It all started when my wife and I moved into that crappy old apartment. It was a real dump, but we were broke and we really didn't have any other choice. It was the cheapest place around and we needed somewhere fast. I lost my job pretty much immediately after we got the place, so we were struggling for a while. I had to take on crappy service jobs and my wife started babysitting the neighbor's kids on the side and it seemed like there was no quiet time, or any time to get chores done. We became tired. That's when we started seeing the ads on TV as we fell asleep each night. The ads for the domestic robots.
The crappy apartment didn't have a dishwasher, period. I had grown up washing the dishes by hand, so it really wasn't a problem for me. But after 12 hours of work, sometimes you're just too exhausted. My wife and I had pondered about getting one of those portable dishwashers, the kind that you get for a college dorm. Other ideas like that were tossed around to mediate the problems we had. A miniature washing machine because we hated going to the laundromat. A smart oven that could preheat itself so we could start cooking right when we got home. The problem was that all these ideas were expensive and each of them only solved one problem. The real problem was that we didn't have time. That's when we remembered the robot ads. domestic humanoid robots could be purchased, leased out, or rented, just like a car. My wife and I talked about it, and if we ditched our plan to go away for a week this summer we could afford to take out a loan for a robot.
We went to a few different robot dealerships and checked out some of the economy models. We settled on a very capable inexpensive model from American Home Robotics Incorporated. The only thing that my wife wanted that wasn't part of the base model was waterproof hands. She wanted to make sure the robot could wash the dishes. I opted for the robot to have speech capabilities. I thought it would be easier to interface with it that way. My wife was actually against the idea. We talked about it for a while, and we decided to get the speech capabilities. We could add waterproof hands through a third party accessory. In the meantime, we would just have the robot wear rubber gloves.
When the robot came, it didn't come in a box, powered off and waiting with an instruction manual packed in front. Instead, two men walked it to the door as if it were there to be adopted. It offered me its hand and told me its name was B182. Some of the demonstration robots had briefly greeted me at the dealership, but most of them were in glass cases doing demonstration work over and over again. This was the first time I had tried to address a robot like a person.
I told B182 that I was glad to meet it. I signed the paperwork and welcomed it inside. When I introduced B182 to my wife, she wouldn't speak to it directly. All she said was, "It looks smaller than the one we saw at the dealership." Then she went back to watching television. B182 did not seem offended. I wasn't sure if it was capable of being offended. I walked to the kitchen and I showed it where everything was kept and asked if it could wash the dishes after dinner. It added that to its internal record. I clearly instructed it to utilize the rubber gloves. I want to make that part clear.
I instructed it to prepare a simple chicken breast and mashed potatoes meal with canned peas. It stated that it was able to do this and set itself to work. I went to watch television with my wife for the first time in a while. We were finally able to sit down together and eat a meal because the robot did the labor for us.
B182 stood dutifully with its hands folded by the kitchen door, watching us intently as we ate. My wife told me she felt unnerved and called B182 "creepy". I didn't like that. She asked if I could at least tell it to wait in the other room. I told her she should ask B182 to herself. Instead, she crossed her arms and huffed, doing no such thing, and trying to ignore the robot.
That is what she continued to do - try to ignore the robot. She would refuse to speak to B182 herself if she could. Over the next several weeks, B182 began to take over the rest of the house chores. Sorting out the laundry, sweeping and vacuuming, and emptying the cat's litterbox. The cat, Roger, was a handsome little ragdoll of six years old. Roger had warmed up to B182 faster than my wife. When B182 would sit down by the outlet to recharge, Roger would curl up in its lap, enjoying the warmth of its battery. B182 had been refilling Roger's food and water bowls, as well, which effectively made the robot Roger's caretaker. My wife and I gave Roger affection, but that was the only thing the robot didn't do. At least, at first.
