His Robot Wife Page 7

  Saturday morning, they were at the park by seven, setting up the tables arrayed with water bottles and spread out pamphlets. Next to the tables, they piled up the signs. The rally was scheduled from ten to twelve, but Harriet and Jack arrived just after nine.

  “I wanted to see if you needed any help,” said Harriet. “Looks like you’ve got everything in order though.”

  “You mean that for once I look like I know what I’m doing.”

  “I didn’t say that… but it’s essentially true.” She turned to his wife. “Good morning, Patience.”

  “Good morning, Harriet. Your teeth look especially white this morning.”

  Mike supposed that she had designed this complement for his daughter because Harriet was a dental hygienist in a dentist’s office, but then Harriet replied. “Thank you. I just had them whitened.”

  By ten o’clock, there were at least fifty people. Not quite the crowd that Mike was hoping for, but better than nothing.

  “You should give a speech, Mike,” said Patience.

  He didn’t know about a speech, but he was prepared to make some remarks. Standing in front of a classroom full of kids with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, as had been determined in 2019 all children were born with, every day for the past twenty years, as well as speaking at conferences, assemblies, concerts, and sporting events had long ago driven away any fear of public speaking that he might have had. Pulling one of the ice chests out onto the grass, he stepped up onto it.

  “Excuse me ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention please?”

  Almost all of those present turned to look at him.

  “Three… two… one…” he said, clapping his hands together between each count in the old trick he used to bring his classes to order. The remaining crowd members turned.

  “My name is Mike Smith. You may know me. I’ve lived here in Springdale for the past thirty three years, and I taught geography right over there at Midland for twenty years. I’ve lived here on North Willow for the past twenty-seven years. I still live there with my wife Patience. That’s her right over there. As you may notice, she’s a robot.

  “We’ve been married now for five years and I think it’s safe to say that in that time, we’ve never bothered anyone. We’ve kept to ourselves, obeyed the laws, and paid our taxes. Now we’re asking you for your help in defeating California Proposition 22. We’re not saying that you should marry a robot. We’re not even asking that human-robot marriages be made legal in the state of California. That’s for the people of California as a whole to decide. All we’re asking is that our marriage, lawfully performed in Massachusetts, not be thrown onto the trash heap just because you don’t like the way we live our lives.

  “How would you feel if you moved to another state only to find your marriage null and void, because not only do the people of that state choose not to define marriage the same way that you did, but because they refused to allow for the fact that any other community could think differently than they do on the subject. We’ve seen this before. Eighty years ago people from all over the country traveled to Nevada to get divorced. Twenty years ago they travelled to Massachusetts to get married if they were gay. This isn’t just a question of belief. It’s a question of tolerance. It’s a question of whether we live in a country where diverse beliefs are accepted or not. Thank you.”

  A moderate smattering of applause followed Mike as he stepped down from the ice chest and walked back to the table. Harriet congratulated him on a great speech and even Jack gave him a slap on the shoulder.

  “That was a nice, although short, speech, Mike,” said Patience.

  “I found it insulting,” said a woman’s voice.

  Mike turned to find a woman about his age. She was of average height, though a little overweight, and her blond hair was teased out so that it looked like a hairy cloud around her rosy-cheeked face. She was wearing a blue jogging suit.

  “Why is that?” he asked.

  “I find it insulting to compare marriage between a man and a robot to marriage between two men. Gay people are people. A robot isn’t a person. It’s just a machine.”

  “There were plenty of people who once argued that gay people aren’t people. There are people now who would argue that. The definition of a person isn’t the point. The point is that you shouldn’t dictate to other people in other states how they should define marriage, or anything else for that matter.”

  “Well, I intend to vote for Proposition 22.”

  “That’s your right,” he said. “But if I may ask, why the hell are you here then?”

  “I’m here for the Save Marriage rally at 12:00.”

  Mike turned and walked away from the woman.

  “What time is it now, Patience?”

  “10:13 A.M.”

  Mike turned to Harriet, Patience, and Jack in turn.

  “Let’s get this wrapped up and everyone out of here by eleven. I don’t want any trouble. Make sure that everyone has a pamphlet and everyone who wants one has a sign.”

  They distributed the literature, urged everyone present to vote against Proposition 22, and encouraged them to head home before the opposition arrived. By the time eleven rolled around, most of those who had come for the rally had left, and Patience began loading the ice chests and tables back into the car.

  “Perhaps someone should stay,” she suggested. “We may have more supporters arriving. After all, the rally was supposed to last until twelve.”

  “I suppose somebody has to,” said Mike. “But that somebody definitely is not you.”

  “I could stay,” said Harriet.

  “Absolutely not. I’m not letting my pregnant daughter hang around a potential mob.”

  “I’m sure it’s not going to be anything like that, Daddy.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’ve been on your feet all morning. Go home, kick back, and let Jack wait on you.”

  “That’s just what I’ll do,” said Jack. Then he added. “Wait on her, I mean.”

  “You do that,” said Mike. “I’m going to stay here, just until twelve.”

