Grey Rollins: When There's a Will, There's a Way

Illustration by Steve Cavallo

Talk about America’s love affair with cars….

I used to be human. Now my mind resides on a NeVPROM chip under the hood of an Icarus—one of the sleekest, fastest, sexiest cars on the road.

I arrived at the dealership in late February, and spent four days out on the lot getting dusty before I was able to talk one of the salesmen into getting me polished up and put on the showroom floor where it’s nice and clean.

She came in three days later. Within seconds, I had spun all my eyes towards her.

Why am I still interested if I don’t have a you-know-what? Call it force of habit. Call it esthetic appreciation for the finer things in life. Call it what you like, but I still enjoy looking at women.

She was coming at me like she already owned me. A purposeful walk, heels tapping a steady beat on the tiles. She stopped about five paces away and cocked her head, studying my lines.

“I come equipped with top-of-the-line De Armond seats,” I told her. “Fourteen individual, leather-covered, pneumatic cushions that contour to fit your body like a fine glove.”

“The way you say it, that almost sounds suggestive.”

“Live a little.” I popped the door latch and gently swung the door open with my C-4 hydraulic extensor. “Get in,” I invited.

She hesitated, then slid behind the wheel.

Roger Tarker, one of the salesmen, arrived on the scene. He’s big, obnoxiously handsome, suave, and ultimately as shallow as an ashtray. “Ma’am, you and that Icarus were made for each other. You look good in it.”

She turned and looked him over with a neutral expression. “My name’s not Ma’am,” she said evenly, “it’s Alexis. But you can call me Mrs. Hanson.”

I took the hint and slammed the door in his face. Now we were alone.

I spoke quickly. “The sticker says sixty-two-five, but they’ll take fifty-six if you push; the model hasn’t been moving well.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to want me.”

Her eyes narrowed.

I had that sickening elevator-drop sensation. I’d been presumptuous.

But then she nodded ever so slightly. “Fifty-six,” she said softly.

“Get out and kick my tires. Find a body panel that doesn’t fit just right. I’ve got to open up before they decide I’ve gone renegade and pull my module.” I opened the door, neatly clipping Roger’s thigh with the edge as it swung past.

“Please give the lady room to get out, Mr. Tarker,” I said politely.

The look he gave me was decidedly strange, but he let it ride. He thought his attention, both professionally and personally, might be better focused on the woman standing before him.

“Show me the engine,” she commanded Roger.

He blinked. After all, even in this day and age, few women are interested in the mechanical portions of an automobile, especially those who come in dressed, as she was, in an elegant suit that must have cost upwards of five hundred. But he rallied nicely and leaned past her to trip the manual release to the hood. I beat him to it.

“Opening the engine compartment, Mrs. Hanson.”

The corner of her mouth twitched as though she was trying hard not to smile. “ You can call me Alexis,” she said, glancing my way.

She listened attentively to Roger’s canned sales spiel about my vital parts. I tactfully kept quiet. It’s not polite to sing one’s own praises—better to let others do it for you.

“Where’s the personality module?” she asked.

Roger leaned deeper into my engine compartment. “Here,” he said, fingering the reinforced box that protects my NeVPROM. “Flip the catches… so… and… so, and the top comes off. There are four chips in here, but the personality module is the big one on the left.”

Alexis leaned into the engine compartment, squinting at my chip. She was whispering numbers under her breath… Nine, six, six, three. You’re mine, fella.”

It sounded like my serial number.

Roger smiled smugly behind her, not having heard her whisper. “They’re easy to replace if you don’t care for the personality that comes with the car.”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Alexis said calmly as she withdrew. “A man with no spunk isn’t worth having around. I can’t imagine a car like this,” her fingertips brushed my fender lightly, “with the personality of an accountant. Something like an Icarus needs to be a bit of a rogue. Anything else would be a waste.”

Roger forced a smile to his face. “Of course.”

She sighed. “But the car is expensive.”

They went into his office to dicker. I don’t think he took her entirely seriously until she began to count out one thousand dollar bills on his desk. Money talks, but cash screams, and he was being deafened.

She finished counting and looked at him. “Well? Do you want to sell me that Icarus?” She pointed out the open office door towards me.

“But Alexis, that’s only fifty-six thousand,” he said hoarsely. His eyes never left the bills.

“That’s correct. I have no intention of paying full list price—and my name is Mrs. Hanson.”

He nodded, chastened. “Uh… yes, Mrs. Hanson. Excuse me, I’ll need to talk to the sales manager.”

After he left, she turned and gave me a slow wink. There was a half-smile on her face. I made sure no one was looking, then opened the driver’s door, ever so quietly. Only an inch, but the invitation was unmistakable. She discreetly gestured for me to close it, then composed herself.

Roger returned with the sales manager. Unfortunately, they closed the door, so I had no way of hearing what was said, but when the door opened again, Alexis was smiling.

Since it was our first time, Alexis drove. Once I knew where she lived, I’d be able to do it on my own.

Oh, sure… she could have told me the address, I could have looked it up in my internal maps, queried the Global Positioning System, and driven her there myself, but that would have taken all the romance out of it. Besides, there would be all the time in the world for me to drive her—let her have this one symbolic trip.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“I’m glad you bought me.”

“You mean, me, specifically?”

“Of course.”

A thoughtful pause. “Why me?”

“You’re beautiful, classy, and intelligent. If I were still a flesh and blood man, I’d be doing my damnedest to invite you to dinner.”

She laughed gently. “So what kind of man were you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“When they transfer people to chips, they pare away the memories. It wouldn’t do for me to suddenly make an unplanned right turn, just to see if my old high school is still there. It’s part of the price you pay for a second lease on life.”

She sounded subdued. “So you remember nothing at all about being human? No favorite foods, no birthdays, no… loved ones?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I’d heard that, but I didn’t believe it. You still seem like a whole person. Isn’t your personality formed from your experiences in life? How can you still have a personality if your memories have been stripped away?”

“Anything that’s a distinct part of your personality may have started in response to a particular event, but it becomes habitual. Your personality can survive being deprived of the memories that gave birth to it.”

“Sounds as though your personality is frozen—almost fossilized.”