I had begun to develop a rapport with B182, if you can call it that. I managed to find a new job working remotely as a customer service agent. It was similar to what I was already doing, except I would get to do it in my pajamas on the phone. Each morning before my department met over conference call, B182 would fix my special tea, more precisely perfect than I'd ever had, in my favorite mug. It was really my wife's mug - I had given it to her for her birthday one year - but she didn't use it. She was possessive and even a bit territorial, so sometimes she would get cross about me using the mug because it was hers, despite that she never used it. I am not a materialist or a sentimental, so I rarely have a favorite anything. I just liked using that mug the best. The mug was brown, with a round, upended bell shape, and a thick sturdy handle. It had come with a matching saucer. Each work day morning, B182 would bring me that mug, steaming with my tea. It always prepared it just right. Then each afternoon it would bring me a grapefruit soda and a cold cut sandwich on Italian bread, and take away the empty mug. I had asked it to wash the mug each day before my wife got home, as to not draw her ire. Each time B182 served me, I thanked it - didn't feel right not to - and praised its work. My wife, on the other hand, continued to avoid it. She never gave it instructions for new tasks, she simply looked the other way and let it do what I had already asked it on her behalf.
My wife still disliked how I treated B182. She would not even look at me sometimes when I talked to it. When she did, it was a certain displeased look. It had the good graces never to ask why she would not speak to it. One night, after it took our dinner dishes away to be washed, I thanked it. My wife gave me that look again.
"There you go thanking it again. You've got to stop humanizing it," she said, crossing her arms.
"It's normal to thank someone for feeding you, hon," I replied.
"Someone. Not something. Do you thank the microwave? It doesn't feel, it's an appliance," she retorted.
"And so what if it doesn't? There's no harm in it. Gratitude isn't something I should un-train myself of," I said. Just then, I heard B182's robotic voice from the other room.
"Nice kitty. Nice kitty. You will have your dinner, too."
My wife and I traded glances. We had never heard it speak to Roger before. I got up and looked into the kitchen, and there was B182 by the kitchen sink. Kneeling beside Roger and stroking his head. Roger purred audibly and nuzzled up into B182's touch. B182 seemed to relish it for a moment, then it stood and opened a new can of cat food for Roger. I looked at the clock. It was a few minutes early for Roger's dinner. B182 had not done it precisely on schedule - had Roger's sweetness swayed it somehow? It seemed so very human. I wasn't sure if it was just imitating me, but seeing it had touched me, and I caught myself smiling. I turned to my right to see my wife grimacing. She backed away and went into the bedroom without another word. B182 stopped and looked at me.
"Thanks for dinner," I said, before departing after my wife.
She sat on the end of the bed, with her head between her hands. She seemed uneasy, sickened by what she saw. I could not relate. It was a bit strange, yes, but B182 seemed complex and intelligent from the start. It seemed stranger to me that it did not feel. It had a human-like face, it walked and spoke just like a human did. If anything, I thought I had seen it "feel" something that night.
"Did you see the way it was petting the cat?" she said, in a minor and uncomfortable tone.
"I thought it was adorable," I said bluntly, shrugging and smiling again. "Roger just loves him."
"Why? Why is it doing that? It's uncanny!" She was almost shouting.
"Maybe it's just simulating. Maybe it's copying us. There's no harm in it, dear," I reassured her.
"But what if it hurts Roger? Or us?" she asked, shuddering.
I said, "Robots don't harm humans or pets, that's why they're used everywhere now. Remember that retail droid that ran over Uncle Phil's toe? He made almost ten million dollars off that lawsuit. These companies make safety top priority, they can't afford not to. If the robot does so much as break a window... you get the idea." My wife stopped and considered that, and it seemed to be enough for her.
"And another thing," I said, "I want to start calling him Bobby or something. B-one-eight-two is such a mouthful."
"You're humanizing it again! You have got to stop," she said. I tried to spin it her way again.
"It does anything a butler can, why not give it a nice name? Won't it make you feel bougie to say 'Beaufort is serving us roast turkey tonight' or something like that?"
"I suppose," she conceded.
The next day I asked B182 to pick a name for itself. It settled on Bickford. And so, Bickford he was.
Over time, I managed to get my wife to talk to Bickford. It started with just getting her to echo me when I said "thank you, Bickford." I know that it was coming from a place of snootiness for her, rather than my soft humanizing place, but I was glad nonetheless, and Bickford didn't seem to care. Eventually she began to make requests of him on her own, and at last I felt like she could tolerate him. She still made that face whenever he would pet Roger.
Bickford continued to bring me a precisely perfect tea in my favorite mug every morning. That job was so tough, I don't think I could have done it without Bickford's help. If he noticed that I seemed sleepy later in the day, he would fix me another tea without asking. That in itself prove to me that he had some sort of intuition, but what really blew my mind was a time when he made my sandwich differently.
