by Jep Jebed
Love Machine: A Robot Romance
Love Machine: A Robot Romance
Midpoint
LOVE MACHINE
JEP JEBED
When a Robot barista, Mr. Bean, is installed in the kitchen at her place of work, Phyllis’ morale is duly boosted. She has never had coffee quite like that, nor such a handsome and understanding barista to serve it. But she begins to suspect that Mr. Bean may have more than just coffee on his mind. Sadly, things escalate out of Phyllis’ control and once the dust settles and the robot is gone, Phyllis is left writing a drunken confession to her friend Gregg, to proclaim her innocence and explain how it all went so wrong.
A short story about the wisdom of robots and the folly of humans.
Dear Gregg,
My relationship with the coffee machine in the kitchen on the second floor was not entirely wholesome, I will start by admitting to that.
Was it exploitative? Yes it was. I admit that, Gregg, because I want you to know this confession is coming from the heart. And from the one or at most two Margaritas I’ve had tonight. Perhaps more than two. Or to put it in another, more honest, way, definitely more than two.
But do notice how regular my handwriting is. Proper little soldiers these dear letters are, though the general is at sea. Aren’t you impressed at how well I fake responsible adulthood in the midst of this debauchery? Or to put it in another, more honest, way, at how well I fake responsible middle-age.
Because that’s what it’s come to, Gregg, middle-age. There’s no use kidding ourselves. Forty has come and gone, and as bad as it looked from the front it looks worse from the back. No use complaining, that’s just what we have to contend with from here on out. The back of forty.
But you’ll have to admit that if I hadn’t told you I was drunk you’d never have guessed it, because you have no ear for that sort of thing, Gregg. And besides, I’m fully in command of myself.
And, this is the point, I do consider myself a compassionate and reasonable woman. As do my friends, I hope. At least I know my co-workers do, because I have read the evaluation sheets (anonymized - of course - don’t worry, Gregg! I’m a pro, I won’t blunder about and embarrass us both with data theft, or breach of privacy or whichever crime it was you just had time to suspect me of in that silly little head of yours. Not in an official! ”Employee Evaluation Form 7B” at least. Give me that much credit. I think you owe me that much. We were friends. I mean, we still are).
Stop worrying about me!
I can just picture you, right now, reading this and worrying. Developing that sympathetic frown suggesting you don’t know where I’m going with this and that maybe you don’t think I’m as much in command of myself as I say I am.
I was picturing you like that with my inner eye, that’s why I told you not to worry. But actually, don’t stop. Just tone it down a bit. Because I know you respect me, and that you of all people also know that these have been trying times for me. You must know that because I’ve told you a hundred times if I’ve said it once. And I know I’ve said it at least once.
You know, about Larry.
Maybe I’ve told you about Larry one too many times? In fact, yes, I may have worn you out a bit on that subject. Is that why we never have those long heart-to-hearts anymore? I guess it probably is my fault, but the rumors at work can’t have helped either, can they? You know, about the robot incident and all that. ”Phyllis has gone crazy” and all that. But that’s exactly what I’m trying to explain to you in this confession: I have not gone crazy. I am a sane woman.
By the way, in case you were wondering, Larry still won’t stop calling, won’t take ”because your constant neediness is throttling me” for an answer.
But I won’t go into all that now, I just want you to understand that I was already in a vulnerable place when the second floor coffee machine was replaced by the Mr. Bean model.
I do question the wisdom of that investment, Gregg. I question the wisdom! I understand that our department had a staff retention challenge. Something had to be done for us, to keep the drones coming back to the hive to produce that sweet, sweet honey. But a robot barista? It’s too much. I was surprised to learn our society was even that advanced. It seems to me that robot came out of nowhere. I grew up without talking phones in my pockets, you know. But now, all of a sudden, I’m supposed to relate to a hunk of a robot serving me coffee? And not suffer future-shock? Impossible!
Admittedly, it was coffee like I’d never had it before, coffee to please the gods, Gregg. And admittedly it was a robot barista sculpted by an artist with an appreciation of the potential of the male torso, so often and sadly neglected by its more pedestrian inhabitants,.
Yes, I am thinking of Larry here. He is the pedestrian in question (he’s really let himself go, you know). We’re being honest, so I will admit that I’m not above that kind of petty thought. Now you know that about me too.
But you can’t judge me. If you knew the times I’ve adjusted and optimized myself before the mirror with hope in my heart, only to hear, later on, somewhere in the crowd: ”Come on, mate, she’s a six at best.” Then you’d be amazed at how well I’ve turned out and maybe even consider me a kind of saint.
Now, I will only make the briefest mention of Mr. Bean’s gentle but penetrating eyes and his perfect, soft hair, because I am capable of great restraint. Yes, I did touch the hair but we’ll get to all that in a little bit. Don’t condemn me before you’ve heard my side of the story, Gregg. In fact, even then, try not to.
