by Simeon Mills
• • •
I used to wonder about my magic words. Scratch that. I used to obsess about them. After Dad had hinted that one specific utterance might transform a robot’s life into something new and unexpected, I did everything possible to find out if it were true for me. To say the words myself. This fixation took hold one night in fifth grade while plugged into the wall. I started whispering the entire dictionary aloud. A week and a half later I’d completed the task. No luck. Which meant I didn’t have a magic word, but perhaps I had a magic phrase, so, for the next three years, while charging up, I put my mouth on autopilot, ordering it to speak an endless string of randomized words: “. . . agenda expenditure trolley rank spokesperson deprivation fame consensus . . .” Nothing. “. . . litigation food kneel mastermind minimum influx champagne interface . . .” My life never changed. At seven o’clock every morning I’d unplug, still myself, and go to school, where I’d speak as few words as possible, then come home and make tacos for me and Kanga. Magic words, I’d learned, were as useless and frustrating as parents. Luckily, I outgrew my obsession, like I’d outgrown them, and I shut down the search operation.
Now I had my magic words written down on a sheet of paper, hidden under the orange chair in our apartment. I didn’t need them to alter my life anymore. I was transforming it just fine on my own.
Kanga wasn’t so lucky. When we opened our apartment door, Dr. Murphio was standing in the kitchenette. My brother said, “Bà?”
Dad?
“My son,” said Dr. Murphio. “Yes, my beautiful boy. I am your dad. You don’t know me yet, but—”
“Wŏ zhīdào nĭ, Bà,” said Kanga.
I know you, Dad.
I should have been sickened watching the two of them hug, but Kanga and Dr. Murphio’s embrace was so natural as to be unremarkable, something I’d witnessed a thousand times already in my life. Such was the power of magic words. I hadn’t known the effect on my brother when Dr. Murphio recited the phrase earlier this afternoon in the Cave—Kanga, are you my son?—but it now appeared Kanga believed the good doctor was his actual father. Dr. Murphio seemed to believe this too. There was a Gravy Robotics duffel bag sitting on the kitchenette floor and a strange beer bottle sitting on the counter. Not our real dad’s brand of beer, I noted, which suddenly roiled me with anger. Who did this guy think he was? How long did he plan on staying here? Where the hell was Dad’s old dartboard? And Mom’s portrait of Elvis! What was he trying to do? Erase their very existence?
Dr. Murphio and my brother were still hugging.
No. If anyone had tried to erase Mom and Dad’s existence, it was me. Dr. Murphio was merely filling a void I had created. Kanga had long dreamed of this day, when he would open the apartment door and there they’d be: his parents, the very things I’d stolen from him. Here was one of them, anyway. A dad. I turned away, pretending I was perfectly content picking grime from my rubber fingernails. It was the least I could do for my brother.
Their hug ended, and Dr. Murphio finally acknowledged me. “Giant killer.”
“He’s still alive.”
“A wise decision, Darryl.” Dr. Murphio then explained that he’d found his way to the court after I’d jumped from his car, that he’d watched everything. He recounted the evening from his perspective: the crowd, Kanga, the toasters, me, James Botty, the Ceiling Fan’s attempted murder, and then, most astoundingly, the town of Hectorville accepting their first robotic citizens. “This, boys,” he said, beaming, “was Gravy’s entire goal all along. An out, magnetic, basketball-star robot whose potential for advancement in the sport was sky-high. In other words, a chance for acceptance.”
He poured us drinks. Milk for Kanga, vinegar for me, and a fresh bottle of beer for himself. With our glasses raised, Dr. Murphio warned us: “We mustn’t get complacent, gentlemen. The real work begins tomorrow morning, after those humans have had a chance to sleep on it and second-guess their good consciences. On their commutes to work we want them to see you boys sweeping up that basketball court, getting rid of all those toasters. I’ll get the supplies first thing in the morning. We’ll arrive no later than six thirty.”
We each took a drink.
