noomi spooned some soup and was going to eat it, but the sight of the cart next to the table put her off. “Okay,” she sourly said. “I’m done. Take it away.”
“Whee!” the cart gleefully responded and, taking her soup bowl, trundled back into the kitchen.
“Smart apartment technology sure is something, isn’t it?” Investigator Chumley quietly marvelled.
“It makes me nostalgic for my poor student days, actually,” Noomi replied.
“I’m still here, you know,” the table stated. “It’s not like your plates are suspended in mid-air!”
Before anybody could say anything else, the cart trundled in with the main courses. “Some for oo,” it said as it placed some roast beef, mashed potatoes and peas on Investigator Chumley’s plate. “And, some for oo!” it said as it repeated the procedure for Noomi. “Nom nom nom!” it said as it wheeled back into the kitchen.
Noomi and Investigator Chumley ate and shared small talk for a while.
“So…” Investigator Chumley eventually asked, “how do you feel about children?”
“Loathe them,” Noomi replied. “Hate them! Hate them! Hate them! Hate them! Hate them! Children are little bundles of highly contagious diseases and bad manners! They’re high energy chaotic systems that were put on the planet to plague decent-dog-fearing folk! I don’t enjoy being around them, I can’t be bothered to try to understand them and if I had to have one, I wouldn’t.” After a calming pause, Noomi added: “You?”
“Oh, ah, well,” Investigator Chumley uncomfortably hedged, “I, uhh, always kind of wanted a family. But, err, you make some good points, too.”
“Did you know,” the table tried to break the tension, “that ancient Egyptian royalty was entombed with a jug of warm roast beef for the journey through the veil of death? Of course, they were also entombed with live cats, who tended to eat the roast beef. Some death rituals are more helpful than others, I guess.”
There really wasn’t anything to add to that, so they sat in silence for many seconds. However, Investigator Chumley had always believed that silence was detrimental to the health of a relationship (he had learned that from Dale Carnegie – or, possibly, Dale Evans…or, Chip and Dale? – well, in any case, he hadn’t just made it up), so he piped up: “Ah, Noomi, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you…”
Oh, what now? Noomi thought to herself. In the second before she responded, she made a mental checklist of the possible things Investigator Chumley could intend to say after an introduction like that: ❑ he’s gay; ❑ he’s married; ❑ he’s in a gay marriage; ❑ he chooses partners based on their fertility and desire for a LARGE family; ❑ he’s a Three Stooges fan; ❑ he prefers Colin Baker’s Doctor to Tom Baker’s; ❑ he votes; ❑ he votes Conservative; ❑ he’s related to Stephen Harper; ❑ he needs to borrow money (but, only $50 and only until payday, I swear!). Steeling herself, Noomi nonchalantly asked, “What’s that ?”
“Do you – you know, umm,” Investigator Chumley was having a difficult time getting it out. “You know when you were chosen to be my partner?”
“Yee-eees… ”Noomi responded.
“Well…funny thing about that,” Investigator Chumley said, although he looked about as close to laughing as he was to taking a spin to Alpha Centauri to watch the famed Intergalactic Croqrickuet Finals. “You were chosen as my partner because…well, nobody else in the unit was willing to partner with me. In fact, most of the other investigators considered it something of a – hee hee – a…punishment.”
Noomi’s head swam. In the second before she responded, she made a mental checklist of the possible reasons nobody would be willing to partner with Investigator Chumley; unfortunately, it looked exactly like her previous list – she would be the first to admit that she wasn’t very good at list making – so it wasn’t of much use to her. Without a second thought (because if she steeled herself any more, she would become so heavy she would sink through the floor), she asked, “Wh…why would that be ?”
Investigator Chumley explained that he had had a streak of bad luck. Really bad luck. And, well, he died. He died on duty. He died on duty 22 different times. There was the time, for instance, when he was returning from a mission just as the Dimensional Portal™ was being shut down for the annual running of the bulls; his atoms were believed to have been scattered across a billion universes. He once drowned in a vat of haemorrhoid cream. Then there was the time he had a hockey puck lodged in his – well, you don’t need to know the details of that – it took him two weeks to die, but he wasn’t in any pain thanks to a Picklflub underarm worm. The less said about the penguin inhalation incident, the better. And, each time a version of him died, the Transdimensional Authority went into another universe and recruited another version of him.
“I’m sorry,” Noomi said.
“The worst part,” Investigator Chumley told her, “is that I took eight partners with me. I mean, the penguin inhalation incident levelled almost an entire city block – Jack, my partner
at the time – couldn’t possibly have survived. But, uhh, the less said about that, the better.”
“Why does the Authority keep bringing versions of you back to work?” Noomi wondered.
Investigator Chumley shrugged. “Apparently, I’m too good at my job to let a little thing like my death get in the way.”
Oh. Noomi hadn’t known that nobody in the department wanted to partner with him, but, now that she did, it made sense. It also explained a certain…gloominess to his personality.
“I’m sorry,” Investigator Chumley apologized. “I should have told you sooner.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Noomi told him. “I’m ogay with it. I mean, okay. With it. I’m okay. I, uhh, have to go to the washroom, though. If you’ll excuse me for a moment… ”
“Of course.”
Having made a detour to her bedroom to get her cellphone, Noomi barricaded herself in the bathroom. “HELP!” she texted Barbara Brundtland-Govanni. “My partner is going to die, AND HE’S GOING TO TAKE ME WITH HIM! Can I get a new partner? Can I be transferred back to Data Collection? I’m too young to die! HEEEEEEEELP!”
“Are you actually going to do anything?” the mirror asked, “because, I was in the middle of watching Survivor: Barnard’s Star –”
“Shut up!” Noomi intensely, but quietly, interrupted, then rushed out of the bathroom.
“Well!” the mirror complained to no one. “Some people have no appreciation of the human comedy!”
Dropping the phone on her bed, Noomi took a moment to compose herself (something Mozart could never bring himself to do!). Then, she walked towards the dining room, stopping herself short of the door when she heard…laughter?
“Who’s a good cart then?” Noomi heard Investigator Chumley cheerily ask. “You are. You’re a good cart!”
Noomi entered the dining room to find Investigator Chumley tickling the cart under one of its retractable arms. The cart was burbling happily. As she sat down, Noomi noticed that the main course had been removed and that dessert had been served.