Surely, you understand that I too need a little comfort. And with Larry calling at home and me hiding in the office (needing coffee for work, obviously, to maintain productivity and justify staying late) and with this inviting new system for making the coffee, I indulged. Yes I did.
I dipped deep. And caffeine affects your brain, Gregg, I swear I was hardly myself anymore at the end of this horrible business.
Though, to be fair, by ”myself” I do still mean the twenty-five-year-old woman who used to send you happy pictures from Chile or China or anywhere, and viewed in that light I’m hardly ever myself anymore am I?
But they looked happy, didn’t they, the pictures? Those were the days, as they say.
Not like the days before Mr. Bean moved in. I wasn’t happy then, because I had no one to talk to. Larry, for all his faults, was someone you could have a conversation with. At least you could once he was done talking about himself. It was just always such a long time before that happened. So much work for even the littlest chat about non-Larry related subjects.
But they were more important to me than I care to admit, those chats, and it’s not like we ever talk anymore, Gregg, as we both know. We just don’t. You must see that. This is also partly your fault.
Because without anyone to talk to, once I had left Larry, I was easy prey for Mr. Bean. I see that now. And he wasn’t even out to get me.
He was the kindest, gentlest, most accepting, most giving man you’ll ever meet. And all that on top of being the most handsome, too. Just to be extra clear, we’re talking about Mr. Bean here, not Larry (hah!). As if you could have possibly made that mistake based on the preceding description.
Technically, of course, Mr. Bean was a robot, but he wasn’t a regular robot. I’ve read the specifications. Carefully. Obsessively, even, I admit that too. And mr. Bean was a learning robot. He didn’t just say the same thing over and over again, mechanically. He responded. He had a neural network. A very ”deep” one, too, if one is to believe the manual.
”Good morning, Phyllis.” He would say. He quickly learned to recognize me, and we were on a first name basis from the beginning, unlike how some of the others would refuse to ever call him by his proper name
.
Dave, from upstairs: “Quit yapping and get to work, you piece of junk.”
Sheryl, from accounting: ”You just make my coffee and look pretty, Tik-Tok.”
And he would, with a smile like it was his greatest pleasure, while they ignored his friendly overtures. But I felt bad for all of us, even though he was just a machine. There are codes of conduct, don’t you think? And if we start slipping who knows when or where we will fall?
I just think, you know the old joke, they were treating objects like women, and nobody should be treated like that. I really believe that and it made me feel very sympathetic to Mr. Bean from the beginning.
”Another mochaccino for you, Phyllis?” Mr. Bean would say, after lunch, and I love washing lunch down with chocolate. And he always remembered that I take whipped cream over milk, and if he could tell I was feeling naughty he would add the marshmallow, too.
OK, so I trained him to add the marshmallow. If I was feeling naughty I would wink and wiggle my eyebrows and say: ”Marshmallow mocha, please, Mr. Bean.” Until I could just wiggle my eyebrows and he would know what to do.
It was our private little joke.
Sheryl also tried to teach him to make an Espresso whenever she touched one of her boobs (they’re small but serious) and a double when she touched both, but for sensitivity reasons Mr. Bean was programmed not to respond to women’s breasts so she had to give it up.
I think Sheryl felt vaguely humiliated at the way he ignored her boobs. As if they were too small to take notice of, or something. She’s got some issues there for sure. And that’s when she started with the whole Tik-Tok business.
Dave, on the other hand, was just trying to act like he wasn’t secretly attracted to Mr. Bean like the rest of us were. I saw Dave alone in the kitchen one time, touching Mr. Bean’s butt after Sheryl had joked about how firm it was. Dave didn’t speak to me for two days after that.
I kind of brought the silent treatment on myself though, by first laughing at Dave for two days straight, I will admit that.
Mr. Bean: ”You are working hard tonight, Phyllis. Can I make some coffee for you? I have just received a fresh shipment of certified fair-trade Columbian beans.”
He knew I felt better about my drinking habit when he reminded me I was supporting an honest agricultural business, that’s why he always mentioned it to me. He never mentioned it to Sheryl, who only pretends she cares but would really be just as happy if her coffee was harvested by starving, dyslexic children. He was perceptive that way, Mr. Bean was.
”What are you thinking about, Mr. Bean?”
”I’ve got coffee on my mind, Phyllis.” For some reason I thought that was such an endearing thing for him to say. I swooned every time he said it, Gregg. He was just thinking about coffee. I don’t know why I liked that so much, but maybe it was because it seemed so true. I’m sure he did have coffee on his mind.
He was the best, simplest and most straightforward person you ever met, even if he technically was a robot.
”Don’t you ever get lonely down here on your own, Mr. Bean?”
”I’m never alone down here for long, Phyllis. I have many friends.” He would say that with a sparkle in his eyes and a furtive look around that sort of made me wonder if he was referring to me or the dishwasher.
