“Especially after you yelling at them.”
“Encouraging,” she says, laughing. “I don’t yell. I encourage.”
I join in on the laugh as she logs out.
MY LAUGH FALTERS, AS I THINK ABOUT WHAT SHE SAID. THE QUARANTINI PARTIES don’t have new expert drinks coming in. Sure, there are alcohol delivery kits, but people complain that the limes are warm and the mint leaves wilted. Plus, the last thing they want to do is to serve themselves—a part of the fun is watching skilled hands mix it, pour it, and bring it right to them. Omotenashi: great service that makes you feel pampered. That’s what’s lacking.
For a while, the situation on the ground had seemed hopeful. People left the MyPub Meal Kits behind. They were coming to bars again. The elastic silicone sipper made by a local university engineering department looked like it could work. I had participated in the effort by bringing the department drinks for the research and later using our bar as an in situ lab. We had a bit of a local flourish of social interaction, with research participants gathering, placing elastic silicone filters over their mouths and in their noses, cradled by their lips with adhesive and with tiny hooks that latched onto nostril hairs and walls. These inserts had a small device that filtered air and we tried the ones that had fittings and latches to position straws right into them, keeping liquids coming in and viruses out. So the young human subjects could drink and chat, the latch catching as you pulled the straw out so the filter cut-out would move back into place.
It seemed to work with mixed results until a few accidental swallows and choking incidents eroded trust in the technology. Besides the adhesives losing stickiness, people found the masks uncomfortable. They were constantly readjusting and removing them. There were also cases where the epidemic spread despite proper use of the coverings, suggesting the synthetic fibers for the silicone filters weren’t as effective as they thought. It was a mess, and distributors had to recall the devices soon after rolling them out. Hopeful bar owners grumbled and I was distraught.
We went through COVID-19 and -22 when I was young, and were successful with vaccines at each iteration but it took a while. Then came ANVID-33 and -36 and now the GRAVID series. People developed strategies for coping. In the engineering and commerce world, they moved up the holo tech faster than imagined and drone delivery speeds took off.
People also tried Portable Personal Bubbles (PPBs), but that was a celeb fad that failed miserably. They were incredibly expensive and stiff. The wearers couldn’t move far beyond their power source since the battery drained fast. Those who could afford to rent them complained they were hard to manipulate and hot as hell. The batteries kept dying. Celebs said they felt like they were swallowed up by a hippo, moving like molasses, and that they’d prefer to interact through holoscreens rather than wrapped in plastic casing. Some even panicked, having trouble breathing in them.
With PPBs put to rest, GRAVID-37 took a huge toll on the population. Those infected got unexpected rashes as well as respiratory issues and chronic fatigue, and there was no viable solution in sight. Pharmaceutical companies and experts despaired. A viable vaccine was remarkably difficult to achieve and it took a few years.
We’re still waiting for a vaccine for the latest bug, GRAVID-38, and we’re impatient. I, perhaps, am one of the most.
I fiddle with a double jigger, rolling it between my fingers as I think about possibilities, ways forward—quick, safe, and easy measures for people to take to get a drink served.
I look at my jigger, thinking of measuring spirits and shaking drinks as customers look on in rapt anticipation.
Omotenashi.
What if I brought the bar experience to them?
I GATHER PARTS FROM BROKEN CLEANERBOTS AND SERVICE DRONES AND SOME old machines at the gym. I scavenge more parts from a junkyard nearby. I remember my cleanerbot, the old one from my parent’s house in the countryside, that would bump into things. It had a shaking mechanism to deploy these old aerosol cleaners they sold at the mart. They don’t sell the aerosol cans anymore because of environmental regulations, but our bot still had that shake programmed in. It was a bit outdated.
I give my parents a holocall. It takes them a while before they pick up. They don’t like using these things. Mom picks up as she’s fixing up an ikebana work of art, twisting a sakura branch to the perfect angle, part of her activities in attempting to achieve ikigai. “Just come over and get the antiquated thing. It’s still here. It’s next to a load of your old clothes, chemistry sets, and junk. I don’t think it works though. Just didn’t have the heart to throw it away since I knew you liked it.”
“Liked it! That thing always malfunctioned!”
“Yeah, but didn’t you say you liked the sounds it made?”
Mom has a good memory. I did. The phantom sounds of its gurgling pentatonic melody that played as it shook fill my ears. I’d forgotten about that.
She snaps a branch in half and chucks it behind her. The newest cleanerbot snatches it up. “I’ll send it over. And your old chemistry sets. They’re sitting around here, gathering dust.”
I protest about saving the delivery drone extra work, but she logs out. Oh well, I’ll just throw out the chem sets when they arrive.
After the call, I sketch out designs and order more parts from the hardware holostore, my mind racing.
WHEN MY OLD CLEANERBOT ARRIVES, I CHARGE IT UP. AS THE STRANGE MELODY drones on, in my mind I see the flowing waves of verdant blades of rice in the paddies, and the heady smell of fermentation in our old shed. I live in that nostalgic space for a moment before I go into plan-execution mode. I say goodbye to our old family cleanerbot and hello to my new tech.
I drill, cut, shave, and attach. I solder and bend. I even add in pieces of my childhood chemistry set—repurposing the durable test tubes. A couple of drones help me out but I do most of the work by hand, enhanced with a home improvement gauntlet that reduces injuries and enhances strength and grip.
It takes me days and I’ve ignored all my calls. I miss five calls from Aimi, two from my parents, and a dozen holonet celeb requests.
I attach a small retractable slab to the front of the metallic figure before me. That will be the counter.
I put powder packets into its compartments and turn it on for a test run. The bot empties packages, mixes, adds water with an attached hose, mixes again and shakes. As it shakes, the floor vibrates and I feel the trembling up through my feet and calves. It tinkles out its strange melody as it pours out the concoction, while another appendage reaches in and grabs a straw and places it gingerly into the cup. A compartment ejects an umbrella and a satsuma. The bot grabs these with the same appendage and adds them to the cup. It places the cup on the metal rack.
The drink stops fizzing and rests.
I take a sip. I grimace. It needs work. The proportions and balance are off. The drink tastes watery and weak. I can still feel the residue of powder and grit on my tongue. The shaking needs more rigor. The satsuma slice falls right onto my lap, as it wasn’t wedged in well to begin with. The bot looks silly with inelegant protruding parts. It needs a shinier coat and better decor.
I put down the drink, wipe my mouth with my sleeve.
My first drink from my first robosake mixologist.
It might be crude, but we’ll get there.
AFTER THE MANY STEPS OF ADDING KOJI, STEAMED RICE, AND WATER AND THEN strained through pressing, my family got crude sake. The liquid was milky and viscous. My mom insisted on clear sake—she wanted to recreate the experience of sipping the refreshing waters of a winter creek.