“Oh! And I just remembered. I have a gift for you to share.” Dr. Murphio reached into his duffel bag and pulled out an enormous book. He slapped it on the counter, right in front of Kanga. “The New Directions.” The book’s cover was green, but it was just as voluminous as our previous black version. “This book will be invaluable for navigating your new, complex world as ‘out robots.’ You boys are Gravy’s first. Rest assured, we’ve been planning for this day from the beginning. I’ll be here with you, every step of the way. The master bedroom will be mine, but The New Directions will stay in your room, Kanga. We’ll read it every night. How does that sound, son?”
Kanga stared at the gigantic book, and, for the first time since arriving back at the apartment, I noticed apprehension in my brother. He whispered to me, “Nĭ xiăng yìqĭ zài wŏ de fēnxiăng shuì ma?”
Do you want to share my bedroom?
He had never made this offer before. Not once in fifteen years. Refuge. Comfort. Solitude. That was what Kanga’s bedroom meant to him. Now he was asking me to share in those things. Of course, it was more complicated than that; I knew part of the bargain was that I would be the one reading The New Directions each night, not Kanga. But to me that was a perk. I was dying to know what was in that book. “Okay, brother,” I said. “It’s a deal.”
“Gănxiè lăotiān.”
Thank god.
Dr. Murphio gave us a lingering stare, perhaps recalculating his approach to sharing an apartment with two teenage boys. “Let me refill your milk, Kanga.” He grabbed Kanga’s glass.
“Bă, nĭ jiù bă píngzĭ ná lái zhè’er.”
Just bring the jug over here, Dad.
“Please?” said Dr. Murphio.
“Qĭng,” said Kanga, with more than a little bit of sass.
This was not the same young man who had won over the town of Hectorville earlier tonight, but rather the pre-basketball rendition of my brother from several months ago, the Kanga who needed a mother.
“Be sure to say ‘Thank you,’ ” my mouth nagged by reflex, and I immediately wanted to take back the words. I couldn’t play that role again, not after all we’d been through in the last twenty-four hours. Not with everything we had yet to accomplish.
Dr. Murphio handed Kanga the milk jug. My brother said nothing, helping himself to an enormous, noisy swig. He set the jug down, waited a moment, then mouthed the word “Xièxiè.”
“You’re welcome, son,” said Dr. Murphio. He forced a smile, but there was no masking the concerned look on his face. “All this Mandarin you’re speaking, Kanga. We need to put an end to that. I’m afraid I’ll have to open up your”—he tapped his own skull—“and see what we’re dealing with. I promise it won’t hurt. Just ask your brother.”
Kanga glared at me, terrified, pleading for reassurance. When I didn’t immediately respond, he grabbed at my rubber hand as if I were dropping him off for his first day of kindergarten.
“It just tickles a little, Kanga,” I said. “You’ll be fine.”
“Blast it,” said Dr. Murphio. “I left my toolbox down in the car. I knew I was forgetting something.” He stepped toward the door.
“Dad—” I wrested my hand away from Kanga and jumped in front of Dr. Murphio. “I’ll get the toolbox. Stay here. Relax. You’ve had a big day.”
“Thank you, Darryl. There are advantages to keeping a son like you around.” He handed me the keys.
Kanga was taking a sip of milk when I whispered to him: “There’s something for you under the orange chair.”
“Wèishéme?” he asked, before taking another gulp.
Why?
“You’ll see, brother.” Really, we both would. Only seconds ago the coldest corner of my processor had arrived at a decision. I needed to act quickly before the more sentimental chambers of my min
d could analyze what I was about to do. “Now enjoy your năi.”
Kanga covered his mouth to keep from laughing, but the milk bubbled out of his nose.
“Boys!” exclaimed his new dad. “Where are the paper towels?”
While they cleaned up the milk, I went downstairs and stole Dr. Murphio’s car.
• • •
My brother was right. Being human meant getting a second chance. It meant getting all the chances you needed. I supposed we were living proof that robots got second chances too, though ours were a little harder to come by. In either case, second chances were the stuff of obsolescence if you didn’t learn something useful from your initial go-around. As Shimmering Terraces disappeared in my rearview mirror, I ordered my processor to list everything I’d learned in the confines of our apartment. It was drawing a blank. My mind was consumed by two simple equations for the immediate moment:
Left pedal = go.
Right pedal = stop.
