The Miserable Merchandise

Winston’s living room had begun to swirl.

Sitting in his chair, book in hand, Winston watched the grey room come apart at the seams and begin to spin; his eyes were malfunctioning again, bugging out and rotating inside their sockets. A moment later, Winston felt the nausea of vertigo, his lunch attempting an undignified escape. Clenching his hands around the book, Winston squished his eyes firmly shut, and ground his teeth through the glitch, hoping it would soon pass.

“You have received a message,” a cheerful voice said through the plethora of speakers which ran through the house. “ Winston, how would you like me to proceed?”

Searching for the reset button, Winston slapped his temple with his non-metal hand. Two meaty slaps later, his eyes settled and stopped rolling inside their sockets. He peeped one eye open.

Winston lurched forward in his chair and spewed on the rug. His brain had not caught up with his eyes and the room was still in motion, still spinning around and around and around.

“Winston, you have received a message. How would you like me to proceed?”

He dabbed his lips with the collar of the shirt and groaned. “In case you haven’t checked your cameras, Alexandra, I am slightly preoccupied here. Who is it from?”

“International Spacial Occupancy Committee. Would you like me to open it?”

Winston groaned again. “I’d rather a lobotomy.”

“Scanning. The next available booking for a lobotomy is on July 12th, at 13:00. Would you like me to book this, Winston?”

“No, Alexandra. Does it seem like I’d enjoy having a skewer stuck through my eye and stabbed into my brain? Delete the message from I.S.O.C., if you would be so kind.” Winston closed the book and placed it on the coffee table beside the stack of dust-covered books on language- which he refused to acknowledge or to put away, and got up out of the chair. His throat burned, and he still felt light-headed. Ignoring the now ruined rug, Winston stumbled to the kitchen for a glass of water.

“Message is unable to be deleted. Message received on July 1st, 2201, at 14:20. Opening message:

Greetings Citizen #3,322,000,001, Winston Jefferson Wright,” Alexandra’s obtusely cheerful voice vanished and was replaced by a monotone recording of an android, which, quite impressively, managed to be condescending without tone. “We would like to inform you that your account is now in default. This is attributed to multiple missed payments and a lack of cooperation on your end. We have gone over your financial institution’s records, and thus, as a result of your insufficient funds, have decided it is in our best interest to close your account. We apologize for the inconvenience this will cause. Your outstanding balance for yearly food, housing, clothing, and transportation amounts to 20,000 dollars. If payment is deposited before July 1st, 2201 at 23:59 your account will be rectified and placed in good standing. If payment is not deposited, you are welcome to visit one of our Happy Ever After facilities. Complimentary, of course. We, here at the International Spacial Occupancy Committee, would like to wish you a wonderful day, Citizen #3,322,000,001

End of message.”

“Those parasites,” Winston muttered. “Alexandra, cross-check my current credit score with available loans from all financial institutions.”

“One moment, Winston. Scanning.”

A lobotomy doesn’t sound that unpleasant anymore, Winston thought while rapidly tapping the Kitchen counter.

“There are zero applications available with your current credit score of 300. I hope this answer is satisfactory.”

Winston studied his human arm. He would need to visit the Collection Agency to come up with that amount of money. Life with two mechanical arms wouldn’t be that much different. Sure, he would have to be slightly more careful about resetting his eyes, but it wouldn’t be that bad.

Winston poured himself a cold glass of water from the jug in the fridge, sipped it, and set it in the sink, placing it on top of a precariously stacked set of crusted dishes. When he opened the door to leave, Alexandra’s cheerful voice chimed in.

“Winston, the mood of the day is: cordial. Please keep all interactions-” He closed the door.

It was a bright and grey day, like usual. They were all grey days. Winston took a ride on the side-auto walk to the city transit station. His eyes wandered from the congested traffic of vehicles in the road, up the towering buildings of seamless glass that stretched off into the horizon, and back down to the attendants across the street awaiting an Owner’s orders; it was, indeed, a cordial day.

Winston stepped off at the transit station. After a few taps on his personal holographic global access unit, he bought a ticket for the next train in 5 minutes and headed up the stairs to the platforms. The platform was almost vacant besides: two maintenance workers sweeping, an android uploading new advertisements to the billboards, and a mother and her young daughter which sat on the bench in the middle of the platform. Winston took a seat on the bench to their left, closer to his train.

Their clothes looked to be more than his outstanding debt, and both of them appeared to have all human limbs. Winston listened to the little girl rapid-fire question after question to her mum. She seemed to say everything which came into her mind; half of the time, the girl was unable to contain herself from asking the next question before her mum could answer. It was a heartwarming experience to watch; the genuine excitement and wonder in her voice for the surrounding world caused him to smile. Their train came and they boarded it, the girl still questioning as they walked hand in hand together. Winston felt tempted to follow them and listen to that bubbling excitement, but he was not allowed on that train. The attendants would have kicked him off; he was no longer human enough.