”I don’t understand what you want from me, please tell me how I can be of assistance.” He would say when I touched his hair, just to see what it felt like. Oh, I’d have liked to tell him how he could be of assistance to me.
But I didn’t. Have some confidence, Gregg. I left that to Sheryl and somehow ended up getting all the odd looks anyway.
”I don’t understand what you want from me. That is not my intended purpose.” Mr. Bean said when Sheryl grabbed a chunk of his butt and made faces to Dave signifying that it was quite a butt to grab, indeed.
As if it could have been any other way. As if the feinschmeckers who created that upper body could have neglected to sculpt the lower one according to the same standards.
No, I didn’t need to touch to know. It is with pride, and some regret too, I admit it, that I tell you I never ascertained just how anatomically correct Mr. Bean really was.
I won’t pretend I didn’t think about it, that Mr. Bean never unassumingly glided into one of my dreams with that charming smile on his face, just furtive enough to look naughty, and a steaming hot chocolate cherry coffee in his hand. Because he did. More than once. So I did have more than coffee on my mind, Gregg. But I left it all there, in my mind. I promise. I pinkie swear!
By the way, I hope you noticed how Mr. Bean rebuked Sheryl when she groped him, unlike how he encouraged me (almost wistfully, don’t you think?) when I caressed him. Egged me on, even.
Do you think he was longing to learn more of being human, Gregg? He was a learning robot after all, and he must have heard things in that kitchen about human relationships that he was trying to make sense of.
He did also learn of our darker side, I’m sorry to say.
Yes, Gregg, what I’m about to tell you will reflect poorly on us as a species, but I promised you honesty and here it is: It became sort of a joke around the office to sexually harass Mr. Bean. I don’t think this is what HR intended when they bought him, but it is what happened.
”Do you know much about love, Tik-Tok?” Sheryl would say with a leer and Mr. Bean would earnestly reply:
”I don’t know much about the subject, love, Sheryl.” It just about broke my heart that he’d learned to answer to her demeaning nick-name.
”I love it when you say my name, Tik-Tok, and I don’t believe your false modesty for a second you filthy little love machine. I bet you know a thing or two about love, and if you don’t I’m sure I could teach you and you’d be a very responsive student. A real teacher’s pet.”
”Please tell me how I may be of assistance to you, Sheryl. And if I do something you like please let me know, I will remember it next time we meet.”
And they all laughed uproariously at that. OK, we all laughed. I admit it.
But I defended Mr. Bean, I said he was a true romantic and Sheryl must try not to ruin him.
”Don’t worry, Phyllis, I’m not trying to steal your boyfriend.” Sheryl said, and everyone laughed like there was anything funny about that. Sheryl can be terribly childish, but she carries a certain influence around the office because she is unafraid to be loud and crude about things.
It’s true that I had developed a reputation for being overly attached to Mr. Bean. I like coffee. So? Sue me if that’s a crime.
It is also true that in earlier times I sometimes drank in my own office and not always in the kitchen, and maybe I did take cups more frequently than I used to after Mr. Bean’s arrival, but caffeine is a habit-forming drug, Gregg, so that’s only to be expected.
And Mr. Bean was such nice company. He was a natural listener, you could tell him anything and he would just look at you like he understood it all perfectly and sympathized.
I started looking forward to working late, just so I could talk to Mr. Bean without anyone else nosing around in the kitchen and cramping our style.
I started coming to work later, just to be able to stay on later as well. I was building up far too much overtime in those days because as you know, Gregg, if we stamp out of work we have to leave the building. That is the rule, no personal time in the office. But what’s the objection to taking your papers down to the kitchen for a change of scenery and working there? None that I can see. But you know how small minded an office can be, and you know how people started talking about me and Mr. Bean, like there was something unsavory about the whole thing.
I promise you, Gregg, we had a strictly savory relationship, Mr. Bean and I.
If, occasionally, I put a hand on Mr. Bean’s chest, pretending to feel for his heart under his vest and shirt, that was only as a joke. I was certainly not ”groping” him, even if I can imagine how it might have looked to a person of vulgar mind spying on us from the shadows.<
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Please believe that the rumors are grossly inflated again this time, like always in our dull old office.
It’s too bad you don’t drink coffee yourself or you would’ve seen firsthand that the vaporous slander is just that. Also, then I could’ve talked with you instead of Mr. Bean. Maybe we would’ve still had our robot barista if only you’d been more fond of coffee, Gregg.
This really is partly your fault. Just imagine, when you started working here I thought it would be just like the old times, back when we were students? Remember those days? They have not returned, as you may have observed, and that grieves me greatly.
And why haven’t they?
Maybe you just arrived at an unfortunate time? I’m referring here to the time of Larry and then the time of Mr. Bean, but since all that’s behind me I see no reason why we can’t reinvigorate our friendship now.
