Having now noted all that seemed necessary for the purposes of this paper, I thanked my friend Budlong, and after wishing well to his "priestcraft," as I took the liberty of calling it, from its chief department, I took my leave.
I have lost my interest in public speaking. Would anybody like to buy very cheap a ticket to the next course of the famous lectures on the History of Ireland?
I am going to write to Budlong with details of the economy to be secured by substituting a small number of patent men for the present standing armies of Europe, and for our own troops, except those in garrison in the Ku Klux districts, and those employed against the Indians. I think the influence of the various societies for preventing cruelty to animals might be secured in favor of substituting clothes-horses for the present style of cavalry horses; as to the soldiers themselves, I doubt it: I have not observed that these benevolent gentlemen paid much attention to the convenience of human beings. For my part, I think it is almost as well worth while to save pain to men by putting a mechanical substitute in their place, as to fling up a tin pigeon, that won’t make a good pie after he’s dead, into the air to be shot at.
POSTSCRIPT.—I have just cut from a newspaper the following paragraph, which shows once more how impossible it is for humanity to reach perfection, and how well founded, though unsuccessful, was my friend Budlong’s solicitous watchfulness over his machinery:—
SAD ACCIDENT.—The very valuable and costly patent minister, officiating at the First Presbyterian Church in this town, suddenly exploded yesterday afternoon, in consequence of a defect in the windpipe, in the midst of the sermon, with a terrific howl. Portions of the sermon were driven into the heads of several of the audience, passing, by a singular accident, in one or two cases, in at one ear, and out at the other. Permanent mental derangement is apprehended in the cases of two or three prominent members of the church, from passages of the sermon supposed remaining in the brain. This sad catastrophe has cast a deep gloom over our usually cheerful village.
(1877)
A ROBOT WALKS INTO A BAR
Romie Stott
Romie Stott was born in 1980 in Dallas, Texas and obtained her masters degree from London Film School in 2009. She is a writer and filmmaker (working mainly as Romie Faienza), known for Hayseeds and Scalawags (2011), and the short film Aperture (2009), a science fiction horror movie told in still images, in which an alienated student becomes obsessed with outrunning the speed of light. Her cheerfully morbid Birthday Song ("[C] You made it this far and you [F] haven’t been killed by [C] sharks") is a favourite among ukulele players.
When I met David, I was working as a bouncer at a trance club downtown—a high-end place where before the muscle manhandles them to the curb, big spenders get a polite request from a smiling girl who wonders if they’d rather move to a private room. Unlike the bar staff, I don’t get tips, and like the rest of the bouncers, I spend most of the evening scanning the crowd for trouble. I just do it in a slinky dress while holding a shirley temple. It’s not a great job, but it lets me double dip—at the same time I watch for assholes, I keep a lookout for new trends, which I report to another boss. Remember the headbands that were popular last year, the ones with shapes cut out of them? I’m one of the people who spotted that back when a few college kids were hand-making theirs.
Meanwhile, I’m doing a third job as a shill making small talk about the product of the week, whether it’s berry-flavored vodka or an "underground" new single. On a good day, I feel like a double agent, like the membrane through which cool percolates. Other times, I think it’s pretty sick. But by stacking jobs, I only have to work fifteen hours a week, which leaves me time for my music. Not that I use my free time to work on my music. I mostly watch movies. And spend most of my paycheck on drinks and clothes. Keeps the bosses happy.
The first thing I noticed about David was his hands, the way he handled objects. It’s obvious, really—hands, sex—it’s like saying he had beautiful eyes (which he did, though I didn’t look at them until later). Most people, when they approach the bar, do one of two things. Either they push to the front, catcall the bartender, and wave a lot of cash around, or they hesitate, meek and uncomfortable, talk too softly for their order to be made out, and wait until the last minute to fumble through a stack of credit cards. David, in contrast, was still, but still in a way that had weight behind it. He waited like a man who was completely aware of the crowds and flashing lights, but completely separate from them. When he pulled out his wallet, his movements were economical. Deliberate. As though he knew precisely where every bill rested—its unique texture and particular history, its level of appropriateness to the task, and the exact amount of force required to tease it free of its brothers.
The way I describe it, it sounds fussy. It wasn’t. There is something thrilling and frightening about a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. It should make him seem safe. It does the opposite. I was seized with a strong compulsion to knit a stiff yarn dress and let him unravel it from around me—thread popping as knots pull loose line after line; a reverse dot matrix printer, a laser un-writing a green and black computer screen; a cartoon character gnawing a cob of corn. I watched him back to his table, or what became his table, in a small dark corner with a good vantage—the kind of spot appreciated by regulars, but rarely noticed by newcomers. He didn’t look like he was waiting for anyone, but who would know? Over the next half hour, he made brief small talk with a few sorority girls on the prowl, his expression indicating an interest that was polite but not eager. Between conversations, which he never instigated, he sipped his drink at a leisurely rate, posture comfortable and alert. When someone at the next table had trouble with a disposable lighter, he fixed it.
He was perfect. That’s when it clicked. I sat down across from him.
"You’re a robot, aren’t you," I said. He smiled, with a flicker of something else behind it.
"Not exactly," he said, soft and deprecating. "That is, I’m not just a set of preprogrammed responses and a system of adaptive logic. I am those things, but I have my own consciousness."
"Like emotions?"
"I can’t say. They seem like emotions to me. But what I mean is that I’m aware of myself as an entity—I have a self."
Close up, he looked great—pores (real), water in the eye membrane (fake—actually a polymerized oil), suggestions of shaved beard-hair follicles (fake), eyebrows imperfect enough to seem un-groomed. I’d wanted to see him with his clothes off before, but now I had new reasons.
"Are you famous?" I asked.
"Nah—just a vanity project for the university. I don’t really prove anything new, or have any marketable function. I talk to alumni with money and impress them with how lifelike I am. Sometimes I go to trade shows or technology contests, if that counts as famous, but there are better versions out there. Princeton has a model named Clio. She can do gymnastic routines and improvise recipes—I don’t taste things, and don’t have the flexibility for handsprings. I do better on Turing tests, though."