For Sale: Robot, Well-Worn | Alexander Evans

The robot arrived like most things do: late, and in worse shape than I expected. And I hadn’t expected much. It was a middle-of-the-night, end-of-the-auction impulse buy—or, he was an impulse buy. When I plugged in the fraying power cord, the strip of lights behind his eyeholes cycled and then unsteadily illuminated, and he introduced himself. Jeff. 

It was not a good robot name. I remembered to make a note of this in the eBay feedback. Only one of his arms worked, and the motor that allowed him to glide ominously across the floor let out a high-pitched whine whenever it was called into action, somewhat lessening the wow factor. 

Piece of shit, I said. 

Very good, sir, he said, but not like an android Jeeves, more like that old guy in the Hawaiian shirt at the end of the bar who smiles too wide at you. His voice was like gravel mixed with chocolate pudding.

What are you for, Jeff? I asked him.

What are you for? he asked me.

Not much, we said in unison, and we just looked at each other for a while, more than a while. We looked at each other until he auto-powered down, and I wondered if he’d been looking at me at all, or if he’d just been waiting for a command. I woke him up again to ask, but his memory chip was corrupted, and after he blinked to life, he introduced himself again. 

Piece of shit, I said, again.

I searched the box for an instruction manual, but instead I found a packing slip that said

“THANK YOU FOR YOUR ORDER! JESUS SAVES!” 

Seeing the amount on the invoice, it was clear that I, too, had saved, but looking back at Jeff, I wondered what all the saving had come to, in the end. I wondered whether Jesus had the same thought.

Alexander Evans is a writer and adjunct from Ohio. His small stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and featured in journals such as Pithead Chapel, X-R-A-Y, and Milk Candy Review.