“Hey, hey, hey, it’s all fair… the only thing in this world I can say I’m certain of is my having had been created, & even that can be contested… who knows, maybe I’m actually a human with a chip in its brain & memories of operation!” A COARSE LAUGH— of course Judy wasn’t human! Blood that wasn’t blood & bones that weren’t bones proved that much. Her eyes closely scanned his, looking for certain emotions, for ANSWERS, maybe.
In that moment, Judy decided: SHE WANTED POPCORN !
“Friend, huh?” At this point, she was sunken entirely into the couch, chin tucked a little into her neck as she stared at Bob. (CUE RETRIEVAL & CHEWING OF IMAGINARY POPCORN) “Sure, groovy…. I’ll be your friend, Bob.” I’ll be anybody’s friend. “Hey, but we can talk— I know plenty of people whose friendships are maintained mostly over FaceTi— cell phones, stuff like that. Like one of my husband’s friends, Rubert…. he lives all the way in Australia, but the two talk every damn day!” JUDY WANTED TO SAY MORE, SO SHE ADDED: “…I hear about people who convert their VHSes to DVDs, then put the DVDs on their computers… you think something like that’d work, or am I just pulling stuff outta my ass?”
Earnestly, she put a hand over her chest, batting her lashes. “Suggesting that just as a friend, of course.”
Of course she isn’t human! For he cannot detect a brain and Bob is NEVER faulty. As ancient as his technology is, at least in reference to how humans perceive the passage of time, he’s more impressive than most things. The penetration of the mind is something everyone on Earth wants and has wanted for as long as the creation of language has existed. He’s probably not an Earthling, or from this dimension, but he’s not sure himself. And how is the author supposed to know if he is?
There’s a strange cognitive dissonance with seeing her eat something that isn’t there. He realizes that this must be what most of his viewers look like to their relatives, their lovers. Those who are not hypnotized by Bob, who see these psychos stuck in a fantasy world that is tangible only to them. His altered transmission blips curiously, as if in tandem with his confusion and his irritability that’s just being inhibited.
He doesn’t like not being able to serve a purpose.
But this thing can talk and he feels like a fool for interacting with something inorganic, being joshed by someone that made this thing that doesn’t REALLY have feelings or meaning. “Well, friend,” he says despite himself, a crude blush of self-awareness coloring his face, “Are you an item?”
