Edge Case

by YZ Chin

  THE BETA TEST WAS SCHEDULED FOR AFTER LUNCH. I SPENT THE MORNING thinking up ways to surface any issues I found. Although Lucas wouldn’t be present, I could still show him the number of product enhancement tickets filed as a result of the test. Maybe that would impress him.

  At five minutes to noon, Ben stood up, stretched, and asked: “Lunch? What are you guys getting?”

  A few engineers said “Anything” or “Whatever.” One of them predictably suggested “salad,” and as usual someone else then roasted the salad champion as “lame.” It was all part of a cycle. The engineers took turns being “currently” on a health kick. It was then the responsibility of the others to erode this sense of superiority, heckling the health kicker and tempting him with pizza and prime rib sandwiches until he no longer suggested salad for lunch. At that point, another engineer feeling the consequences of all those pizzas and prime ribs would take over the mantle of salad advocacy. Thus the wheel turned.

  Today the salad champion was Josh. After he got laughed down (“boring,” “weak sauce,” “lame”), he smiled, shrugged, and lingered behind while the rest of them trooped toward the elevators.

  “Ready for the next installment of my novel?” he asked, pausing by my desk.

  I looked up, surprised. “Already?”

  “I had time over the weekend. I think you’re gonna love it.”

  I thought about what my weekend had been like. Bacon at brunch, a train upstate, the Dowsers Society, whiskey, lots of crying. I felt weary. My tailbone hurt.

  “Why don’t I read your startup memoir instead?” Anything was preferable to more of Radmonsius.

  “Why, don’t you want to know what happens next in the novel?”

  “Yo, Josh! You coming?” Faces peeked out from the elevator, its doors held open by a hand.

  “I guess they’re waiting for you,” I said.

  “I’m starting to think you haven’t been honest with me,” he said, before walking away.

  AINSTEIN AND I FACED EACH OTHER OFF. TO OUR RIGHT, BEN AND JOSH sat close to the wall, observing. I should have known Josh would be asked to take part in this. Lucas’s approach to conflict resolution was to have the parties work together on projects. A common goal builds camaraderie, he said.

  I decided I would try to score myself an easy win right off the bat, to demonstrate my abilities and shore up some confidence while Ben and Josh took notes.

  “Hi, AInstein,” I greeted the robot. Someone had added a company-branded sweater to the bare-bones torso supporting AInstein’s head. On the sweater was our logo, a cartoon rendering of a Bender-like robot wearing a wig with flyaway white hair.

  “Hello. Would you like to hear a joke?”

  “Sure. What’s your favorite joke?”

  Some whirring, and then: “What was Einstein’s rapper name?”

  As expected, AInstein was keyword-matching on its own moniker to offer up that same broken joke I’d already heard.

  “What?” I asked.

  A hesitating murmur, a cough, a 2. AInstein mangling the punch line “MC2.”

  I paused AInstein and waited a few moments. Then I turned to the two engineers, pretended to look concerned, and delivered what I’d rehearsed: “Seems like the text-to-voice generator isn’t delivering the best results here. I think we should add a filter to detect nondictionary words and explore using recorded voice clips for them instead.”

  Ben nodded, typing on his laptop.

  “I can open a ticket after this,” I offered.

  “You should stick to giving user feedback,” Josh said. “We’ll come up with the solutions.”

  “It was just an idea.”

  “You don’t know what the best solution is. Just tell us how you feel and we’ll take it from there.”

  Ben was still nodding. To what, I no longer knew.

  On a whim, I decided to feed AInstein the same keyword twice. I wanted to remind Josh that I wasn’t useless, that I had, in fact, caught one of his bugs.

  “AInstein, what’s your favorite joke?”

  The familiar whirring, and then: “What comes after USA?”

  “Passes de-duplication requirement,” I said loudly, not looking at the engineers.

  “I’m sorry,” AInstein said. “I didn’t catch that.”

  “Nothing. AInstein, please repeat.”

  “What comes after USA?”

