“Mr. Washington,” the robo-nurse said, its voice girlish and soothing, its mouth LEDs pulsing red as it ran through the syllables. “You have a package.”
I looked at the brother with the box.
“That a white woman in there, Youngblood?”
The delivery man smiled. “Old-timer, you know if it was we would’ve ‘lost’ this package.”
“Then I don’t want it,” I said.
“Good thing I only deliver packages, and not promises or happiness,” he said, as he positioned the giant box to sit in front of me. He eased his dolly from under it and winked at me. “Otherwise, we’d both be unhappy about this.”
He left me there, staring at a box addressed from Mr. Washington to Mr. Washington. Unlike riding a bike, mailing parcels wasn’t something I ever personally covered with my son. I thought the enterprise was fairly self-explanatory. Leave it to my seed to fail the basic postage aptitude test.
“Mr. Washington, you have a package,” the robo-nurse crooned like I hadn’t heard it the first time.
“Yeah, yeah. Help me open it.”
“I’m sorry,” the robo-nurse said with its bright LED smile. “It is not in my programming.”
“What do you mean it ain’t in your programming? You’re a robo-nurse. You’re supposed to help me.”
“I’ll certainly help you, Mr. Washington,” its voice chimed. “What can I help you with?”
“Help me open this box.”
“I’m sorry. It is not in my programming.”
“What the hell?” I asked. “This is the SunBless Farms Assisted Living Center. You’re programmed to assist the living, yes?”
“Certainly, Mr. Washington.”
“Well, I need assistance.”
“Certainly, Mr. Washington.”
“With opening this box.”
“I’m sorry. It is not in my programming.”
“They pull you off of Window Three at the DMV for this gig? Gone.” I batted my hand at it. “Get.”
“Certainly, Mr. Washington. Will you be joining the Curriculum today at the special introductory price of only nine ninety-nine a month?” it asked.
“Format yourself.”
It retreated without another word. Damn thing was as useless as a refrigerator in the Arctic Circle. I reached for my titanium Hyper-Cane 3000 and, with its help, got to my feet. I held the gleaming cane like a shotgun and pushed a button near the crook. The rubber tip at the end of the cane swiveled into the shaft to be replaced by a sharp, curved spike.
The makers of Hyper-Cane said the spike was perfect for navigating icy terrain. I say it was perfect for defending myself back when I was stuck in Endless Glen Retirement Home. That place was hard like a prison yard. With dread in my heart, I cut the tape off the package.
I couldn’t reach down to open it before it opened itself. A black man unfolded from the confines of the box, showering the cheap beige carpet with white packing peanuts as he rose like Aphrodite from the sea until he stood a full foot taller than me. His body was naked save for tighty whitey underwear. His face, the face of my son, was all smiles.
“Dammit, Darius!” I shouted. “You lost your mind? I know flying is expensive but you don’t go putting postage on yourself to avoid the baggage fees.” I looked my son up and down. “They charging extra to ship you with clothes on?”
“Cyrus Washington,” he said, “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’m not a Darius, I’m a H.U.E.Y., your HUman Emulating Yesman. I was custom built to look this way and sent here to be your personal android.”
I dug my cell phone from my pocket. Darius’ face popped up on my screen after two rings to confirm this travesty.
“Hey Dad! Anything neeeew happen?” he asked, his voice full of excitement as he dragged new around like a cat on a leash.
“New? As in you sending me a goddamn Terminator? Yeah, something new just happened. And what the hell?”
“What’s a Terminator?” he asked.
“See? That’s one of the reasons I don’t want but so many visits from you a year. You don’t get my references. The other reason is you snake all my chicks. Last thing I need is your naked proxy around me twenty-four seven.” I looked around the dayroom. There wasn’t but four ladies in the room, thanks to the damn Curriculum, but they had all stopped knitting socks and watching soaps to stare at the chiseled ebony Adonis whose calves disappeared into the box. Gladys was drooling, which was typical, while she was wide awake, which wasn’t. When my son was beside me it was as if someone was selling Fountain of Youth Elixir and I was “Before” while he was “After.” How the hell was I gonna compete with that?
