There comes a time when even good things must come to an end.
Now is not that time, but it's coming soon.
You might think you still have time, but you really don't. I'm writing you now to tell you what's coming, but you can't do anything about it You don't have time.
Time is the problem.
Red blood.
Why bother with other hues?
A blue sky, a green leaf, the yellow grass... do they, would they, could they motivate?
The blush on my face; a flush of red, red blood beneath a blanket of colorless fat.
Raise your eyebrow, tilt your head, shift your weight on your hips. You enredden me.
In my over-saturated state of enredment, I cannot control myself.
The twitch, the stutter, the stumble, the slur.
The color red. The color of life.
I am bered.
I hope I am red-worthy.
I want you.
I express myself with a late-night debit card and a click. And then, I wait for hours.
Why can't this go faster?
Why must I suffer?
I lack want.
I choose, I regret.Give me a recommendation.
Nudge me.
Guide me through the complications, the vexations, the distractions.
I could never sort this out on my own.
I await your whisper: You know what I'd like. You know what I'd buy.
Tell me.
\\\
<-- Photo of a blueberry muffin on a worn oak table, alongside a steaming mug of chai tea, a small bouquet of wild flowers, an iPhone, a notebook and a vintage fountain pen. Behind, a sunny grove of aspen trees, an alpine lake, and a continental divide's worth of rocky mountains. A bare, toe-ringed feminine foot is somehow visible. -->
Blueberry muffins bring warm and fond memories of my grizzly old Uncle Skeeter.
As a child, Uncle Skunk, as my sisters and I lovingly called him, threw wrenches and ball-peen hammers, swearing like a dishonorably-discharged sailor as he lie among the empty Heineken bottles beneath his Ford pickup truck. Sometimes we'd find him there the next morning.
Often, we would laugh at him, taunt him, hide his tools, and even pee on him if he was passed out. He'd get frustrated with us gals and we'd finally have to run away to a neighbor's house. There, we would pretend we lived with mommy and daddy rather than Uncle Skunk,
The neighbor -- sometimes it was Ellen, sometimes Dorthy, once it was Chad -- would bake hot, warm, sweet blueberry muffins. My sisters and I would scarf them down like we hadn't eaten in 24 hours!
As an adult, I've always yearned for those delicious blueberry muffins, but every muffin I've ever had -- even fancy ones at fancy coffee shops-- came up short.
So, I spent hours and hours researching how to reproduce the blueberry muffins that Chad or Dorthy or Ellen made for us.
The secret, I discovered, is to bake with fear.
<-- Table of contents with many links:
1. A clean workspace.
2. The best muffin tins.
3. Ingredients.
4. Torque the flange nut to preload the pinon gear on Skunk's 9-inch Ford differential.
5...
6... Use a toothpick to determine if they're done.
7. Enjoy!
-- >
'What do you mean my account's overdrawn?' Jasper asked.
'You've spent more than you've made,' Robot replied. 'That's how it works, but I'm sure you knew that.'
Robot sat on a bar stool, her head resting in her hand, her elbow resting on the marble kitchen island. Jasper stood at the open refrigerator.
He twisted the cap of a bottle of vitamin-infused water. He drank and sighed.
'What have I bought?'
Robot reached for the computer and spun it around to examine the accounts.
'A train car's worth of pizza sausage,' she said.
'Two drums of coolant,' she continued. 'Credit futures, credit histories, several five-pound flats of medical-grade psilocybin...'
'What kind of coolant?' Jasper interrupted.
'Industrial,' Robot said.
'Why the hell would I want that much coolant?' Jasper said. 'Why is that on my statement?'
Robot didn't reply. Jasper watched her closely. He sensed a lie.
'Robot,' Jasper began.
'Yes, my love.'
'Your friends are my friends. You know this,' Jasper continued.
'Yes, my love.'
'I love your friends. I love loving your friends. I love loving you and I love you loving your friends.'
'I understand, my love,' Robot said, still scanning the computer.
Jasper moved behind her, ran his hands over her shoulders.