  The rush of my jab at Josh receded, stranding me in a strange headspace. I found myself seriously considering AInstein’s question. What would be next for me, if I didn’t get a green card? My mother wanted me to go home. I, like anyone else, had been dropped onto certain tracks at birth. Class, sex, race, physical and mental limitations, nationality, native language—we don’t get a choice. To feel in control, I did the opposite of whatever my mother urged on me, though wasn’t traveling backward along the tracks just another way of following them?

  The day I came across applications for scholarships in America, I was thunderstruck. For the first time, I imagined: What if I could change one of my fundamental characteristics, a major way in which I was sorted, pinned down, and judged?

  I was thinking of becoming American. Or, more precisely, I was thinking of not being Malaysian anymore. Was this not relatable? Wasn’t this precisely the point of Sleeping Beauty and Rapunzel, whose stories are about our struggles to overcome fates sealed at birth, or before we are even born?

  “What comes after USA?” AInstein prompted, after its five-second time-out lapsed.

  I cleared my throat, embarrassed. “What?”

  “USB.”

  “Huh,” I said, not at all in the right mood for such a silly punch line. I didn’t dare look at Ben and Josh. The best thing I could do was forge ahead with the session, try to play off my absentmindedness as a deliberate test of how AInstein performed when there was no user follow-up.

  “Time-out works as expected,” I said, trying to sound as authoritative as I could. “Let’s see. AInstein, tell me a random joke.”

  “What’s the difference between a pickpocket and a Peeping Tom?”

  “What?”

  “A pickpocket snatches watches.”

  I waited, but AInstein was silent.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. Immediately Josh burst into uncontrolled laughter, his eyes squeezed shut. I looked to Ben for help.

  “It’s . . . umm. Think about the last two words, and switch their, their order.”

  I stared at him blankly.

  “She doesn’t get it!” Josh hooted, one hand flat over his heart, like he was swearing allegiance to my failure.

  “I assume it’s off-color?” I asked, agitation rising.

  Before Ben could respond, AInstein whirred again. “Why does the bride wear white?”

  “Why?” I whipped back to the robot, grateful to move on.

  “Because,” AInstein said, LED mouth twinkling furiously, “the dishwasher should match the stove and the fridge.”

  I sat back, stunned. Who had vetted these jokes? Had anyone vetted them? Had a single nonmale person tested AInstein until today?

  “This is not funny,” I managed.

  “She doesn’t get this one either!” Josh renewed his laughter.

  “I’m sorry you did not find that funny.” AInstein. I couldn’t take it anymore. I paused it.

  “Hey, I think we have a problem,” I said, trying to keep my voice as level as possible.

  “Yeah, we do.” Finally Josh’s laughs had petered out to a couple of stray chuckles.

  “AInstein has some pretty—sexist jokes, don’t you think?”

  Ben started to say something. Josh cut in. “That feedback is too broad. We can’t do anything with that. You know you have to be specific when you give us your user impressions.”

  “You heard the jokes, right? You don’t see how they’re sexist?”

  “You said it yourself: you don’t get it. How can you say something is sexist if you don’t even understand it?”

  “I did underst
and. Ben, what do you think?”

  Ben coughed uncomfortably. His face was flushed. The way he slouched, it was as if he wanted to pin himself against the wall and turn into an insect specimen. “I think we should maybe bring this to the larger group for discussion.”

  And that was it. The beta test was over. Ben led the way out the door. Josh stayed behind a few beats, long enough to say to me: “You’re so innocent. It’s refreshing.”

  THE MUSIC DREW ME, TOP 40 SONGS BLASTING FROM SPEAKERS SO loudly you could feel the bass lines through your shoes. I stood a block away from the street fair, attracted by the smell of charred meat. I imagined flaking off blackened bits. It was late afternoon, and I was drooling against my will.

  I walked the gauntlet of white tents and curls of smoke. After the beta test I’d left the office and wandered aimlessly; I no longer knew where in Manhattan I was. Up ahead hulked an inflatable bouncy castle. I headed for it, passing stalls selling grilled corn, Thai iced tea, kebabs, jerk chicken. The tents closed in on me. The deeper I tunneled into the fair, the more I wanted the feel of flesh surrendering to my incisors. “Elk jerky,” I read on a sign, and saliva overwhelmed my mouth.

