G. Wright - Broken Things

“And then there’s the really crazy people. They opt to buy babies! Can you imagine being stuck with something like that? They scream all the time, you’re constantly changing diapers, and they demand constant attention. That’s why I think that so many babies get damaged so fast. You can’t even turn them off to rest. You get a screaming machine that you can’t shut up. Their owners eventually accidentally drop them. It’s hard to imagine how parents raised the real things, and those would grow up. That’s the real reason that there hasn’t been a real kid born for twenty years. The world is a better place without them.”

“But you were a kid once, weren’t you?”

“That was a long time ago,” she said, “And that’s not how the world works anymore. I’m the perfect age, and I’ll never have to worry about getting older.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to get older?”

She looked mildly shocked in the rear view mirror, flashing him a glance as though he were crazy. “Why would we? Everyone wants to live forever. The world is perfect now. No more death. A perfect society with no one getting old and ugly.”

“Then why even bother creating kids then?”

“My point exactly! We don’t need you.”

Following that, they rode along in silence. He didn’t want to talk to her anymore. His parents did love him, didn’t they?

Soon the road merged with a highway, and not long after that the fields gave way to buildings as they entered Boise. Cars were nearly bumper to bumper everywhere he looked, and looking over the seat he saw that they still maintained a speed averaging ten miles an hour over the posted limit.

What if all of the people were robots too? Maybe nobody was real, they just went about pretending that they were, living in perpetual self-denial. When they came too close to the truth, if their minds dwelled on their existence too long, they took it out on someone else, like children. And in a way, that would make them feel better because when you were miserable everyone else should be too.

If everyone lived forever, shouldn’t they be having more fun? His dad looked miserable every day, grabbing his lunch and heading out the door, heading off to the plant to do whatever he did. His mom would tell him, “Have a good day at work!” to which he’d respond with a grunt. Then his mom would rush him out the door before planning her own day, which always started later, heading off to her job at the salon, where in the few times he’d gone there to wait for her involved playing with peoples’ hair and telling embarrassing stories about other people that they knew.

If he got to live forever, he’d want to spend it going places, like theme parks and beaches (but not the mountains, never again the mountains), and playing games. Heck, even if he didn’t live forever, that would still be what he’d want to do. But shouldn’t he be able to live forever, too? Technically he didn’t age either.

They drove through the downtown and pulled into a private parking garage to what appeared to be a fairly large office complex with massive windows that reflected the street, with a large sign above that read Kidsmith. Mrs. Hart exited the car and opened his door, expecting him to follow, which he did reluctantly.

She led him through the door, and the voices on the inside merged into a jumble of sound, nothing truly understandable, but a necessary hum that meant that things were happening. A few people looked up at him as they walked by but no one flashed him a smile, though many did for the woman, some giving her a friendly nod. Josh, on the other hand, was an object, a machine. To acknowledge him would be to personify him, and in their line of work they wouldn’t want to get attached to him. Probably none of them even had any kids.

If anything their eyes displayed contempt. He felt like hiding, he wished even though he hated her that she would take his hand. His face burned with embarrassment. He could see the dirt on the back of his hands and all over his arms and on his clothes. He tried to focus on each step but the colors in the room were beginning to go gray. Oh please not here. He bit his lip. Keep walking, he told himself, just follow, don’t think.

“Mrs. Hart,” Josh said, trying to get her attention. But she ignored him. His voice sounded tinny and far away as though it was being transmitted through a radio. Her attention had turned to another man in a white t-shirt and tie.

“There’s a surprise for you in my trunk,” she said, “Wait until you see it.”

Josh stumbled into a desk and bumped a cup of coffee, sending a man in a swivel chair leaping to his feet and yelling, “Goddammit!”

“I’m sorry,” he tried to say, but nothing came out, he couldn’t form the words, he could only stare up at the man with the red angry face and feel tears spill down his cheeks. He needed his parents. He wanted them there now! He wanted to turn and run from the office, but that was impossible, impossible because his body would no longer move, and now, worse, he felt his bladder give out and the warmth of pee flowing down his leg.

“Where the Hell did you find that piece of crap?” the man yelled, “He spilled my goddamned coffee!”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hart said, not really looking or sounding sorry at all, “It’s seriously malfunctioning. Somebody dumped it in the forest.” She grabbed him by the arm, and tried to pull him, but his legs didn’t move. She frowned disapprovingly. “Come on,” she said, “Move it.”

“Look at that,” the man said, “It’s pissed itself!”

Everyone in the office stared at him, some expressionless, others showing disgust. Not a few laughed and pointed. Oh please, he thought, let me black out . Yet now of all times he couldn’t. He couldn’t move or do anything, accept stand there.

“Call someone to clean it up,” she said. She grabbed him by the arm and shook him, “Come on, stop making a scene! You can walk. I’m not going to carry you.”

He looked up at her, imploringly. If only she would carry him, or take his hand, anything!

Finally she sighed. “Could you please call someone to come get this thing?”

A few minutes later, the office had mostly settled down and two men arrived, one with a handcart. They slid it under his feet, treating him like a heavy box. As they rolled him toward the back of the building he finally shut down, slipping into oblivion.

Josh opened his eyes to find himself staring up at a white ceiling with bright fluorescent lights. Someone had dressed him in fresh clothes and washed away the dirt. He rested on a cot in the corner of a small windowless room. Aside from his cot, the only other objects in the room were a small table with two rickety wooden chairs pushed beneath it. A small side room, almost no bigger than a broom closet, held a toilet and a sink.

He walked over to the door and tried the handle, but it didn’t budge. He pounded on the door and screamed, “Let me out! Hey!”

He pounded for a few minutes until finally he heard the click of the lock. He stepped back as it opened, and a nearly bald man poked his head in and said, “Hey, Keep it down. People are trying to work here.”

“I want to go home,” he told the man, fighting back more tears, “Please just let me go.”

“You are home, kid, or as home as you’re ever going to see again.”

“I want to call my parents,” he said.

The man sighed and scratched his chin. “Why didn’t they ever give these things a power button?”

“Please,” he said, “Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

The man studied him for a second, and then motioned back into the room. “Go sit down. Let’s talk for a minute.”