I kept looking around his office, expecting to find what?, I still can't
put my finger on. His late
arrival prompted me to look. I am human and I worked for 'droids. Gosh!
I went to work for
them when I was down on my luck. I couldn't keep a job with humans,
because only half my
brain is human, the other half is machine, with the same stuff that
make the 'droids brains. I was
in an accident, had an operation. A 'droid doctor made my brain half
'droid. I am called a half '
droid by prejudiced humans. Every time I worked for humans, I got fired.
Because I made
humans feel so low. Humans made me feel low. I remember all the anxiety
I went through before
I got my job with the 'droids. I still went through much anxiety. A
good, useful human being
without a job is an unthinkable impossibility. A human, half 'droid
brain like me without a job,
to me, was nearly just as unthinkable. In the middle of the third millennium
life is all about
working. A person is defined by what he does. A person without a job,
regardless of his
circumstances, is lumped with the lazy and the worthless that sit at
home doing and being
nothing, and who survive on the charity of the do-ers. I thanked my
lucky stars that I had
a job and I was not numbered among the swamy idle. I received a salary.
Finally, six minutes late, he made his entrance.
My eyes centered on on the plain buttons of his coat. My supervisor
wore the white coat
of the highly efficient technical class of 'droids. His coat had no
added frills like some of the
others of his rank. He wore no colorful ribbons and brass buttons on
his chest. He was the
perfect boss for our encounter.
He spoke my name, " Sam, " and he called my head to turn to face his
direct gaze. He r
emained standing. I stood.
'Droid stand when formally addressing each other.
"We begin for the record," he said.
I nodded. Every school child knows, 'droids are machine-made men with
cognitive minds whose
duty is to devote all of their time to serving the society of humans
and 'droids. 'Droids are
governed by a set of rules laid down two centuries ago by the
wise and saintly scientist-
philosopher Earl Benedict. Since I was doing a 'droid job I was bound
to follow the iron law
with the steel clauses of the 'droids, with none of the bleeding-heart
work rules and the concessions
of human-dom. I had to listen and to take, -- to stand at attention
and to take.
He listed a half dozen complains against me and asked for an explanation.
I began to give an
answer to each complaint and I tried to convey to him how I felt. I
was a human fearing
joblessness, idleness. As I explained my self, justifying everything
I said and did that drew the
complaints, I considered doing a little kowtowing and shuffling, then
I heard from the better half
of my brain: Enough is enough. You are going to vent. Start right now,
here.
"I am not cold and inattentive. I try to maintain control. YES!"
He stopped me. "You are emergency response personnel. At the scene of
tragedy your duty is
to show sensitivity."
"I am a tow truck driver."
"Just a tow truck driver." My supervisor shook his head, smiled, "You poor human."
After each work shift that involves one or more contacts or encounters
with humans 'droids return
to their section and stand straight at attention and report, confess,
any fault which may have crept
into their programming, and which negatively affected their performance.
Clearly, the 'droids see
contact with humans as a source of infection. Maybe, they saw me with
my half-human brain as a
very bad influence in the section. They tolerated my presence, perhaps
for reasons of practical
necessity. Their first rule, duty, is to serve humans. I know that
they over-rode their Rules from
time to time, but that is another story.
I told my supervisor that I only said what was on my mind. He told me:
being truthful is one thing,
and thinking what you think isn't that bad in itself, but saying it
out loud is wrong.
"We must, " he said, "show we care enough about human beings to look
upset when any person
is killed."
I told him that I do get upset.
He said, "It is your half-human brain. You are not yet immune to pain,
but I hope some day you
will be, and that the 'droid half will become stronger."
I generally liked my 'droid supervisor. I mostly felt comfortable working
for him. I could not
contradict him in the same way I used to contradict my mother. But,
I had to talk, to tell him --
My head filled with facts, anecdotes and strident quotes of famous dead
persons that I felt
compelled to get out. I knew it was funny, but each time I felt compelled
to contradict my 'droid
supervisor, I felt a longing for past times with my now deceased mother.
My supervisor was a
'droid, not my mama. I knew how hard it was for me to get a job, so
when I usually disagreed
with my boss I did it quietly, timidly. He was patient, but could get
annoyed. Sometimes, he got so
intense that he stopped talking. I got quieter. I could not afford
to offend him too much. I tried
not to contradict him any --anyway not more than one time a month,
but it proved difficult to keep
that limit.
"Sam, show feelings for others," he said.
I wanted to jump on this that I took for 'droid sentimental thinking.
He was in a way my Mr. Chips,
my 'droid mentor, old micro-chips! I remembered reading books with
passages of dialog similar
to the line of thought, and even the phrases, he used.
"I do my job. I get wrecks off the street. As for people? People are
killed every day," I said lowly.
I wanted to back up the last statement with detailed stats, but halted.
This ability, this compulsion
of mine to be forthright and truthful at all times, and be RIGHT, and
to remember everything I read
or see or hear or feel, and to remember and to tell it true, began
after my operation, and is a curse.
I stumbled a minute and then I remembered self and forgot myself, and
I thrust my head forward, into
my supervisor's face. My eyes were lit to make a point with relish.
My supervisor jumped back, as
though I was an alien. He let out a little screech, almost a yell.
I remembered that I once surprised my
mama by hiding in the hallway linen closet, and when she opened the
door, jumping out and yelling,
"Boo!" She stuttered, spit, almost spattered me with spit.
"You want me to be fake?" I said to my 'droid supervisor. "Otherwise a phoney?"
"Show com--pass--ion, " he stumbled over the word.
"I try."
He shook his head. "Not enough."
"Just one opinion, yours," I said.
"I'm your boss though . . ." he said.
"Right, right," I said. "Right."
(c) Copyrighted 1996 by Franchot Lewis
All Rights Reserved