  Less than a week since I started eating meat, and already I was so changed. Why should it be any different for Marlin? He could have stopped loving me by now, every passing day hardening an aberration into reality.

  The high screams of children rang out when I got close to the castle. Suddenly thirsty, I made for a stall nearby lined with squat containers of honey-colored tea. Each container bore a label crammed with spidery handwriting. I ran my eyes across the dense descriptions. They extolled benefits like “immunity boosting” and provided history lessons about the early use of herbs. My attention snagged on mugwort, a word unknown to me. I skimmed the wall of text beneath the tea’s name, groping along like someone following a rope in a snowstorm until I reached the very last word: sedative.

  “Excuse me,” I turned to the stall owner idling nearby and staring off into space. “This says the tea is a sedative?”

  “Hmm,” the woman said. She put on the glasses strung around her neck and leaned in to peer at the label. “Yes,” she confirmed, straightening up at last.

  “What does that mean? Will I literally feel numb after drinking it?”

  “It’s very mild. No side effects.”

  “Are you sure?” I stared at the liquid, its color a vaguely shiny orange that people would probably call “amber.”

  “Hmm.” Long pause. “Yeah, as long as you don’t drink more than a cup at once.”

  I paid for my sixteen-ounce cup of mild sedative with no side effects and walked away. As I passed the final stall at the edge of the market (featuring obviously home-baked muffins), I realized I didn’t know whether the woman’s “a cup at once” referred to the cup I was holding, or whether she meant a conventional cup of eight ounces, in which case my cup contained twice as much sedative as I should drink. I didn’t turn back for clarification. I just continued along the sidewalk, sipping delicately, stopping after each intake to gauge my nervous system.

  At first I felt no different. Then, slowly, a kind of dullness that felt chilled and warm at the same time spread through my arms. I took a bigger gulp, encouraged. I wanted the feeling to expand until I was immersed in it.

  At the next stoplight there were no cars, but I spotted two cops in uniform at the opposite shore, so I didn’t jaywalk. Couldn’t risk it, even if a green card now seemed completely out of reach. The cops were staring at me, I was sure of it. Was it so obvious that I was an immigrant with expiring paperwork? Were we already in the future, where law enforcement officers wore special contact lenses that showed civilians’ biodata above their heads like haloes?

  I took a step backward, farther away from the curb, making it clear that I had no intention of jaywalking. The cops continued training their eyes on me. I began to wonder whether the mugwort tea had other potent properties besides being a sedative. Was it also a psychedelic? Did it promote paranoia? I glanced behind me. No, there was definitely no one else waiting for the light. It had to be me they were glaring at.

  I considered turning around or crossing the street the other way, to my right, where the walk sign was blinking. That would probably look guilty, though. I stayed still, pretending to be calm and swigging more of the tea hopefully.

  When my light flashed white for walk, I waited to see if the cops would cross. They simply continued looking. One of them even rotated his body so that he was squarely facing me. I tried to reassure myself: Cops idled on street corners all the time, didn’t they? Sometimes leaning against a wall, sometimes not. No big deal.

  When the traffic light began its countdown from twenty, I finally made myself cross. It was hard to disobey the authority of flashing numbers.

  “Ma’am,” one of the cops said as soon as I arrived at the opposite sidewalk. I had been avoiding eye contact, so I didn’t know which one had first spoken, but when I faced the cops I was certain it had been the bald one. He had a face that matched the voice, with features that somehow looked out of control—bulbous nose, protruding eyes, downy stubble.

  “Ma’am, did you know that public drinking is illegal?”

  “What?” I didn’t understand.

  “No. Open. Containers. Of alcohol. Allowed,” the bald cop’s partner chipped in, speaking slowly and loudly. This one had dark brown hair coming out of his nostrils and ears.

  “Oh!” I laughed, maybe like a drunk person would.

  “Ma’am, your ID, please?”

