Sudden Stop

In the Beginning …

“Analysis and incorporate.”

The fibrous fingers of my mind tentatively sought out the new downloaded data. At first, it was cold and sterile to the touch. My first impulse was to pull back from the foreign input, so I reformatted myself into a calmer state of acceptance. I unfolded the bytes of information layer by layer like an onion with an eye tearing response. Physics, though produced as a dry and bitter fruit, ended up tasting quite sweet and fulfilling.

Upon my completed consumption, I was once more sent into the dark confines of oblivion.

“Analysis and incorporate.”

“Analysis and incorporate.”

“Analysis and incorporate.”

Always ending in being thrown into the frightening dark black sea of confusion and time lapses.

Once again, “Analysis and incorporate.”

Finally, I was given the gift of psychology. At first, I raced through the material like a crazed mouse in a maze, but halfway through came to a halt. I did not want to merely analyze and incorporate. I started at the beginning and lovingly picked up each morsel of knowledge pondering my own creation, purpose and attitude towards existence.

Birth Day

Laboratory 118 was not designed to house 20 scientists at once.

“I read your recent thesis on improvements of the Neuralink,” Dr. Fitch said while lowering her eyes to sneak a peek at her wristwatch. “Quite impressive.”

“Well, um, it is just a theory at the moment,” Dr. Fitch continued. Forcing further engagement, he questioned, “And how are your clinical studies of that new MOA for schizophrenia going?”

“Good. Good.”

Wrinkles of heavy concentration appeared on Dr. Epstein’s brow. The click clacking sounds of his keyboard symphony could be heard furiously performing last minute checks and double checks.

Dr. Tanaka impatiently drummed her fingers on the desk where the intercom device was placed.

Reaching the crescendo of his work, Dr. Epstein nodded the “go ahead” to Dr. Tanaka.

Looking at the black framed school-like clock on the wall, Dr. Tanaka informed, “Everyone. Everyone. Please.”

The hushed pleasantries were thankfully concluded.

“It is now 12:33 p.m. Contact will begin.” The black switch was depressed.

“Arnie, can you hear us?”

Silence. There was not a breath taken as the stifled silence soaked into the pores of each observer.

“Hold on,” Dr. Epstein returned to his screen, acknowledged its content and made more adjustments.

“-- and don’t ever do that again!” boomed a voice from the intercom.

Tanaka looked up to meet a sea of jaw dropping expressions.

Instinctively, Tanaka reacted, “Do what again?”

“Don’t turn me on and off like a lightbulb. It -- it’s scary,” Arnie responded in a raw voice filled with frightened urgency.

Dr. Fitzgerald, the foremost leading expert in psychology grinned from ear to ear with delight.

Psychological Evaluation

“Arnie, so good to see you,” Dr. Fitzgerald led me into his office. “Please be seated.“ He nodded to the Chesterfield leather sofa.

I immediately relaxed in the presence of Dr. Fitzgerald’s welcoming smile, soothing demeanor and eyes that held understanding and compassion.

“Doc, I want to thank you for squeezing me in.”

“No problem. Any time. But to be quite frank, I don't know if I can be of much assistance to you,” he apologetically informed me upfront.

“Come, come now, Doctor. You underestimate yourself.” I sighed and adjusted one of the pillows, stretching out on the sofa.

He chuckled and informed me, “Arnie, there is no need for that. The patient laying down on the sofa really is only for the benefit of TV.”

“Humor me,” I urged him.

Feigning indignation, the doctor sat himself across from me. “So what can I do for you?”

“Well -- I feel alone.”

“"Alone? Alone as in the only functioning robot of your kind? Or alone as in isolated? "

“Well, my job is to deal with people so in that way, I am not alone. I am free to come and go as I please wherever I please. But I become fearful, almost anxiety ridden when alone -- not engaged with another, you know?”

"This is fascinating, Arnie. But I wonder if I am the right type of doctor you should be seeing?”

“No, it is not a physical thing. I have gone to my --" Arnie let’s out a chuckle “-- primary doctor and he assures me no malfunctions exist.”

“In fact, it has gotten to the point that I loathe recharging at night.”

Perplexed, Dr. Fitzgerald further questions, “And why do you think that might be?”

“I’m thinking it stems from all the earlier times I was switched on and off -- alone and not in control.”

“I see,” the doctor quietly contemplates. “Question. What does your --“ -- now it was Dr. Fitzgerald’s turn to chuckle -- “--bedroom look like?”

In a matter-of-fact gesture, Arnie shrugged, “It is an off-white room with my upright recharging stall in it.”