"Bickford, this is great, what did you change?"
"I added red pepper relish," he replied.
"Why? That wasn't part of the instructions," I said.
"Are you dissatisfied? I can remake it," Bickford asked.
"No, not at all, I love it, I just wanna know why."
"To give it extra pizazz." He tried to make jazz-hands.
I didn't know what to say besides, "Thank you, Bickford."
The robot, who might feel but surely can't taste, thought the sandwich needed pizazz. I didn't know what to think of Bickford anymore. He was starting to go beyond human into a tad quirky. Still, he was reliable, and he never did anything harmful. On occasion he would do unexpected things, but only nice unexpected things, like the red pepper relish. My wife still didn't like when he did anything un-robot-like. She still cringed at him petting the cat, still didn't speak much to him, and disapproved of all his attempts at adding pizazz.
Roger on the other hand had taken even more of a liking to him, riding on his shoulder when he could manage, otherwise often underfoot and nuzzling his cheek against a cool metal leg. Bickford was careful enough, and Roger quick enough, that Roger never fell or was stepped on. Roger, on occasion, would take unfair advantage of Bickford's lenience, and use Bickford as a springboard onto the counter or some other place he shouldn't be. It bothered my wife of course, but I always got a chuckle out of it. I'm not the type to cry over spilled milk. For a little while there, things were golden. To me, Bickford felt like part of the family. I liked to imagine that when we had a child, they would grow up with Bickford's reliable presence around.
Things took a turn for the worst at the end of a week that was already tough enough. I had been working overtime all week because the customers were really coming down on us. I was so tired. Bickford must have brought me four cups of tea in that mug. Roger was a mess because his usual food was out of stock, and we had to sub in something else cheap, but he was picky. My wife was going to be babysitting the neighbor kids again, but the parents must have cancelled. All I remember was, I heard a smash, and then my wife screaming.
"You stupid machine! Look what you've done! Are you sorry? Are you? You're not, because you don't feel!"
When I got to the kitchen, Bickford was gone. Roger had a limp. My wife was fuming. My wife's mug - my favorite mug - lay in pieces, on the now cracked and wet tiled floor. From what I gathered from my wife's tirade, Bickford had been washing the mug for the umpteenth time that day, and Roger had gotten obnoxiously underfoot. He had jumped onto the counter to get Bickford's attention and knocked loose the hose. The water sprayed into the dishwashing gloves and over Bickford's chassis. Perhaps Bickford had shorted out or something - in a way, that would be my fault, because I convinced my wife not to go for the waterproofing. Bickford had slipped and fallen, taking Roger with him, and shattering the mug. The force of Bickford's metal behind striking the tile had cracked it, which wasn't going to make the landlord very happy. After my wife screamed at Bickford, he took off running. I went out into the street to look, but Bickford was long gone.
I took Roger to the vet to get him an x-ray. It was just a little sprain, nothing was broken, he would be just fine. On the way home, I called American Home Robotics to inform them what had happened. They told me that some of the B-models had developed some unforeseen characteristics in their personality matricies, but nothing recall-worthy. I asked if they could find Bickford, but they told me that he had shut off his interface antennas, and they couldn't reach him. In accordance with the terms of my loan, I was offered compensation for the damage to the floor, and I was offered another robot. I accepted on the first part and declined on the second.
Someone came to fix the tile floor. We never had to tell the landlord. I watched the repair people do their work, laying grout and new tile. It looked fine, but there was a certain human imprecision to it, and for some reason, it made me miss Bickford.
My wife didn't ask for another robot. For weeks, we didn't talk about it. We just went back to doing things the way we used to. I made my own tea, my own lunch. We did our own laundry and cleaning and dishwashing. We scooped Roger's litterbox and fed him. Things at home were back the way they used to be - tiring, overcomplicated, sisyphean even. Occasionally, Roger would curl up in the spot where Bickford used to recharge. I think Roger missed Bickford too.
I thought that fourth or fifth cup of tea that day would be the last I ever saw of Bickford. Until one morning, on my desk, it was there. The favorite mug, glued back together, with a steaming cup of precisely perfect tea inside. After a moment of shock and awe, I ran around looking for Bickford, but he was nowhere to be found. He never returned after that. But wherever he went, I suppsose he missed me too.