On a positive note, Dr. Murphio’s steering wheel fit perfectly between my rubber fingers.
I stopped the car in downtown Hectorville, where the sidewalks and streets had become clear of most human life. There she was through the bus station window, sitting on a bench, holding that beautiful pink backpack on her lap. I yanked my hand free from the steering wheel and went inside.
“Excuse me, miss,” I said. “Is something leaking?”
“Took you long enough,” Brooke said. “I knew you’d show up. You’re so predictable, Darryl.”
“Bet you didn’t predict I would steal a car. Come on. Don’t forget your backpack. Maybe they’ll give you a refund on your bus ticket if you—”
She slapped me across the face. “I had no idea if you were coming back.”
“Neither did I. But I’m here now. We have a second chance, Brooke, and we’re going to use it. Memphis. Or anywhere else! The entire world is our . . . Wait. Are you breaking up with me?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” She reached into my pants pocket and grabbed the car keys. “But I’m driving.”
27
I WATCHED THE RISE OF KANGA Livery like everybody else. On TV.
The CBS Evening News sporadically ran a segment called “Robot in the Heartland.” One such segment aired during my brother’s sophomore basketball season, the year he grew his hair down to his shoulders. It started with an interview in the kitchenette, where Kanga explained (in English) his stylistic choice: “My dad likes to tease me about my hair—” A hand reached on-screen to muss Kanga’s shaggy mane. It was Dr. Murphio. He kissed Kanga on the head then disappeared. My brother smoothed his hair, embarrassed, and said: “I just want people to look at me and say, ‘There’s someone who’s done something interesting with himself.’ ” On the Cave walls, the Hectorville Art Club supported Kanga’s choice by hanging enormous portraits of flowing-haired R2-D2s. For lunch, students were given the option to eat a Mexican-Italian dish called “Hair and Beans.” But not everybody was on board with Kanga’s new tresses. “He should put all that hair into a ponytail,” one Hectorville mother opined, “but he won’t.” Another parent, a father, said, “I got nothing against the Kanga as a robot, but it’s the showboating, the look, the whole arrogance of the Kanga’s play I disagree with.” Highlighting the segment was footage of the state championship basketball game in which my brother, still refusing to put his hair in a ponytail, got fouled hard, sending an avalanche of greasy hair down over his eyes. Opposing fans yelled “HAIRCUT!” as Kanga paused at the free-throw line to tuck a stray, dirty lock behind his ear. Regardless of this dramatic tension, Hectorville won the game. The next day, satisfied at having been “interesting” enough, Kanga finally got a haircut. Outside the barbershop, his girlfriend, Staci Miles, summed up everyone’s feelings on the subject: “He looks so much better now.”
Two years later I caught another segment of “Robot in the Heartland”; Kanga was seven inches taller. Coach Belt (who had taken over varsity coaching duties upon Kanga’s request) declared my brother’s growth spurt “scientific evidence that the great God in heaven is a Hectorville Bird.” They flew to Argentina for a pair of exhibition basketball games. Kanga scored forty-seven and sixty-eight points, respectively, and was later seen bending down to sign autographs for a mob of Argentinean fans at the airport. Back in Hectorville, James Botty was filmed standing beside a birch tree—the one atop the hill behind the high school. “Right here. This is where we keep track of who’s boss of the team.” James pointed to two names carved into the white bark:
james
KANGA
“As you can see, it used to be my team. Now it’s Kanga’s. What can I say?” James swallowed the spit in his mouth. “He rode the bike blindfolded.”
