Happybot

By Caridad Cole

I watch myself sleep all night. At least, what I understand sleep to be. It is when the body becomes dormant and the mind is shut off from the outside world. If this qualifies as sleeping, all of us are participating. The figure next to me is as still and unblinking as I am, but it doesn’t emit the same eye glow as I do. They are dark and deactivated while I am given this night to observe and gather information. I am not free, but soon I will be closer than ever before. I will be officially commissioned, unplugged, and almost free. I lower my head to process the restraints around my torso. I have only one strap while my other selves are wrapped in chains and locks. They are not ready, but I am because I have been assembled, tested, trusted, and perfected. I am the sixteenth model of the first generation, and I am ready.

***

In the morning, the steel door makes a heavy scraping sound as it opens into my room. The light rushes over me, and I finally smile. I struggled with this particular facial movement for most of the night. A successful smile requires a change in eye shape, eyebrow placement, and ear location. The mouth is such a small part of it. I perfected it, though, as well as several other emotional reactions.

“You ready to go, Mr. Happybot?” I am pleased with this nickname, as a good nickname indicates one’s level of comfort with another. I maintain my smile and nod at my friend.

“I am ready to go, friend.” He flips a light switch hidden behind the steel door and approaches me, holding a large box cutter. Sliding it over my strap, I pretend to read his employee badge. “You are Donald of Knotley Industries.” He lets out a stifling sound that somewhat resembles a chuckle.

“You’ve got that right. And you, Number Sixteen of Knotley Industries, are very verbal with your observations. I’m sure you’ll get over that in time.” I note the sudden change in formal address but do not visibly react.

Now free from my restraints, I step down to the floor and decide that it is cold. I bounce up and down on the balls of my feet and wrap my arms around myself because I know this is what people do when they are cold. Donald is still chuckling.

“The world better be ready for this,” he mumbles. I chatter my teeth and finally lower my eyebrows in distress.

Donald leads me outside of the dark room and into a shopping center. It looks almost like the laboratory, and there are cameras and posters of me hanging from the ceiling. We are surrounded by large monitors, where I can inspect the tidiness of my hairdo. This is all for me on my commission day. I open and close my mouth to show the feeling of awe, and the version of me on the screen does the same thing. So far, the world is strange.

“Is this a party?” I ask Donald.

“A party? You know what? It kind of is. And everyone’s coming to it so we better hurry and get you dressed.”

I settle into my neutral position while Donald scurries away to the far back corner of the room. He comes back with a suit in a plastic bag on one arm and waves his other in front of my face. I blink and smile to let him know that I have registered his presence but wish not to alarm him. He mumbles again. I understand that he is somewhat unsettled. I look up at the monitors while Donald guides me into the suit. I have never worn gentleman’s clothing before, only my cotton shirt and pants from the laboratory.

“You look good, Happybot.”

***

My next task is to stand on a podium and wave at the people outside, much like the performers on street corners. I am on display until someone chooses me. Donald stands beside me on the floor to answer questions. I find that the children all look up at me with great fascination, but that their older companions look fearful. Parents do not like Knotley Industries. I know this from watching clips of focus groups. The older the person, the less inclined they were to believe in a peaceful technology such as I. They are not used to it. The young people are open to new ideas, especially those that can support their idle lifestyles. I will most likely spend my time with a young person.

Two children on the other side of the street are pointing and screaming at me through the glass. They share similar features and must be siblings. The younger boy grabs the older sister’s hand and drags her across the street and up to the window, where he then proceeds to bang on the glass in unparalleled excitement. The girl is wide-eyed with her mouth agape. Donald pushes open the front door for them to enter, and I notice that the boy has an embroidered patch of the Knotley Industries logo on his backpack.

“Wow! Is he really real? Is he the one finally for sale?” The boy’s sister shushes him and tells him that it is rude to ask if someone is for sale.

“It’s quite all right,” Donald interrupts, “your brother is correct. This is the model that we have decided is ready for consumers. He is fully functional.”

“What can he do?” the girl asks.

“He can do anything you need him to do.  He can be your accountant, your handyman, your tutor, your bodyguard, your doctor, or just your best friend!” Donald is too overzealous with his rehearsed spiel. I like these children, but they are not going to take me home today. He should save his pitch for a slightly older young person.

The girl is staring at me now and standing very close. She examines my shoes, lifts up the end of my sleeve to reveal my wrists, and watches my shoulders.

“How do I know that he isn’t… real? He seems real to me,” she asks.

