That summer, Matt would come to my garage all the time to watch a podcast hosted by two Ashkenazi guys we liked. One was fat as shit and the other was skinny as a needle, and the conversation inevitably went back to how fat the first guy was and how skinny the other one was. But what brought them together—and this is what they spent the majority of time talking about—was how many girls they railed. It was a ray of hope that two guys on opposite ends of the body fat spectrum still had sex regularly. But implicit in these conversations was the fear that there wouldn’t be opportunities left for regular guys like Matt and I, slackjawed on the other side of the screen. We looked like we worked at gas stations.
At the time, and I guess I still agree with this now, I thought being Jewish was similar to homosexuality in its femininity and feebleness, though of course one minority was much more feminine, and the other was much more feeble. Some gay guys are really strong, but you don’t see many powerlifters with Stars of David hanging on their chests. These things were both assigned to you and you couldn’t change it. The closest group to this alliance were the Democrats, who were higher up on the scale of masculinity (but not by much).
I told this to Shay the next time we got together, though I was worried she’d get upset. Sometimes when I say things to women they get mad at me, and I never know why. Someone must have neglected to give me a rule sheet that was important to my development as a man, one that noted you should use different measuring cups for wet and dry ingredients and that you shouldn’t comment on women’s noses.
But Shay agreed. She was pregnant as shit, so she wasn’t irritated by much beyond the mechanics inside her producing another skeleton. At the time, and I guess I still agree with this now, I thought that directionless women had children to do something. It was always an option, I supposed, and a selfish one at that. I wasn’t sure if Shay was one of these people. She already had a six-year-old, Mikey, from a British writer she met while studying abroad. I liked the kid and held onto the belief that he liked me.
I knew it wouldn’t last; I was with Shay because we had good conversations. We had agreed that I, more likely than not, was not sticking around to raise the child. This was okay because it was agreed-upon. When I met her, she was three months pregnant, and I figured I’d dip before things got really serious. But here she was, bloated and wriggling while I embarrassed her with theories that connected two separate minority groups. She asked me to get her a Coke, and she might have thought I would have stopped explaining my position as I walked into the kitchen, but she’d be wrong.
We went out for drinks a couple days after that. I liked her friend group because she had a good selection of gay guys to choose from. I was surprised an Oklahoman education birthed a tolerant woman, but I guess moving to a city had done her some good. I wanted to feel cosmopolitan, like her.
I sat next to Duke—a tightly-coiled guy with perfect posture—and at an opportune moment slung my arm around his shoulder and said my idea. But it probably came out more mangled than I’d prefer. I was drunker than I thought, and I was having trouble conveying my platonic affection in a way that seemed sincere. But since this was one of the only times we had spoken individually, I was afraid it came across like I was teasing him.
He nodded and smiled. He wasn’t as drunk as I was. I didn’t know whether to keep my arm there or retract it, but eventually, I slipped and felt the sweat that had accumulated on his shoulder. I apologized and wiped it off with a napkin.
I don’t know why I wanted him to like me so much. It was sort of pathetic. In another life I could have slammed him into a locker. I slunk back into the broader conversation, and later, when I was telling Shay about what I said to him, I admitted I worried what he thought of me.
“I don’t know why you told him that,” she said. She was working on an adult coloring book that helped with stress.
“I wanted to be irreverent,” I said.
“He thinks you’re funny.”
“But I’m stressed he thinks I’m putting it on for him. I really just want to get to know him.”
“Then get to know him,” she said, then scolded Mikey for throwing a spatula on the ground.
◆
Matt and I never talked much, but it’s good to have different kinds of friends. We would have one Sprite each from the mini fridge, and when I offered him a second, he would always decline. Sometimes during an ad break his eyes would drift to the stuff in the garage. The weight bench I never used, a wiggly saw, the fake Christmas tree my ex left over that I still brought out every year since it’s nice to have a Christmas tree, even if you’re Jewish, because they’re festive and beautiful. If it was a boring episode, I would just watch Matt. Once I was staring at the mole under his left ear when the fat one brought up something he saw on Instagram where a Boston Dynamics humanoid went rogue and pinned their employer on the floor and ripped their arm from their shoulder socket, thinking they were unplugging a broken lamp. Boston Dynamics issued an apology and offered to supply her new prosthetic arm. The moment he heard that, Matt’s head swiveled back around to the laptop; mine did, too, so he wouldn’t see me. But we continued watching in silence.