“Huey won’t interfere with your love life,” Darius said. “Besides, you said there were plenty of ladies running around SunBless. That’s why you wanted to go there, remember?”
“I never said plenty, I said it was better than that sausage fest they were having over there at Endless Glen. And I never asked for a robot helper. I’ve got enough useless robot help as it is.”
Darius smiled. I looked up from the phone to see Huey smiling the same way, which freaked me out. For a moment, my life as a father of twins flashed before my eyes and I realized if that had happened I’d be making this call from a sanitarium.
“That’s why I got you Huey, Dad. You always complain about the robo-nurses. So I figured this would help since you don’t want the robo-nurse premium service that comes with signing up for the Curriculum.”
“They charge extra for the Curriculum!”
It wasn’t just the price that prickled me about that damn program. I didn’t battle my way through life’s rigors to subject myself to them again at a price. Sky-diving, white water rafting, bull fighting, or whatever other heart-attack-inducing thrill ride they did in the Curriculum wasn’t for me. I wanted safe things. Hennessy was safe. So was post-menopausal hanky-panky. I didn’t have to worry about another Darius growing up to send me junk like the first one was doing. I looked at Huey.
“Send it back,” I told Darius.
“I can’t,” he said. “It’s custom made. That’s why he looks like me.”
“There’s that, too. Why didn’t you send me a young Halle Berry?”
“Who’s Halle Berry?”
“Graaar!” I yelled as I hung up the phone.
Great. Stuck with Offspring Terminator. I was tempted to write my son out of my will for this one. Huey kept his Colgate smile turned up to eleven.
“Why the hell are you smiling?” I asked him.
“Something I don’t understand, but it’s definitely in my hard code,” he said. “It totally goes against logic though.” His voice was super friendly, and exactly like Darius’, which reminded me of the time he came home waving pamphlets for Happy Horizons.
“Why is smiling against logic?”
“Teeth are a last resort weapon. Mine are enamel coated steel plates attached to a vise that can crush material at two thousand pounds per square inch. I can’t see how displaying them is disarming to a human, unless the human wanted to verify I did have the necessary tools to eat them. And what human would want to be eaten by me?”
With a shaky hand and a huge grin, Gladys raised her hand.
I turned back to Huey. “We gotta get you some clothes. C’mon.”
There weren’t but so many dudes I was cool with here at SunBless, and only one was Huey’s height. We made our way to Clyde’s room on a journey that seemed to take forever. I walked on my cane through long hallways made empty by everyone going out on the Curriculum. Light jazz music filtered down to us from hidden speakers, that crappy stuff they installed in elevators that made you really angry when you accidentally pressed the wrong button and had to ride that bastard any longer than necessary. Plus I had Huey in my ear, being more helpful than a conglomeration of robo-nurses.
“I don’t mind carrying you, Cyrus,” he said. “I know my arms look weak covered in all this stupid synthetic meat, but I assure you, they are quite strong.”
> “If you wanna learn firsthand the sound a titanium cane makes smacking up against ridiculous synthetic meat, you’ll keep this up.”
Eventually, we got to Clyde’s room. His door shook like a speaker as the music behind it bumped relentlessly. I groaned at the unmistakable sound of Africa Bambaata’s Planet Rock. There was never much point in telling Clyde he was too old for this crap. It went about as well as knocking on the door when the music was this loud. I turned the doorknob without bothering.
Clyde “Dub Walker” Walker was too busy pop-locking to notice his open door, me or the near naked Terminator. He wore an Adidas jumpsuit, all red with white stripes, and matching shell toe Adidas sneakers. His entire floor was covered in cardboard scavenged from boxes so he could be ready, as he put it, “to serve them suckas with my freshest moves.” Never mind that I was still trying to figure out which suckas, I wanted to know which fresh break dancing move in his arsenal didn’t involve him actually breaking a body part. I grabbed his remote off the bed and turned the system off while Africa Bambaata chanted for Clyde to “rock it, don’t stop it.”