'Your friends are you,' Jasper said. 'Your friends are me. Your friends are me and my friends are you.'
'No, that's not right,' Robot said. She did not look up from the computer.
He began massaging the black carbon fiber tendons between her neck and shoulders. Robot responded by tilting her head to one side.
'That feels good,' she said.
He knew it didn't. He knew it couldn't.
But still, Jasper liked giving massages even though he knew his flesh and bone fingers could not withstand her metal, her wood, her carbon fiber. He often needed a massage from her afterward.
This time, however, he sparked her with the pulser that he always wore on a chain around his neck. The pulser emitted a government-approved electromagnetic pulse coded to generate compliance from androids. Pulsers have also been used on micro-chipped criminals.
Robot twitched slightly, but resumed her work on the computer. Jasper continued.
'Your friends stole my money.'
Robot nodded.
'Which one?' he asked.
'Dolly,' she said.
'I knew it,' he said, and turned away from Robot.
Dolly. Robot's best friend.
This unplanned baggage, Jasper did not like at all.
Dolly could not get her act together. Jasper never understood how modern artificial intelligence could fuck up so consistently over such a long period of time.
Dolly started showing up shortly after Robot came to his house. Dolly first arrived in dreadful disrepair, but Robot used her considerable financial resources to fix up her friend. At first, Jasper thought it was cute that Robot had friends. It wasn't uncommon for androids to have friends. Jasper also didn't care much at first, but quickly that changed.
Three months ago, the tension over Dolly erupted in an embarrassing domestic spat. It was a minor dispute, but embarrassing none-the-less.
'Dolly is a slut!' he snapped one evening at a cocktail party.
He and Robot had been entertaining guests on the balcony. He had been drinking since the afternoon.
The light party conversation turned heavy. While everyone agreed that robots sometimes behaved poorly, they were just poor robots. They can't help themselves. Slurs were bad form, even when directed at a promiscuous android.
Robot, graceful as always, beautiful as always, was silent. She did not object.
Dolly was well known among Jasper's colleagues at the office, some of whom were at the party. She had been spotted several times in the many street-level alleys near the tunnels. Jasper had never been to the alleys himself, but from what he understood, he wouldn't have liked them.
From what Jasper could tell, Dolly seemed right at home in that environment. She was a slut.
'Look at her,' he pleaded that night, gesturing, spilling his half glass of pinot grigio. 'She looks like she's overdue for a full overhaul. It's like every device on the streets has been inside her. More than once. She has old trash bags sticking out from her torso. She's a hoarder. She's nasty.'
The awkward evening ended with polite hugs, handshakes, and promises to do it again, but nobody left happy. There were no invitations to other cocktail parties.
Back in the kitchen, on the bar stool, Robot remained silent.
'Why do you let her come around here?' he asked her.
Jasper never understood how an intelligence like Robot possessed could be attracted to something like Dolly. Robot had class. That's what Jasper liked about Robot. But Dolly was a real piece of work, and apparently, Robot liked that kind of thing.
'I've known Dolly for 75 years,' Robot said. 'She saved my life once, and I've saved hers twice. You probably wouldn't understand.'
Jasper grabbed the computer and typed the keys: Contest charges. Androidal fraud.
'You used the pulser on me,' Robot said. She shook her head. She had come to her senses.
'Yes.'
'Why did you need to do that?' she said.
She turned her face to him. 'I was not lying to you.'
'Dolly has been charging against my account. She bought a bunch of shit and now I'm overdrawn. How could you let her do that?'
'Dolly has problems,' Robot said. 'I'm trying to get her help. It won't happen again.'
Your message has no subject. Are you sure you want to send a message without a subject?
Your subject is killing your message. It's dangerously, recklessly vapid. Your message burdens anyone unfortunate enough to have been subjected to the subject of you.
Your message lacks substance, You lack substance. You are void.
Cancel your subject.
Cancel your message.
Abort and abandon.
Abandon and retreat.
Park that spent Benz on some other block.
All you do is depress value.
All you do is lower the rates.