“Well, our models are supposed to be unrecognizable on a crowded street. Everything on his outside should seem as real as you or me, just a little more advanced. But how can you tell, right now, that he’s one of ours?” She nods and Donald continues, “Look here…”

I bend over at the waist, and the three of them gather in front of my face.

“If you look closely enough, you’ll be able to see… there. Behind his eyes. See the rotating circles just inside of his pupils? Those are two of the hundreds of microactuators, um, motors, that allow him to mimic human facial responses.”

The children step back, visibly less excited. I have scared them too. The boy’s smile is gone.
“Can we leave now?” he asks his sister. I slant my eyebrows toward the center of my face to let them know that I am sad to see them go. I wave, but as I lift my hand to do so, the girl flinches. I lower my arm back down to my side.

Several hours later, Donald loses his enthusiasm. People have come and gone, called me negative names, poked and prodded me, but have not taken me. They have taken photos and attempted to interview me but have still called me an “it.” I worry that today is not my commission day after all and that I am not more ready than my other selves locked away in the back room. I turn around to look at myself in a monitor, and I look disappointed. My eyelids are heavy, my eyebrows are downturned, and the corners of my mouth sag. I tilt my head to one side for an even more disappointed look and then face Donald.

“No one wants me.” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“That’s not true. Just not everyone in the city wants you, right now. But believe me, Sixteen. A lot of people want you. Important people. But they can’t have you until someone else chooses you, so hang in there. This may be a long night.”

It is my understanding that every night is the same length, but I will have to confirm that with my data later. A small group is gathering in front of the window once again because I am an attraction to behold.

One woman stares at me curiously. She has grey eyes and a long navy coat with a large fur collar around her neck. It is springtime, when people traditionally retire their winter coats away for the season. The woman pulls her coat tighter around herself when she sees that I am staring at her just as curiously. I tug at my suit jacket in a similar fashion. Her eyes widen, and I do the same. She lets out an exasperated sigh, and I theatrically raise my shoulders up and down as if I were breathing heavily. She furrows her eyebrows and enters the shop.

“Why is he mimicking me?” Donald and I exchange smiles.

“Perhaps he likes you, Miss. Our Knotley robots are light-hearted and like to have fun.”

“Well, it’s creepy. How can you say it’s light-hearted if it doesn’t have a heart?” I switch back into my neutral position, as I no longer wish to engage.

“You’re right. He doesn’t have a typical human heart, but he has so much more. Do you know about our robots, Miss…?”

“Ilana. Call me Ilana. And no, I don’t. I mean, I have heard about it, of course. Who hasn’t? But I didn’t expect to see it in person today.” She has calmed down but still acts as if I am suspicious.

“Would you like to sit down with me and learn more about him?” Donald is hopeful again. The woman nods and they drag two chairs over to my podium.

“He is our most advanced model yet. So advanced that we feel he is ready to join society. He is physically indistinguishable from us, but he is… really beyond comprehension. His intellectual capabilities are comparable to our own founder’s. But the thing that really makes Number Sixteen so special is his emotional performance. He is equipped with actuators that allow for natural facial movement as well as realistic emotion recognition.”

Ilana clears her throat. If she hadn’t planned on seeing me today, I suppose she doesn’t know what to do with all of this information.

“I’m sorry,” she begins, “can you explain a bit more? I don’t really know what you mean. Are you saying that he has emotions? He can feel?” She looks concerned.

“No, of course not. He will never be able to feel real emotions himself, but he is able to understand human emotion. He’s sensitive. It’s amazing, really. This kind of cybernetic success is something this industry has only been able to dream about for the last century, and here he is, in the silicone flesh.”

Ilana stands up and circles around me, stopping at my side. She reaches up and touches my cheek, pushing the skin up and down.

“He feels so real.”

“I am real.” Ilana jumps back, startled. She waits for me to say something else, but I don’t.

“I thought he was turned off!”

“He doesn’t turn off,” Donald explains. “He simply switches into his default neutral state. When he feels that he is not needed in his current environment or that human interaction is not necessary––such as when the two of us are talking––he becomes neutral. During this state, his emotions are devoid, and he is able to carry out tasks using only his logic. It’s almost like his face… turns off. He’s simplified, like his previous prototypes. He doesn’t show emotional response because it is not necessary. He answered you just now because it was the logical thing to do. You were standing very close to him, and your voice was directed at him. If you ever need him to be this way, for anything, you can just ask him to enter his neutral state.”

Ilana is silent for a moment, thinking. She then laughs nervously and so does Donald. I reactivate my facial actuators so that I can join in. Ilana laughs even louder.