Live on TNT, the Detroit Pistons selected Kanga Livery, from Hectorville High School, with the eighth pick in the 1995 NBA draft. Commissioner David Stern shook my brother’s hand. The crowd at the Toronto SkyDome erupted, especially its small contingent of Canadian robots—half cheering, the other half booing because their own team, the Raptors, had passed on their opportunity to select Kanga. Excitement from that moment lingered for the remainder of the draft, although analyst Hubie Brown offered a measured assessment of the pick: “It’s always a risk when selecting a high school player. Our league requires a great deal of maturity to find one’s place within the team structure. But I have seen Kanga play. I have seen his maturity and focus, which I believe is at a high level. This young guy could—I say could—be a star.” Later that evening, my brother returned to his Toronto hotel, the cameras following him through the underground parking structure and into the elevator. When the door opened to the lobby, Kanga found himself face-to-face with a horde of basketball fans that had camped out there. They grabbed at his suit sleeves. They shoved pens in his face. The elevator began to beep because the door wouldn’t close and the car had exceeded its weight limit. Their screaming became lustful, and I worried Kanga may be ripped apart by the mob. But security arrived to peel the fanatics away, and nobody was seriously injured. Cameras cut to the hotel manager apologizing, gravely, asking for Kanga’s autograph then apologizing again. “Now if you’ll just follow me, Mr. Livery, to our secret elevator, accessible only to famous guests and their discreet company.” My brother disappeared behind the gold-plated elevator doors. The cameras were not permitted to follow.
• • •
“I’m surprised to see you wearing it,” the interviewer said to Kanga, several weeks removed from the 1996 Summer Olympics, at which he and the United States took the silver medal behind China. The interview was in Kanga’s mansion, the enormous kitchen no longer a kitchenette but rather (as Kanga referred to it) a kitchenest. He was seated at an antique wooden table; beside him was Dr. Murphio. The silver medal hung around my brother’s neck.
“It’s a weight I must carry,” said Kanga. “I’m not removing this cursed object for the next four years. I’m going to practice with it on. I’m going to play games with it on. I hope Ma is doing the same with his gold medal. Enjoying it. Showing it off. Because it’s the last one he’ll ever win.”
“Fans around the world love your game, Kanga. The dribbling, the passing, the scoring. Who taught you to do all that?”
“Easy question,” said Kanga. “Bobby Knight taught me.”
“The Bobby Knight?” asked the interviewer. “When did you have a chance to train with Coach Knight?”
“He used to watch me practice all the time. He used to rebound for me, give me instructions, fine-tune my game. ‘Triple threat, Livery!’ I still have his voice in my processor. I can hear him when I’m on the court. ‘Triple threat, you wussy!’ ”
There was a pause from the flummoxed interviewer. Dr. Murphio just smiled, waiting for Kanga’s words to return to reality.
“Bobby Knight,” repeated Kanga. “And I guess my brother too.”
Dr. Murphio’s neck began to redden, as if he needed an exhaust fan.
“A brother?” asked the intervie
wer. “Am I supposed to believe any of this? Where is this brother of yours, Kanga?”
He flinched, briefly touching his belly, as if a tuning fork had been banged against his processor. He closed his eyes, listening to the sound. “Right here.”
• • •
My spirit may have been with Kanga, but my nuts and bolts were two time zones away in Great Falls, Montana, on a wind and horse farm owned by some humans who were never around. That left the three of us robots to work the place, earning our room and board in the horse barn. I was the glue guy of our operation, excelling at nothing in particular but making sure Brooke and Elecsandra had what they needed. Odd jobs, that’s what I did, while the sisters specialized in equestrianism and engineering. All together, we were a team. I tried not to think about how long this gig would last, but rather just enjoy the unpredictable moments each day awarded me. I considered that one of my odd jobs.
This evening I was repairing one of the many windmills dotting the acreage. Within the tower I climbed the ladder a hundred or so feet to the trouble spot, then locked my rubber fingers around a rung and suspended myself in the darkness. I held a flashlight between my teeth and used my left hand to tinker around with the windmill machinery. Nine times out of ten it was tightening a wobbly screw. But not this evening. Bats had decided to build a nest in a vital apparatus, mucking up the works, so I had to extract that piece with my tools, hitch the piece to my belt, and then climb back down. It was a two-mile walk back to the barn, but with that burp of pink sky silhouetting the windmills in the distance, I didn’t mind stretching my legs and watching the sun set.
While not as luxurious as Kanga’s mansion, the barn gave us all the space we needed. Running through its heart was a cement corridor long enough to fit a big rig. On either side were the horse and maintenance stalls. As the caretakers, we were given a pair of stalls to call home. I shared one stall with Brooke and the other one was for Elecsandra. She’d outfitted hers with a steel laboratory door, instead of a horse gate, with a lock for when she needed solitude and maximum concentration.