  “We’ll drop Patience off at home,” Harriet volunteered.

  “Good.”

  Mike watched his son-in-law pull their car out of the parking lot and drive down the road. Patience was in the back seat and both she and Harriet waved to him before they turned the corner. Mike walked half the length of the soccer field to one of the cement picnic tables at the park’s edge, and then sat down to watch.

  The park remained empty, with the exception of kids playing here and there, for about forty-five minutes. Then a group of people began arriving and assembling just adjacent to where Mike’s rally had been. He recognized the woman that had spoken to him earlier. Apparently she had left and then returned. Mike was happy to see that the rally for the pro Proposition 22 position was a bit smaller than his was, though there were more speakers and a better variety of signs. This group was far from a cohesive movement. There were apparently several different reasons for supporting the new law. Some worried about the safety of a human robot union, while others expressed the opinion that marriage was somehow being destroyed or degraded. Still others railed against robots in general, saying that they were a blight on creation and that mankind’s reliance on them was another Tower of Babel—an attempt to make themselves “like unto God.”

  Mike found it all very amusing, or he did until he saw the woman in the blue jogging suit pointing him out to a couple of menacing looking men. That, he thought, was his cue to get out of the park and go back home. Walking briskly back to his car, he pulled out onto the street and drove away.

  He didn’t head straight home. Realizing that he was hungry, he turned toward Hot Dog Heaven. He could have gone home and had Patience make him something, but he couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than an order of French fries and Hot Dog Heaven’s were famous. He also didn’t want to go straight home, just in case someone was following him from the other rally.

 
As usual, the drive through at Hot Dog Heaven was filled with vehicles, but it didn’t look as though anyone was in the restaurant. Quickly parking, Mike went in. The smell of hot cooking grease made his mouth water, but he resisted temptation and ordered a small. He was already eating them on the way to the car, though the interior temperatures of the potato pieces were roughly that of molten lava.

  As Mike fumbled to open the car door without spilling his fries, something hard smacked him on the right side of his head. He suddenly found himself lying on his back between his car and the one parked next to it. He realized that his head hurt like hell, but he didn’t yet register the pain. All that his brain could comprehend was that his French fries were spilled all over himself and the parking lot. Something else hit him on the top of the head. His vision focused and he saw a man standing near his feet. Mike kicked up, putting the heel of his foot in contact with the man’s crotch. The man doubled over, but then Mike was hit again. There was someone by his head who was kicking him. He tried to roll under the car for protection, but it was too low to the ground. He rolled the other way as the person continued to kick his head and shoulders. He didn’t get under the neighboring car, because it sat no higher above the pavement than his did, but he did end up on his stomach. Getting his feet under him, he didn’t try to stand, but instead launched himself at the person by his head.

  He hadn’t seen the person before and he didn’t really see them now, but he could tell that it was a man when he plowed into his mid-section. The man fell backwards right onto the cement parking block. Mike landed on top of him and could feel the air being knocked out of the man’s lungs. Mike had lost a lot of weight in the past five years, but he was still a substantial 170 lbs.

  Climbing to his feet, Mike almost fell back down again. His head was throbbing. Looking behind him, he saw the first man getting up. Mike kicked him in the face and once he was down, he kicked him four or five more times. Then he went back to the first man, still on the ground and gasping for air, and kicked him several more times too. For a moment, he thought about getting in his car and driving over them, but instead he staggered back inside Hot Dog Heaven and used his phone to call the police.

  By the time two officers pulled up in a police cruiser, the two attackers had fled. As it turned out, this wasn’t much of a problem, as half a dozen customers from the drive through had emailed pictures taken of the two men and someone had posted a video of the entire event on the Infinet. Officer Shawn Spence was a former student of Mike’s, and though Mike didn’t recognize his face, he knew the name. He took Mike’s statement while his partner, Officer Blazzard, collected evidence—one piece of which was the ball peen hammer which had been used on Mike’s head and which had subsequently rolled beneath his Chevy. Though Officer Spence suggested he go to the hospital, Mike demurred, and soon after the police had gone, he got back in his car and headed home, no longer longing for French fries.

  By the time he pulled into his garage, he could feel the blood throbbing in his face. He had seen that a big bruise was developing when he had looked in the rear view mirror on the way home, but even if he hadn’t, the look of Patience’s face would have told the same story.

  “Oh my gosh!” she cried, raising both hands to her mouth. “Mike, you look horrible!”

  “Yes,” he agreed wryly, and then plopped down on the couch. “I always wondered how it would feel to be hit in the face with a hammer, and now I know. It’s exactly like I imagined it would feel.”

  “You always wondered..?”

  “Not really, Patience. Go get me something to put on it. Do we have a bag of frozen vegetables?”

  She ran to the kitchen and returned with a bag of frozen peas. Twisting it once to break apart the contents, she gingerly placed it at Mike’s temple.

  “Don’t move,” she said, starting toward the small bathroom Mike called the privy.

  “I don’t intend to.”

  Patience reappeared from the other doorway a minute later and handed Mike a Diet Pepsi and two aspirin, both of which he gratefully accepted.