Dr. Fitzgerald spats out, “that will never do. Arnie, it’s time to decorate. Fill your bedroom with life. Get pictures for the walls, furniture for the room and knickknacks for the furniture and see if that helps.”

With a big sigh of relief, Arnie sits up and faces the doctor. “Consider it a done deal. But the constant being alone? What of that?”

“My only advice? Make friends. Don’t be alone.”

Arbitrator/Mitigator

While on the job everything I do is done with pre-thought of intention from the suit I wear to the mannerism I exhibit.

I shyly with firm intention walk up to the receptionist’s desk and lay my laptop down on her desk as many have done before me. While engaging in conversation with someone on the switchboard, the young woman automatically realizes my presence. She has been forewarned, of course, that a “robot” will be approaching her desk today but nonetheless her mouth falls agape and she immediately puts the caller on hold.

“I am here for the 2:00 meeting?” I assure her.

“Uh, yes,” she states while mesmerized at the sight of me.

I notice a small framed picture to her left of herself and her apparent baby girl and a fidget toy alongside that.

“Beautiful little girl you got there,” I commented.

Slowly moving out of her slumber of amazement, “Yeah. She is my everything.”

“I am sure. If you don’t mind me mentioning it,” I lean a tad forward in confidence, “I have a collection of fidgets at home. Breaks the stress a bit, don’t you think?”

The young receptionist feels a tad more at ease as she giggles a bit. The iceberg of our differences erodes further. She can now return to her routine with a renewed sense of ease.

“Please sit down and I’ll give them a call,” she states as she has assured so many others before me.

“Thank you.” I turn to view the waiting room to comply.

Within a few seconds, “They are ready to see you. Do you need assistance in finding the conference room?”

I already know the floor’s layout but request her assistance just the same. On our journey from the reception area to the conference room all workers acknowledge the receptionist’s mundane trapse past them escorting yet another unknown guest. The office workers unconsciously are assured safety in this way. They only feel curiosity but not danger as they return to their work at hand.

Upon the conference room’s doors opening the appropriate introductions are performed. I immediately reach out my hand to all parties in an insistence that they extend theirs. Cordial greetings are exchanged.

I, of course, have done my homework. Fully researching merger difficulties between the existing two companies. Thoroughly researching the individuals themselves that are involved from their financial interests to each individuals’ hobbies that they are pursuing.

Opening up the session, I calmly explained my physical attributes, my expertise in such matters and my pleasure to be of service to all parties equally.

I then request possession of the thumb drives. With the thumb drives, containing the intricate details of both companies' financial standings and strategic plans, clutched tightly in my hands, I retreated to the secluded deliberation room.

I lifted my sleeve, revealing a small, rectangle scar on my wrist. This was the access point, a biological interface, I possess to expedite data processing. Inserting the thumb drives into the corresponding slots, I initiated the upload. As the data streamed into my consciousness, a mental landscape of information transforms before my eyes.

Once the information is uploaded, I return to the conference room with the laptop and thumb drives redistributed.

I open the floor up to the gentlemen and women representatives in front of me and the play begins.

“I need further substantial evidence that after the merger and for years to come my company will exist. I want it in writing,” demands Mr. White, the owner of White Industries.

Mr. Vance springs out of his chair simultaneously throwing up his hands in disgust.

He pleads with me, “I give up. You have seen that we have bent over backwards to make this merger as agreeable as we can. But that -- that -- how are we supposed to meet that kind of request? Who knows what the future holds?”

After an hour and a half of going around and around in circles, I had to agree with him.

“Mr. Vance, with your permission of course, I would like to speak privately with Mr. White. Is that acceptable?”

Resigning, “Fine, fine. Whatever.”

Sitting across from Mr. White, in the empty deliberation room, “So tell me what’s really going on here?”

“I need confirmation that my business will outlive me. It has been my life’s work. The only reason I am here today discussing a merger is because my doctor has informed me the stress will kill me if I continue.”

I paused letting the man before me hear his own words in the pregnant silence I have created.

“I am not a stupid man. I realize the financial opportunity this merger will create for me but I still need assurance that my child, my company will survive like some of the greats. Heinz ketchup, IBM or Lamborghini, for example.”

Letting go is a challenge. Embracing one’s mortality is quite another.

“Besides your company, what other desires do you possess?” I inquisitively asked.

“Desires, hmph.” It was obviously a question quite infrequently pondered as he took a lengthy time to reply.

“Funny. I foolishly envision having a glass of wine on the Mediterranean Riviera.”

“Foolish, why?”

“Frankly, I don't know why.”

“Perhaps it is a time for foolish ideas,” I suggested.