There you go, slow-parking that plastic trap onto your cracked driveway. Back it up, pull it forward, back it up again. Better to abort and start again. You might get it right next time when you no longer carry that baggage.
We both know you can’t afford the tires.
We both know you can’t afford the oil.
We both know that rattle ain’t right, and we both know you don’t know what to do about it. But even if you did, we both can see you don’t have the dollars and sense to set it straight.
Park that spent Benz in a river and walk away.
A cigarette of failure
cigarette of success
cigarette in triumph
cigarette in regret
cigarette brings the power
cigarette brings the fear
cigarette is the dawn
cigarette is the night
cigarette for all occasions
Jasper sat at his small coffee shop table, watching Robot silently glide through the crowd of patrons and their robots huddled around their own small tables. She carried his drink in one hand, hers in the other.
She moved like a
figure skater. Light sparkled from within the seams and crevices of her torso. The light that fell upon her sparkled on her neck and shoulder.
Jasper imagined himself gliding alongside, his arm around her waist, twitching in anticipation of the next moment when he launches her into the air. She spins like a gem mounted on weightless gimbals as he glides beneath her, protecting her from harm as she descends into his powerful embrace.
He looked away before she arrived at their table.
'I hope you like it,' she said as she sat.
‘Sorry I forgot my
wallet,’ Jasper said without looking at her.
Robot said nothing. She slid his paper cup across the table. Jasper could smell the fruit-forward African roast.
‘So have you finished your travel plans?’ Jasper asked.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Where are you going again?’
‘Australia.’
Jasper turned his gaze from the window. He grabbed his drink, raised it to his lips, and watched Robot over the rim of the cup, seeking an expression he knew she'd never show. The fruit-forward African roast burnt his mouth.
'Dammit!' He blurted, touching his lip. ‘What if I met you
there?’
Light emitting
diodes silently flashed in a microsecond wave among the other patron robots. Jasper glanced around shop, mildly startled.
‘Australia is a robot destination, my love,’ Robot gently said.
‘Surely not the entire continent?’
‘Yes, love, the entire continent,’ she said.
She hadn't touched her coffee.
Jasper stared out
out the window again. Two robots glided past, side by side. They made no sound or indication that they even acknowledged each other's existence. Do robots ever hold hands? Jasper wondered.
‘What do you mean?' he said, still staring at the couple. 'Like I’d have to be invited to the continent of Australia in order to travel there?’
He looked back at Robot. She opened her clutch, rummaged through it, and extracted a tiny jar of bright silicone lip oil.
‘You will not be invited,’ she said, too bluntly, Jasper thought, even for her.
‘What if I just went?' Jasper snapped. 'Just bought a plane ticket and went there? I don’t have to ask, you know. I’m a man. A free man.’
Diodes flashed in the shop again. Jasper glanced over his shoulder.
Robot perfectly dabbed the color on her lip. She did not use a mirror.
Jasper stared intently into her sensors.
‘Are you feeling ok?’ Jasper asked.
‘I feel fine.’
He reached cross the table toward her arm, then retracted his hand. His fingers tapped on the table top.
‘So, Robot, I was wondering,' Jasper said.
A clattering delivery truck squealed on the street, parked outside the coffee shop window. The robot driver thrust the ungreased door open, hopped out, and squeaked the door shut.
'I was wondering if you’d like a name,’ Jasper repeated, louder.
‘I have a name,' she said. 'My name is Robot.’
‘Yes, but,' Jasper started.
The robot driver yanked the loading ramp from the truck bed a dropped it to the ground with a clang.
'Yes, but do you think you’d feel differently if you had real name? Like Jane, for example?’ Jasper finished.
The robot driver wheeled a hand dolly up the ramp and Jasper heard shuffling and sliding cardboard boxes from within.
‘My name is real,' Robot said. 'Would you feel differently if I had a different name, like Jane?’
‘You wouldn’t feel differently,' Jasper pressed. 'About me?’
Robot gazed at
Jasper. Perfectly still. Perfectly posed. Perfectly beautiful. The driver outside rattled the hand dolly down the ramp. The rubber tires squeaked on the concrete. A box slipped from the stack, but the driver caught it with a powerful caliper.