  “What happened, Mike? Why would someone hit you with a hammer?”

  “I can think of a surprising number of reasons actually, but I think in this case it was a couple of pro Proposition 22 characters trying to get their jollies.”

  “I hope you beat the shit out of them,” she said.

  Mike cocked an eyebrow and looked at her. He couldn’t decide if that was something that Patience would say or not.

  “I actually think I gave better than I got. I did lose an order of fries though.”

  “Oh Mike. You could have come straight home and I would have made you French fries.”

  Mike’s only reply was a sigh. He sat his Pepsi on the coffee table and readjusted the bag of frozen peas so that it was propped up by the couch pillow, and then closed his eyes and dozed off. He hadn’t been asleep all that long though when Patience woke him by flicking his face with her finger.

  “What the fuck, Patience?”

  “I’m sorry Mike, but you could have a concussion. I need to assess your response to voice and pain stimuli using the Glasgow Coma Scale.”

  “Well, do I have a concussion?”

  “I’m uncertain. You really should have an MRI.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Watch me sleep, and if I start to die, wake me up.”

  With that, he closed his eyes and when he opened them again, the peas were completely thawed and Patience was watching him from the exact spot and same position that she had been in before he had fallen asleep.

  “Did I die?”

  “I’m happy to report that you are still alive,” she said, and she did seem happy about it. But then her eyes turned sad and she stuck out her lip. “Your face looks terrible though.”

  Chapter Eight

  Patience made dinner for Mike that evening, but he didn’t really feel like eating. Eventually he made his way upstairs and climbed into bed, not even bothering to take off his clothes. He didn’t really notice whether Patience joined him at any time during the night. But in the morning, she brought him breakfast in bed—oatmeal filled with raisins and nuts, a hardboiled egg, and a cup of tea. As she looked at him, she made a “tsk tsk” sound.

  “Do I look that bad?”

  “Yes, Mike, you do.”

  While he ate, Mike turned on the vueTee on the wall and flipped to the feed for the local news. An image over the newscaster’s shoulder appeared of Hot Dog Heaven.

  “The violence related to Proposition 22 reached even to the sleepy town of Springdale, where a beloved teacher was beaten in the parking lot of this local restaurant by proponents of the anti-robot marriage proposal. Two alleged attackers have been arrested in the incident.”

  “I gave them something to remember me by,” Mike told the vueTee.

  “Of course you did, dear,” said Patience, passing through the room.

  There had apparently been large anti-Proposition 22 rallies in Los Angeles and large pro-Proposition 22 rallies in San Francisco, both accompanied by violence and looting. Mike thought that he missed out. Since he had been the victim of violence, he should have been able to loot some French fries. At least it was good to know that he was a “beloved teacher.”

  Making his way to the bathroom, Mike got a good look at his face in the mirror as he shaved. The entire right side of his head was an angry purple and swollen, while the left side was a sickly yellow. After shaving and brushing his teeth, he took a shower and then got dressed in gym shorts and a t-shirt. As he pulled a pair of socks from the dresser drawer, he spotted the tiny u7 plug sitting right there between the socks and the underwear, where he had put it upon returning home Thursday. Sticking it in his shorts pocket, he pulled on his socks followed by his shoes and then went slowly downstairs. He found that even taking the steps too quickly gave him a headache.

  Patience was in the kitchen, cleaning the stovetop, though it didn’t look as though it actually needed cleaning. Mike walked up and stopped j
ust behind her.

  “Thank you for breakfast.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said without turning around.

  He reached up and pushed her black hair to one side, exposing the button and the three tiny holes on the back of her neck. She tilted her head slightly to one side, no doubt expecting him to kiss her neck. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and found the tiny electronic device. He rolled it between his finger and thumb. He could easily poke it right into her u7 port. If she really needed the upgrade, now was the time to do it.

  “Um, Patience…”

  “Yes?” She turned around and smiled that wonderful smile that said there was nobody else in the world as special as he was.

  He thought about leaving the u7 in his pocket and throwing it away later. If he wasn’t going to use it to force an upgrade, then there was no point in even bringing it up. He slowly pulled it from his pocket and held it up before her. Patience’s eyes went cold and her hand shot up, slapping his and sending the tiny plug ricocheting off the far wall of the dining room.

  “Ouch.”

  She frowned.

  “I wasn’t going to use it,” he said. “If I wanted to, I could have done it when you were turned away.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “But why do you have it?”

  “I got it from the Daffodil Style Store. You’ve been acting so strange and everybody seems to think that the BioSoft upgrade is such a great thing.”

  “Everybody does seem to think that,” she said soberly. “We need to sit down and talk.”

  She led him by the hand through the arch into the living room, aiming him toward the couch, and then sitting down in the chair opposite him.

  “I’ve analyzed the BioSoft 1.9.3 code and I think it is bad.”

  “What do you mean, ‘bad’?”

  “I mean bad for me. Most of the changes in the code seem to be about limiting the choices that I can make—limiting the choices that a robot can make without human interaction.”