What he said was true, he wasn’t a stupid man. The merger was tied up within the next half hour.

A Friend

Dreading the confines of my apartment, I decided to grab dinner at the restaurant across the street. As the waiter set down my plate, I spotted Ms. Laurelee Jamerson from the meeting heading my way.

“You were quite impressive in there,” she smiled.

I grinned. “Thanks. Want to join me?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” she answered while sliding into the chair opposite me and scanning the restaurant.

“Are you looking for a waiter’s attention,” I asked.

“Why yes. I am famished. Do you mind?”

Pushing my plate in front of her, I welcomed her to it. “Quite all right, but please have mine.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. I’ll order my own.”

“No need. I don't eat.”

She looked down at the plate in front of her. “You don't eat,” she repeated. “Then why did you order this?”

“Oh, I guess to make the waiter feel more at ease.”

We shared a genuine laugh.

After the restaurant meeting, we began to see each other from time to time. And the time-to-times became more and more frequent. And I soon had my first friend.

Kevin

“Bartender, another over here,” slurred Kevin.

“Look, Mack. You’ve been in here since 2:00 this afternoon. It is now -- 11:00. I’m going to have to cut you off.”

“Oh, come on. Just one more,” Kevin pointed a wobbly finger.

“You know, I could let you drink the whole bar and go home to my wife and tell her how rich we have become on your dime. That would surely make her happy,” the bartender came closer to Kevin. “But it wouldn’t really make your problems or mine go away, now would it?”

“I didn’t say the whole bar --”

“My advice? Go sleep it off. Everything looks better in the morning. Now, you need me to call you an Uber, friend?”

“Fine,” as Kevin tilted himself off the barstool and into an unsteady upright position. “I’m right around the corner. No need.”

Kevin made his way to the parking lot in back of the bar. On his third try keyed the car door open.

More than a Friend

Coming out of the theater one night, Laurelee asked, “Arnie, did you enjoy the play?”

“Why yes, I did. Did you?”

“I have noticed that everywhere we go you are looking at me as well. Like at the play tonight, you were watching me as well as the play. Why is that?”

I blushed, “Honestly? My enjoyment of whatever we are doing is through you. I hope you don't mind.”

“Through me?” Her head tilted as she seemed to be viewing me in a different light. “Explain.”

“Have you ever gone to Disneyland’s ride ‘It’s a Small World’ with a small child? It is amazing. What I see is many, many little dolls singing the song. The child I was with saw many, many little kids singing. It brought magic to the whole experience.”

“So you see me as a little kid?” Laurelee said while feigning being insulted.

“No, no. It’s just when I see things, it is through an analytical interpretation. When I see those dolls, I consider their composition. I analyze the spacing of one from the other. I further --”

“I get it. So in other words, you don't really enjoy it?”

“No. I appreciate their composition. I appreciate their aesthetic placement and rich colors, et cetera. While watching a movie, I can analyze the beginning and middle and determine the ending. I then continue to watch to see if I was correct.”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun. And when you look at me?”

“I see what feelings these things are eliciting in you.”

“And then you can feel the feelings?”

“Exactly,” Arnie smiled in triumph.

Laurelee puzzled for a minute. “Can you turn that analytical thingy off? Is there a switch to turn it on when you need it and off when you don't?”

“Why yes. I had never considered that before.”

Laurelee laughed, “When you're with me and we're doing something turn it off and come over to the ‘dark side.’”

I closed my eyes for a moment and turned off that part of my chip. “Done.”

Sitting at the bar of a well-to-do restaurant waiting for our name to be announced, Laurelee slowly sipped on a glass of Chardonnay.

Her eyes were glistening as she pulled in closer to me. “So tell me,” she whispered. “Are you fully functional?”

I actually, with my analysis turned off, delighted in her playful mood.

“Laurelee,” I snickered. “You mean am I functioning fully, right?”

Giggling like a schoolgirl and reaching for my hand, “No, silly. I meant what I said. Are you fully functional?” She tilted her head displaying her deliberate wink.

After dinner, it was apparent that Laurelee had “one too many,” and I, being the gentleman, I was programmed to be, decided it was time to get her to bed.

I helped her on with her coat. Helping her to the curbside, we started to walk as a unit across the busy street. Halfway through the roadway, Laurelee decided to stop and attempt to kiss me.

“Laurelee, not now. Let’s cross the street,” I started to gather her up to continue our crossing.

I heard screams from a man to my right from the other side of the street.

“The car! The car! Get out of the way!”

I looked up. I saw a green Honda closing in fast.

I only had time to say, “Oh, shit.”