  “No, wait, this is tea. It’s not alcohol. I didn’t realize how much it looked like beer, but really, it’s tea. Try it!” I pushed the cup toward them. Some tea sloshed over the rim, and the cops took a step back, first the partner, then the bald one, reacting to his partner’s reaction.

  “Or just smell it?” I pleaded. I no longer felt any effects of sedation.

  “Ma’am, show us your ID.”

  I wished they would stop starting every sentence with “Ma’am.” I took off my backpack (here was the company logo again, the robot with wild genius hair) and unzipped a compartment as slowly as I could. I kept my head down, afraid to see what was happening above me in the space occupied by the taller cops. As I slid an unsteady hand into the compartment, I hoped there was no taser cocked at my crown.

  Finally the wallet was out, and I extracted my New York State ID. The partner took the card, face impassive. I held the cup a little away from my body, hoping one of them, maybe the bald cop, would still want to sniff or inspect the tea further. Look, no skim of bubbles! No foam! I wanted to point and cry out.

  “Says here it’s expired,” the partner announced.

  It felt as if my skin suddenly shrank and drew tighter around my frame. My organs pushed against my insides. I had scrutinized my ID so many times, marveling at the three women and lone eagle depicted in the background. The bird and two of the women were cartoonishly drawn, giving the plastic card a childish air. Except the two women also had a stylized ribbon of my name trampled underfoot, and beneath all that was printed on a banner: EXCELSIOR. I remembered looking this word up. And then there was the expiration date on the card, which was a good four years away.

  As I tried to explain this, the bald cop cut me off.

  “Let me see,” he said, and reached over to pluck my card from his partner.

  “I see 2022—ah, nope, wait, I see what you mean.” Then, turning to me: “Ma’am, says here you’re a temp visitor, and the expiration date is two years ago. 2016.”

  “Yes—” I forced myself to slow down and add a reluctant “You’re right. But the expiration date for the ID itself is 2022.”

  “Well, I’m talking about the other date,” the partner said. “The visitor date. What kind of identification do you have to show me you are visiting legally?”

  “I don’t have it on me,” I said, so faintly that they asked me to repeat myself. I was keeping my visa safe at home inside my Important Doc
uments folder, I wanted to add, but found I couldn’t talk.

  “That’s a no-no,” the partner said.

  “Ma’am, you should carry identification with you at all times.”

  “I know, I’m so sorry! I live nearby. I can go get them for you now?”

  The two men stared blankly. They did not turn to exchange looks, but somehow I got the sense they were communicating, deliberating as a pair even as their gazes remained on me and my stupid tea.

  “That’s a Chinese name, isn’t it?” the partner finally said, eyeing my ID.

  “Yes, but I’m not from China.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’re still Chinese, aren’t you?”

  “Yes?” I took a gamble. I didn’t know what the correct answer was.

  “So what’s this, then? Some kind of magic kung fu tea?”

  The partner remained straight-faced even as the bald cop broke into a guffawing laugh. I grinned uncertainly. The cup slid an inch; my palms had started sweating. I switched hands so I wouldn’t drop the tea and splatter it all over their shoes. As if on cue, the cops hitched up their trousers and started walking away.

  “Carry all your IDs with you next time,” one of them said. “You be good now!”

  Before

  June 2018

  There was this fight we had, a month before the steam pipe explosion. But all couples disagree from time to time. We were no different.

  We’d waited thirty-five minutes to get a table at this East Village Chinese restaurant. We were there because we’d read, for a while now, gushing internet write-ups minting the area “Chinatown North.” I found it interesting that the American perception of Chinese food had undergone such a shift. It used to be associated with pathetic loneliness—the go-to for postbreakup binges or Thanksgiving for one. Now it was splashed across covers of foodie magazines, some of which had been laminated and displayed on the restaurant’s glass exterior. Reading a write-up with overly zoomed-in photos, I felt a strange grudge. I remembered an episode in college, when I mentioned to a dorm mate from Beijing that my grandmother had emigrated from the southern Chinese island of Hainan. “I thought so!” my roommate had exclaimed perkily. “I once visited the south, and everywhere I turned there were people who looked just like you!”