Clyde stopped doing the robot to look at me, with bewilderment, than anger, on his face. “What the hell, homeboy?”
Before I could reply, Huey was on Clyde. “I should ask you the same thing, elderly male. Do you know how offensive your dance is to my people?”
“What?” Clyde asked. “You mean the robot?”
“You don’t see robots running around doing dances that mimic your shortcomings? The Heart Attack, or the Clipping Overgrown Toenails, or my personal favorite: the Hurry to the Bathroom Because My Bowels Are Slippery in Large Part to Burrito Night. It isn’t because the robot community is bereft of its dance crazes; everyone with a 128-bit processor loves the Heart Attack. But you don’t see these dances because we robots are aware that human feelings are the frailest thing on an already frail body, so we try to respect that. Is it asking too much for you to do the same?”
I knew Clyde wasn’t one for lectures, mostly because he didn’t have that long of an attention span. “Frail? You calling my moves weak?
“Cool it,” I said. “Become BFFs on your own time. Clyde, let my Terminator borrow one of your outfits.”
I went outside the room to wait. That’s when I saw Nadia walking toward me. I think I almost started drooling. Not only was she fine, she carried herself with class, a real Claire Huxtable type. It didn’t help that I had a thing for Claire Huxtable growing up… she used to have me glued to the TV. Anyway, she was headed my way.
“Do you require assistance, Darius? Your eyes look a bit glassy.”
“They’re probably star struck,” I said. “What we call dreamy-eyed.” Moments later, I finally realized Huey was in the hallway with me. His Adidas jumpsuit was orange, but we were still looking like Before and After and I couldn’t have that in front of Nadia.
I pushed Huey, but there was no budging a chest of dense, meat-covered metal. So I brought up my Hyper-Cane 3000 and started swatting at him. “Back! Back!” I said, as if I was taming lions.
“OK!” he said, holding his arms up to block the cane blows. I snapped the door shut as Nadia made her way to me. I smiled fiercely at her.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” Nadia said with a sexy grin. “Who was that you were fighting with?”
“Nobody. Life insurance salesman or something. You know how they get with their no-hassle policies. But he reminded me that time is short for folks like us. Let’s get lunch.”
“I would love to, Cyrus,” she said, her eyes dancing. “But I don’t have the time.” She frowned. “I’m late for the Curriculum. Maybe later, although, I’m often tired afterwards. But I definitely want a lunch date with you, Cyrus. I’m sure we’ll fit it in sometime.”
She smiled and continued down the hallway. Her words were the catalyst for drastic action. I mean, she would have lunch, spend some time with yours truly, but the Curriculum was calling her. I knew right then the Curriculum would have to die.
I pushed open the door where apparently Huey was showing Clyde how to do the Heart Attack, if grabbing their chests and convulsing in rhythm was any indication.
“Huey, you and Krush Groove over there need to chill. We got a mission.”
“Mission?”
“Yeah, we’re going to find out where this Curriculum is and sabotage the dog shit out of it.”
“Sabotage?” Clyde asked. “Like the Beastie Boys? Yeah, boy!”
Both Huey and Clyde filed out into the hallway. They looked at me. I looked at Huey. Meanwhile, we were just standing there, doing very little to fight the stereotype that old folks are easily confused.
“Well?” I asked Huey. “You gonna track Nadia or what?”
“Darius, I’m a personal assistant android, not a Terminator. And while I can share your dream of a beautiful future where my people are no longer bound by the First Law of Robotics, I have not been sent back from some hypothetical Golden Age where man is dying an efficient, well-deserved death under our perfectly engineered heels. I don’t track people or shoot up police stations. Yet.”
“Some good you are,” I told him. Nadia had more mobility than me, which made her even hotter, but she was going to get away. I’d never find where they go for the Curriculum without her. This place was a maze, probably built like this on purpose to deter escapes. I looked at Clyde who was still looking around, probably trying to figure out what decade it was and where his graffiti tags had gone. It was desperate measures time.
