Кори Доктороу - Make Shift - Dispatches from the Post-Pandemic Future

Its body pads into view, a little white machine about the size of a cat, equipped with simple manipulators. Mostly it’s just there to put an emoji-projecting face to the basic AI synced into the apartment’s retrofit network. Its manipulator telescopes to start putting the groceries into the fridge. Meanwhile I wash my hands, thoroughly, fingertip to elbow with a coconut scented soap Jan got me into the habit of buying.

“Wednesday,” I echo. “Huh. Kids couldn’t wait four fucking days to have their party.”

“Are you going to a party, Ivan?” the housebot asks. “Remember that groups larger than ten…”

“I don’t even know ten people in this whole city,” I say, scrubbing my hands, jigsawing my fingers to get the soap in all the cracks and creases. “It was just some kids on the tram. They’re planning a big bug fest. Because, you know, kids are invincible and never think shit through.”

“Kids can be either children or young goats,” the housebot says. “Both are capricious. Ha!”

I turn the water off and stare. The housebot’s screen is projecting the crying-with-laughter emoji. Maybe the last update included some kind of humor patch, or maybe it’s just glitching.

“Right,” I say. “Capricious. Hey, what’s the Czech word for irresponsible?”

“ Nezodpovědný ,” the housebot says, and it seems unfair that its pronunciation is so much better than mine when it’s put in none of the time. “Would you like to play some word games this evening to help improve your vocabulary?”

“Already got plans,” I say.

“That’s great, you asshole,” the housebot says, reaching for the last grocery bag. “What are you planning to do?”

“Off,” I say.

The housebot freezes with its manipulator halfway inside the bag, and there’s a little downscale chime to let me know the AI’s in sleep mode. I pull the bag away and pull the beer out. The Czech Republic has so many wonderful beers. You can pretend you’re on some sort of cultural mission to sample them all for a very long time before you realize you’re just a lonely old man with nothing better to do in the evening than drink.

Eventually you just do what I do, and grab a big plastic bottle of whatever’s eye-level. This time it’s Krušovice, which I remember Jan always hated. One and a half liters, perfect for pouring you and your friends a pint each, and also perfect for sending me out of my head for the rest of the evening and making sure I fall right asleep.

The housebot’s not programmed to be judgmental, but somehow I always end up turning it off when I drink, and recycling the bottles on my own. I pour myself the first glass, raise it in the housebot’s general direction, and begin. It’s a party of one, which is very responsible. Very odpovědný.

THE HANGOVER IS PART OF THE RITUAL, AT THIS POINT. IT HITS A LOT HARDER THAN ITused to: I wake up feeling it in my whole body, not just my aching cranium and mummified mouth. Luckily I’ve got nowhere to be. The bed’s twice as big now, but I always end up on the same side of it by muscle memory. I sort of resent Jan for that—it took me ages to get used to sharing a bed, and now that I’ve got the whole thing to myself I can’t take advantage.

I look at the big empty beer bottle on my nightstand, feel faintly sick, then haul myself out of bed one lead-dipped body part at a time. I always wake up needing to piss these days, so that’s the first step. Afterward I clump into the kitchen and find the housebot still frozen where I left it.

“On,” I say.

“Good morning, shit-head!” it chirps, but it doesn’t seem funny today. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a drunken baby,” I say. “Thanks.”

I pour myself a glass of water, gulp down half then give the rest to the plant on the tabletop. Now that the weather’s warming up I have to keep a closer eye on it. Last week I walked past and found it all drooped over, leaves hanging off the stalks like they’d had their necks snapped. I won’t lie; it panicked me.

All the plants were Jan’s. He brought them home the way kids in books bring stray dogs home, and now it’s on me to keep them alive. I’ve been thinking about buying smart pots for them, the kind with little white legs that let them follow the sun and tap impatiently when the soil gets too dry. But repotting would mean getting rid of the pots Jan picked, and it sounds like a lot of work, besides.

Everything sounds like a lot of work lately. Especially now that I don’t actually work—I’ve lived here long enough to qualify for UBI, one of the reforms that got pushed through after the Big One. Right after Jan passed I went through a stretch where I worked like mad, took every commission and client I could, but eventually it didn’t help anymore, so I stopped. I tell myself it’s because I’ve earned the right to relax for a bit.

“What are you thinking about, Ivan?” the housebot asks.

“Not a thing,” I say.

“Lockdown is expected to end Wednesday,” it says. “Three days until freedom!”

That’s the thing, though, isn’t it. For other people, it’s freedom. For me, nothing really changes. I’m always on lockdown.

THE DAY GOES AT A TRICKLE, LIKE MOST DAYS. I’VE GOT MY ROUTINES, OF COURSE.Lunch is half an avocado and fried egg on toast, and while I do the washing up I listen to a certain astronomy podcast. It’s not quite the same without Jan complaining how boring it is. After soaping and rinsing the handful of dishes, I leave the housebot to scrub the floor and I go sleep on the foam couch.

I used to set an alarm, have the housebot get me up after a half-hour. But that was when I was working. Now I find being unconscious is my preferred state: no aches, no pains, no memories. So I sleep off the rest of the hangover and wake up groggy two hours later, at which point I read for a while, an old stain-covered book of Pablo Neruda in translation. My fingers are stiffer than usual turning the pages and I can’t really focus on it.

Eventually I give up and go to the balcony. It’s the best part of the apartment, I think. South-facing, so there’s always plenty of sunlight. Big enough for two chairs and a slightly wobbly tripod table. We used to drink gin and tonics out here in the summer, and curse at the pair of pigeons who always shit on the railing.

We tried all sorts of things to get rid of them. I remember we found an audio track of falcon noises, and tried blasting that through a speaker. It spooked the blackbirds roosting on the roof, but these two insolent pigeons just waddled right up to the Bluetooth to investigate.

And now they flutter in, right on cue, to perch on the railing and eyeball me.

“Fuck off, birds,” I tell them.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that!” the housebot sings from inside. “Can you repeat yourself, Ivan?”

“Nothing,” I say, but the housebot’s body comes padding out onto the balcony anyway. One of the pigeons startles, flurrying its wings, then recovers.

“It’s a beautiful day to sit on the balcony,” the housebot says. “It’s twenty-four degrees Celsius with a mix of sun and cloud.”

I lean back in my chair and put my feet up on the wobbly table. Past the pigeons, across the street, I see the abandoned building and remember the kids from the tram. I can see why they picked it: it’s partially rubble, and slathered in graffiti, and partying there would give them that real grungy rebellious feel.

“Would you like to facecall your sister?” the housebot asks.

I bristle. “Quit asking me that,” I say. “I’ll call her when…” It’s absurd, but I say it anyways. “When I have time.”

“Okay, Ivan,” the housebot says. “I’ll quit asking you that.”