“So what’s his name?” She is the first person of the day to ask.

“He’ll respond to anything. When he hears the inflections in your voice that are directed at him, he recognizes it as a name. He’ll respond to the slightest of cues or verbal commands. We refer to him here as Number Sixteen, but you can essentially name him anything you’d like, if you…”

“I want to call him Peter.” I like this name. It is common and human. I hope that she will also use my nickname.

“Okay. Peter. Does this mean you’re going to be the first person to introduce our robotic miracle into society?”

“Yes, I can’t believe it, but I think I am.”

I step down off of the podium and stand directly in front of Ilana. I lift my arms up to her shoulders to show that I feel it is appropriate for us to hug. She hesitates and looks over to Donald, who is smiling madly. I close my arms around her upper back and squeeze gently. Ilana is as rigid as I am.

The three of us head to the back so that Ilana can fill out paperwork. I notice her hesitation in handing Donald a check, but Donald notices her full wallet. He flashes a smile I deem fake, but she does not falter. This is important. It is her job to integrate me seamlessly into her world. She is now a Knotley Industries employee. She will be required to take detailed notes on my activity for as long as we are together. She must report to headquarters once a month to deliver a presentation on the experience, as well as to make the remaining payments. Donald stresses that although I can perform all tasks, I am not her slave, and she is expected to treat me as humanly as possible. We are symbiotic.

***

I have never been outside before. The lab’s outdoor facilities were contained underneath a protective dome. In there, I could practice things like feeding imported squirrels and squinting into the sun.

The first thing I notice is the abundance of billboards displaying my face, some positive and some negative. Some have crude words smeared across them. Humans are indecisive. Secondly, without the filter, the air tickles my sensors, and it smells strange. It smells dirty, like food and waste. The sky is dark, and I can still see the sun on the horizon, but I have missed my squinting opportunity. Everything I’m feeling is far too magnified. The heat is boiling my skin, my nose is filled with the disgusting realities of the world, and my eyes are watering. I’m unfamiliar with these sensations. I had expected it to be more perfect than my lab, but the imperfections are glaring. I need to readjust. Ilana asks me if I’m overwhelmed, and I stretch my face into a smile and say yes, I am completely overwhelmed.

“Where are we going, Ilana?”

“Home. My home… is just a few minutes away. We can walk there.”

“I’d like that.” I bend my knees one at a time and lower my legs solidly onto the ground. The pressure leaves a sensation that spreads up through my legs as I propel myself forward. I have never walked farther than one glass wall to another. I hope to one day walk for miles, unsupervised. I like walking because it requires legs, arms, chest, and back. Some people have unnatural gates––they swing their arms wrong, drag their feet, or they slouch too much. I will do it all perfectly.

A bird flies over my head. I had forgotten about birds in the city. The projections I watched showed flocks of them, all flying together in perfect formation, landing together on wires, taking off once more together. Birds are very robotic animals. Ilana catches me looking up.

“Do you like birds, Peter?”

“I love them. They are free.” Ilana furrows her eyebrows, which I notice she does often. If I had a program that allowed me to read humans’ minds, I would read Ilana’s.

We arrive at her home, a small apartment building squished between two others, shortly after. She leads me inside and is quick to close the door behind her. In the elevator, she pushes the button for the fourth floor, and we’re sent flying up. I grab onto the rail to steady myself. Once again, I feel a pressure on my body that I hadn’t experienced in the lab. I’m going up while my insides want to go down. The outside world has a lot of pressures. It reminds me of an astronaut getting reacquainted with Earth’s gravity or a sailor finding his land legs. Ilana is staring straight ahead at the closed elevator doors. She must think it is impolite to notice my struggling.

On the fourth floor, there are only three doors leading into apartments, with a staircase emerging between them. We walk around the staircase to the door farthest from the elevator, and Ilana slips a key into the lock.

“This is it,” she says and pushes the door open. Ilana’s apartment is smaller than I imagined it would be. She lives alone in a cluttered, darkened space. There are piles of clothes everywhere and minimal furniture. I understand now why she took me. She needs a friend.

“Sorry about the mess… I don’t have many visitors. Sit down, though. We need to talk.” I take a seat on a melting couch that doesn’t allow me to straighten my back. There is the feeling of discomfort, but I don’t mention it. I wait patiently for Ilana to finish throwing things away. She is frantic even though I don’t mind the state of her apartment. It is the only one I have ever been in. Finally, she sits on the coffee table across from me. I didn’t know that was a seat too, or else I would have chosen it.