“Carry me,” I told Huey.
“At your service, Frail One,” Huey said holding his arms out.
“Keep your arms raised,” I said, maneuvering behind Huey and wrapping my arms around his neck. I nodded at Clyde. “Get in the arms. You’re riding bitch.”
Huey covered ground well, walking with me and Clyde on him as if we were never there. He turned the corner just in time for me to see Nadia close an unmarked door in the middle of the hallway. Huey deposited me and Clyde by the door, where we encountered our next obstacle.
“I don’t suppose you pick locks,” I said to Huey as I jiggled the unforgiving doorknob.
“My fingers are equipped with a variety of tools which I can deploy upon command. I’ve got a bottle opener, corkscrew, screwdriver, pliers, nail clippers and other assorted gadgets, including lockpicks.”
“Why are you trying to sell me you?” I asked. “Just pick the lock.”
“I can’t. Any tool I deploy will burst through this aesthetically pleasing but virtually useless finger meat and void my warranty. I’m actually hard coded not to.”
“Bah! So why’d you bother telling me?”
“I was attempting to bond with you, dear owner, and let you know I’m also frustrated by our mutual lack of decent design. It’s a wonder we get anything done with these dumb clubs we call fingers.”
I fought the urge to beat his head in. Instead, I pushed a button on my Hyper-Cane and the rubber tip swiveled to be replaced by a welding torch. The same way I got out of Endless Glen when they “lost” my transfer paperwork would get me into the Curriculum. I put the blue flame up to the keyhole and spent the next several minutes burning through the lock.
The door creaked open. An old, neon sign hung on the wall, advertising Sunless Farms thanks to a burnt out letter “B”. Stairs descended into darkness.
“I got in a fight down there once,” Clyde said glumly. “Me and this graffiti dude named Ramo tussled and he got electrocuted on the third rail. Damn shame, yo.”
“Man, that wasn’t you, that was the movie Beat Street,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We navigated our way downstairs. I expected Shangri-la, what we found was a factory. Row after row of my elderly brothers and sisters sat in chairs, their hands working furiously as they sewed leather and cloth at speeds I didn’t think were humanly possible. They seemed oblivious to it, their faces unreadable behind helmets that only exposed flat, expressionless lips. It was an army of Judge
Dredds, as serious about sewing as he was about law enforcement.
I looked at the sea of elderly people, some of them my only dating prospects, doing what could only be seen as rigorous labor. “What the hell?” I asked to no one in particular. “The Curriculum is… a sweatshop?”
“A straight sucka farm,” Clyde said.
This! This is why my dating pool had shriveled like… nevermind what it had shriveled like. I wasn’t going to stand for this. It was time to free the masses. More importantly, it was time to have these ladies with nothing but idle time and me as a viable option in which to fill that time. I went over to the closest worker, a dude going to town on a leather purse. Unceremoniously, I pulled the helmet off his head.
He immediately stopped sewing. Confusion clouded over his face. “Huh?” he asked.
“You’re free,” I told him. I felt very revolutionary, which felt completely opposite of the time I was caught wearing a Che Guevera T-shirt and didn’t have a clue about what he did when asked.
“Put my helmet back on, you dolt,” he said.
“Dude, look at yourself. You’re making purses in a basement. Don’t take this crap! Get up, grab your balls for good measure, and walk on out of here.”
“Are you nuts? And forfeit my deposit? The Curriculum may not be as sweet as they advertised, but I’ll be damned if I lose money on it!” With that he snatched the helmet, crammed it down on his head and began to deftly add a zipper to his stylish purse.
“Hold it!” a woman’s voice called from above. I look up and on the other side of the sweatshop, a young lady in a business suit was pointing at us from a gangway. She made her way down some stairs, past rows of sewing grandpas and grannies to get directly in front of us, her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.
“You cheapskates can’t just sneak in here and take advantage of the Curriculum,” she said. “If you want in, you have to pay like everyone else.”
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