His train arrived at the station as their’s departed, looking like it was built 200 years before. The train was packed: each seat was filled, some two to a seat, and all of the standing poles had metal hands on them. Winston squeezed into a standing spot by the opposing door, and then the train took off.

The passengers shared an echoing silence as they rode the tracks together; there was an abundance of holographic screens floating in front of their faces, each of them typing on their translucent keyboards; a myriad of different conversations passing through the air. And yet, despite everything going on, all was quiet. Each of them wore a smile on their face since, after all, the mood of the day was cordial. But there was no happiness here- just neutrality and silence; a worker’s environment. Two stops later, Winston got off the train, left the station, and made his way towards the Collection Agency.

The glass wall parted and Winston strode inside. Along the wall were seven vacant and luxurious chairs, grey-leathered and diamond-studded. The diamonds brilliantly twinkled under the lights above, refracting all of the greys from cloud to coin to charcoal.

The chairs did not appear to be stationed with sitting in mind.

A screen blinked into existence as he approached the front desk. It began to scan him, bathing Winston in a light.

“No, no. Definitely not,” Winston said. “I request to speak to someone.”

The screen winked out of existence, folding in on itself until it was gone.

“I apologize,” said the person across the counter. “It’s uncommon to see a worker who still prefers the use of their tongue. Citizen Winston Jefferson Wright, how can I be of assistance today?”

“I need to sell my left arm. What price is the agency currently buying them at?”

“$15,000 for the left, and $14,000 for the right.”

Winston laughed loudly. It was absurdly low. Yet again, the Owners have dropped the value, while I.S.O.C continued to balloon the price of life.

“ Funny how the Owners seem to incessantly preach that humanity comes at a price; I thought, however, it would be more than that. That’s not enough.”

“Winston, that’s six months salary at a good job. More than that is just greed, a morally despicable characteristic we should all strive to abstain from.”

“You should save that speech for the sermons; Poverty has become too expensive, I can no longer afford that luxury. What else is the Agency buying?”

“The Agency buys everything, of course. The Owners will always need replacement parts. One second, let me open a price list: Legs are 13,000$ each.” Winston rolled up his pant legs, displaying a metallic shine, then motioned for them to continue.

They studied Winston, sizing him up and down with their real eyes. “Eyes are robotic. Ears are robotic. Both legs and one arm are robotic, correct? In that case, as previously discussed, your left arm is worth $15,000. Your tongue, however, is worth 25,000, which includes the newest replacement model. Complimentary, of course. This new model is capable of creating 1000 different words, more than double of the previous models. I am authorized to sell you an eye upgrade, which will happily allow you to see colour again, for 80% off. If you sell your arm and tongue, minus the cost of the new set of eyes, I can allot $36,000.”

Winston slammed his metal fist on the counter. “You’re joking! That’s less than the cost of two years of life. Is that all my voice is worth to the Owners? My residual humanity?”

“Unfortunately, Citizen, I do not get paid to joke.” Their face remained expressionless, and they shrugged as if the matter banal as the weather.

“My body parts have to be worth more than those bloody chairs”

“Actually,” they said, casually pointing behind him, “each one of those chairs, give or take a couple of sets of legs, is worth $1,000,000. So 10 sets of human parts. Are you interested in selling your left arm and tongue, Citizen? I can schedule you in for the surgery. There is a slot of availability in one hour, if you are interested. If not, I’ll have to ask you to leave; There is a strict no-loitering policy in place.”

Shortly after, Winston left the Agency with his tongue and arm still intact. And still $20,000 in debt. He took a ride on the side-auto walk, contemplating his options as the grey city strolled past.

He stepped off at the park and followed the pathway through the gate. It was the worker’s park, for people like him, but was unusually busy for an afternoon. People lounged in the grass, chat bubbles hovering between couples as they typed to one another.

Winston stopped at the next bench and sat. He removed the necklace hidden beneath his shirt and placed it in his left hand. As he massaged the surface with his thumb, Winston felt a tender warmness come over him, a reassuring touch after a grey day. And, although he was no longer able to see the heart-shaped necklace’s colour, he knew it to be gold. It gleamed a soft hue in the sunlight, sparkling like one of those gem-studded chairs. With a click, he opened the locket and revealed the remaining picture of his deceased spouse. They were sitting on the chair in the living room. A lion’s smile on their face. A stack of language books on the coffee table. A joyous day, a celebration for their future. The day they were accepted to teach the Owner’s children spoken language.

It was evening when Winston entered the store, the street lights had just begun to illuminate for the night. The chime above the door rang out and an automated voice greeted him.

“Greetings, Citizen #3,323,000,001. Welcome to your Happy Ever After...”