Later that night, after he left, he texted me a link to a playlist of videos showing robots in other positions; not as graphic as what the podcast described, but in servitude, cooking and cleaning, on their tiptoes dusting the top of cabinets. He had never texted me anything other than when he planned to come over. I responded that it was Cool. Cool but scary. He texted back that he looked up the arm dismemberment video. Boston Dynamics had fought to repress it, but someone had hacked into the homeowner’s security system and released the footage. Matt said it was the grossest thing he’s ever seen; he never knew red could be so murkily dark. The victim was to be interviewed on Good Morning America tomorrow.
The next time he came over, he carried a cut-out article from a magazine under his arm and shoved it into my hands.
“You could have emailed this to me,” I said.
“It’s important.”
While he idled with a podcast episode we had already watched, rocking back with his Sprite, I read what were actually several articles stapled together, all about robot companions. One airline used them as flight attendants. Another made dog-shaped bots to help pet grief. A toy brand with mood-changing dolls. Some of the articles were concerning, some were thrilling. They all felt like I was seeing something I shouldn’t see, something that isn’t here yet, but, according to the articles, is. When I read or saw something in the past that later evolved into something ubiquitous, I would always admonish myself for not seeing the signs and flagging that this was to be huge. Why could I not prophesize based on clear cultural signs? I didn’t want to miss my chance here. It was to be a quadrillion-dollar industry, the articles said, and all the United States had to do was beat China in creating a product that could help with chores without ripping one’s pets apart.
After I put down the article, Matt showed me something on his phone. It was a site to buy one of the robots, which didn’t cost very much money. They need users to trial it and work out the kinks, he explained.
“Do the kinks include getting your head ripped off?” I asked.
He shrugged.
The idea repulsed me. I imagined something that looked like me, but wasn’t me, a copy with no soul, standing in my kitchen, apron on, stirring a big pot. It could poison me. It could turn sentient. If my empathy extended to the bot, it could be rescinded from other humans, those who needed it more.
“Imagine that’s how you go,” he said. “Imagine getting hurt by one of these things.” The lady with the prosthetic arm was probably going to be a multimillionaire through her flurry of lawsuits. All she had to do was lose an arm, but she was older, anyway, and the new lifestyle was certainly interesting. As she told a feminist blog, the prosthesis was exceptionally good at pleasuring her.
Matt smiled. The podcast episode continued in the background, but I couldn’t focus.
Later, I told Shay that my friend was going to get mauled by a robot so he could sue the company and become rich.
She pulled on her vape and called him a smart businessman. “If you have nothing going on in life, that sounds like a good move to me,” she said.
We were at a bowling alley for Mikey’s birthday. He didn’t want to put the guardrails up, but he kept getting gutter balls and whining. A ponytailed teen in a uniform came by and told Shay she couldn’t smoke in here.
“It’s not nicotine,” she said.
The girl looked at Shay’s enormous stomach. Shay stared back until the girl left.
“What does his wife think?” she asked me.
“Not sure he has one,” I said, watching Mikey stomp his feet in frustration.
“What do you guys even talk about?”
I shrugged. “We usually just watch stuff on my laptop.” Mikey picked up a ball but wobbled with its weight.
“Seems like he’s a good buddy.”
“We don’t need to say much,” I said. “It works for us.”
Mikey rolled another into the gutters and let out a shriek.
“We should help him out,” I said.
Shay hit her vape and stretched. “I tried. He didn’t like that either. He’s learning early that sometimes both of your options suck shit.”
◆
Matt texted me to come over, which he never does. I didn’t even know he had a house. He seemed like the kind of guy who always holed up in a motel, insisting it’s cheaper. Shay was right, I knew nothing about him except that he was my friend. I forgot how we met. It felt like we knew each other forever, not in the sense that I felt a deep, loving connection with him, more that he could have drifted into my life five years or five weeks ago, and it wouldn’t have made any difference; he was in my days now and it would be too hard to extract him. I couldn’t even recall the color of his eyes or estimate how much he weighed.
I knocked on the door and someone my height with no eyes opened it. Just a slate of white, looking out at me blankly. I said hello instinctively.
Matt popped out from behind the thing. “Surprise!” he said.
I didn’t know what else to say. Matt hugged me, even though we’ve never hugged, or touched each other, before.
“What do you think?” he stood with a hand on the robot’s shoulder, hip cocked. I stared, and maybe he got self-conscious, so he reverted to his normal stance.
“Diane, offer to take Kyle’s bag.”
The robot shot a hand out at me, a couple degrees below a Nazi salute. Then it slowly turned it to reveal its palm.
Matt urged me to hand over the plastic bag of beers I had brought. I looped the handle around the robot’s fingers and it closed its fist. It turned to walk into the kitchen, bumping into Matt along the way. He coughed and regained his balance.
“Why?” I asked.
He smiled. “I’m waiting for something to happen.”