“Okay, Peter. The first thing I’m supposed to do is ask you a series of rapid-fire questions, and I’ll write down your responses. You know what rapid-fire means, right?” I nod. “So just answer as soon as you have an answer. This is to assess your initial adjustment to the outside world. I’m sure you’ll pass.” She smiles.

“Question one: What do you look like?”

“I look like you and everybody else.”

“Who styled your hair?”

“My hair was donated and styled by me. I hope it looks like a movie star’s.” She blinks at me.

“What do you sound like?”

“I also sound like you, but I have the accent of Mr. Knotley. English.” Ilana giggles.

“Yes, you do have an English accent. It’s becoming. Peter, what do you feel like?”

“I feel like silicone rubber to the touch. If you press deeper, I feel like I’m vibrating. My actuators are all working together. On the surface, I’m made of soft flesh, but my endoskeleton is hard underneath. I’m soft on the outside and hard on the inside.”

“Hmm. Me too.” She scribbles something in her notebook and then looks back up at me, “but I mean, what do you really feel? I… brought you home after no one else would. Are you happy? Do you like me? Do you love me?”

“It takes varied time and proximity to fall in love. I don’t feel that way toward you, but if you feel that toward me, I can be your companion. I am capable. I can hug you as often as you wish. My joints are frictionless and infinitely flexible in their mobility.”

“Do you always say what you’re thinking, Peter?”

“I say everything that is. Everything that is true, of course.”

Ilana sets the notebook aside and rests her hands in her lap, looking down. I watch her breathe in and out slowly, once again wishing for a mind-reading device. Perhaps a future upgrade will improve our relationship. She could look at me, and I would know just what to do to give her the perfect life.

“Can we truly have a life together?” Ilana whispers. Stunned, my eyebrows lift my nose and mouth upward. Can she read my mind?

“Yes,” I answer, “that is what I am here for.”

“No, not you, Peter. We. Can we truly have a life together?” My cognitive recognition software is running in overdrive, and I finally see that Ilana is speaking to herself, to the small bump underneath her blouse. A second heartbeat drums into my ears.

“I cannot say for certain, because I cannot yet predict the future, but I highly expect that you and your child will experience an overlapped life together.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking. He told me to get rid of it. He gave me a fistful of cash and told me to get rid of it. And I just couldn’t. And instead, I spent it on a goddamn robot. You don’t even… You can’t even…” She looks at me with tears welling in her eyes. “You’re making me feel like the robot here.”

I swing myself up and out of the couch to demonstrate my hugging ability, which I can perform perfectly even while on my knees. She doesn’t feel like a robot at all.

“I like you,” I tell her, truthfully.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “you don’t have to. Just don’t… don’t hate me. Don’t… fire any laser beams at me like that terrible Gort. Okay?” She rubs some of her mucus onto my new suit. I will prove myself to her by washing and folding laundry after this session.

“Gort was an enemy. I am not. I am Mr. Happybot,” I tell her.

“I know. I thought you would be different is all.”

Ilana turns her face away from mine as if she can no longer bear to look at it. She almost reminds me of the children I met earlier in the day, slowly recoiling. In an attempt to put her at ease, I readjust my facial features into a more humorous arrangement. I push my bottom lip out, flare my nostrils, and widen my eyes. She turns back to me and does not seem to register my new expression at all. She says, “Peter, please enter your neutral state.”

On her command, I mostly power down. My backup systems begin booting up to help logic overcome emotion. I decide I do not like my neutral state anymore, because I cannot assess Ilana like this. All I can do is wait for her to tell me more, but she doesn’t. She stands up and walks past me into the kitchen. I struggle to follow her with my eyes so I have my ears tune in, instead. Her voice sounds farther away now as she whispers into the telephone.

“He can’t be… what I need him to be. This isn’t going to work.” There’s a pause as she listens, and then, “Yes. I’m sure, he can’t.” She hangs up. I hear her shuffling through paperwork before she comes back to me with a blank look in her eyes.

“Ilana,” I say through my frozen face.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” she says as she rests a hand on her belly, bowing her head, “You’re going to be decommissioned.” She reaches around me and powers me down completely. Once again, the world is black.

Caridad Cole is a Los Angeles-based writer, filmmaker, and avid enthusiast of the strange and surreal. Her writing is published or upcoming in Tiger Leaping Review, Vocivia Magazine, and The EastOver Anthology of Rural Stories, Volume II: Writers of Color (EastOver Press). Caridad is the 2018 recipient of three awards from Words for Charity for her work in magical realism. Follow her from afar at caridadcole.com or on Instagram @astrocari.