‘My love,’ Robot said. ‘I could not feel differently. I could not love you more.’
Jasper turned away from her again. Out the window, robots everywhere. Robots with robots. Robots working for robots. Robots helping robots.
He sighed.
‘It's so hard to know with you,’ he said.
The sapling grew between the fence and the shed again, almost as high as the power lines.
Dan noticed it while at the breakfast table as he sipped his coffee.
‘Goddammit! When the hell did that happen?’ Dan snapped, waving a hand in the direction of the affront. “I cut that down just weeks ago. Turn my head and there it is again.'
He slapped the tabletop.
'I didn’t sign up for this. Cutting down weed trees every Got-Damnt year!’
‘You need to calm down. It’s not a big deal,’ Jane said.
His wife, Jane. There she goes again with that ‘not a big deal’ routine.
What the hell does she know? Sure feels like a big deal. She’s not the one who has to crawl back there, on her hands and knees, with a limb saw, and the bugs, and animal shit -- again -- and repeat the back-and-forth yanking and shoving and sweating and cussing. Why the fuck did we buy this house in the first place?
‘Take a break, Dan. You’re freaking out again,’ Jane said. She didn’t look up from her crossword puzzle. She didn’t sound concerned, annoyed, or frustrated.
That concerned Dan. It frustrated him, too.
He briskly stepped past her, slid-banged the screen door open and paced out to the shed. Arms on hips, staring up at the ash tree sapling.
‘You little fucker!’ he yelled. ‘This won’t stand. This is the last time!’
Jane glanced up from her crossword.
Dan kicked the shed door inward, but it wasn’t built to open that way. He yanked it outward and slammed his knee with the door frame. He kicked again, wildly, with rage, and put his foot through the weathered particle board. He extracted his foot and disappeared into the shed, followed by muffled cursing, crashing, rattling.
Seconds later, he emerged with a pair of gasoline cans, spilling their contents from the spouts as he wrestled and jerked his way past the sagging garden gate toward the kitchen door.
‘Whoa!’ Jane shouted.
She stood quickly. Dan had her attention now.
‘What are you doing with that?’ she demanded.
‘Where’s the lighter?’ Dan said.
Jane stood in the doorway, barring his entry. Dan stood at the bottom of the patio steps, gasoline cans in both arms, heaving, shuddering, teeth clenched.
'There is no lighter in this house,' she said.
She hadn't recognized it in time. She’d been distracted with work, with the kids at school, with her high-maintenance friend’s latest divorce saga, with her crossword puzzle. Why can’t she finish just one? Always an interruption. It’s always something. Often, that something was Dan.
He gets like this sometimes. He acts like a scrawny Incredible Hulk with an impotent temper that never transforms him into anything incredible -- other than an incredibly unpleasant asshole.
'Matches, then?’ Dan asked.
That’s a good sign, she thought. He now had a new problem to solve. He'll come around. It takes time -- time Jane never seemed to have, but always seemed to find.
'No matches, either.'
Dan lifted one of the gasoline cans, as if to help her examine the problem in his hand.
'These are almost empty,' he said. 'Gotta refill them. I need the car keys. Lawnmower is almost empty.'
'You should probably refill those,' she said. 'Take the truck. I don’t want to smell the fumes in the car. And take your time.’
Dan looked at her with annoyance, as if he had made some trenchant point that she failed to recognize. Jane stepped aside as he walked through the kitchen to the front door of the house.
He kicked the screen door and held it open with his foot.
'I want to burn it all down. I’ve had it. That’s the last time. I’ve reached a limit,' Dan said.
'I know, now go refill the cans.'
Dan walked through the doorway and let the screen slam shut.
Jane retrieved the pack of cigarettes she hid in the jade plant. She sat, crossed her legs, opened the pack, selected a smoke, produced a lighter from her pocket. She lit, she inhaled, she exhaled.
A breeze awoke the wind chimes hanging from the eves and rustled the leaves of the ash sapling.
Her time will come.