We sat on the couch while I watched the robot slowly put away my beers. Suggesting he put on the most recent episode of the podcast, the only piece of entertainment we had ever consumed together, felt frivolous.We had graduated onto something more important than two Jews complaining. I wondered if there was a television show I wanted to watch. Matt was staring at Diane, too.
“Why did you call her Diane?” I asked.
“Yes?” the robot asked. It shuffled over and looked down at me. “Did you need something?”
I said no. The robot nodded. It inquired about preparing a peach pie for Matt, if he’d like.
“Approved!” Matt said. “Isn’t she great?”
“You’re not in love with it, are you?”
He laughed.
“Have you seen Her?” I asked.
He said no. I hadn’t either. I was just curious—I’ve heard it’s about this kind of thing.
He put on a movie. It was 3pm. I was keenly aware of the fact that I hadn’t let myself relax. My arm was tensed on the couch’s upholstery. I didn’t know what Matt wanted to do with the robot. I didn’t know what Matt wanted to do with the robot and/or me. I didn’t know this man. My teeth chattered.
“Pie,” Diane said. “Pie.”
“Is it muttering?” I asked.
“Maybe it’s a bug,” Matt said. “Should we throw water on her?”
I didn’t laugh.
The handsome leading man in the movie was about to meet the beautiful leading woman. They were two celebrities I had recognized in countless movies before, and so I perceived them as such, not the new characters they were playing. Nothing felt real. I was incapable of suspending disbelief. I was worried about the mechanized whir in the kitchen.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Matt said, standing up and checking his phone.
“Should I pause it?”
He didn’t answer, just walked away. To pass the time, I looked at the books stacked underneath his television. The names were unfamiliar to me, but I could tell they were mostly finance books, with a tight, slim collection of plays at the very end. That seemed familiar. He had said something about being a theater major. I wondered if these books were from his time studying, or if he had kept up with reading plays for pleasure. Diane walked over to me.
I had once read a play that won a Pulitzer Prize so I could bring it up in conversation. I told Duke about this. I didn’t know if gay guys read plays, but I knew they liked musicals. “It was quite good,” I told him. When he didn’t react appropriately—or maybe, how I wanted him to, which was with excitement—I told him that it was dumb of me to bring it up in conversation because I had wanted to impress people. “S’alright,” he shrugged in his—if I may?—fruity voice. I smiled. At the time, and I guess I still agree with this now, it was hypnotizing to hear how gay guys spoke. It was like an entirely new accent. But I didn’t want to gawk at him, as if he was in a zoo. I kept my excitement down below.
I got up to avoid Diane, but she followed me. I walked past the front door, which I saw was open, and went into Matt’s bedroom. I shut the door but Diane calmly opened it. I backed onto the bed and sat down. She stopped inches from me.
“Please don’t,” I said, meaning to finish my sentence, but unsure of what I didn’t want her to do. Please don’t dismember me. Please don’t headbutt me. Please don’t shoot lasers at me, if you can do that. “Please don’t,” I said again.
Once after a party at Shay’s, when she wasn’t that pregnant yet, Duke said his straight friends are sometimes nicer than his gay ones. “They don’t care about all the bullshit,” he said. “Gay guys are so competitive.” We were stoned on the couch. A group went outside to smoke cigarettes.
“Yeah, I don’t care about the bullshit,” I said. “I thought gay guys would have, I don’t know, community or something.”
He shook his head. “It’s all about sex and cocks and stupid things that don’t mean anything. It’s hard to know who you trust.”
He leaned back on his elbows. I wondered how many people had touched the bee tattoo on his thigh. His tight gym shorts wrapped around a boner. I looked at it then looked away, looked back then looked away again. I read a bottle of vodka like a newspaper.
Duke got up strategically, putting his crotch near my face. He said he was going to the bathroom. I sat there, waiting to follow him. I held still until my watch face said that one minute, then two, had passed, then went up the carpeted stairs. After he closed the door my knees hit the cold tile.
“Please don’t,” I told Diane after she hooked a finger through a loop in my jeans. It was probably for the best that I conceptualized her as a woman instead of an “it” for this part, though I wasn’t sure if it was a conscious decision. It simply slotted cleanly into my natural thought pattern that a woman would be hooking her finger through my belt loop, despite my fear of this particular woman and her lack of hair. If it weren’t a woman, the situation would be something else. She jerked her hand back and I flew off the bed, head slamming against the floor. My pelvis was upward; she still held onto the loop. I tried to kick her. She straightened her finger and released me; my ass crashed down. I lay there breathing heavily while she stood there. It’s something about me, I’m realizing—people just know they can take advantage. A timer from somewhere on her body dinged, and she went back into the kitchen to take the pie out of the oven. I could smell baked peaches. The good ones weren’t even in season yet. I wondered where she got them from.