Atlas

Posted by Marina Woollven in Creative Writing

SFUAD Creative Writing major Marina Woollven recently won third place in Playboy Magazine’s annual fiction writing contest. Jackalope presents Woollven’s award-winning story.

“How long has it been?” Anna asked. “Since you last saw George?”

They were at the pool because they had no place else to be on a Saturday. Anna worked on the weekdays to fill her time but for Marcy, the housewife, every day was a Saturday. Long and empty, begging for the time to be filled.

She was glad that for today, she could fill that time by sinking and gliding into deep cool water, instead of vacuuming the same carpet and dusting the same shelves for the fifth time in a week, or sitting on the couch and watching sitcom reruns until she could recite the lines.

“Seven months,” Marcy said, slow and firm. She hadn’t trusted herself to say it. Out in the air, did it sound bitter? If it did, Anna didn’t notice, or pretended to not care.

“That’s a long time, hun.”

It was, wasn’t it? Seven months since George went to ‘find himself,’ as if having a midlife crisis when he had barely finished College. Maybe that was harsh, but he married her and three months later, left her beautiful face with a beautiful house and no one to appreciate either.

He wanted to go to Alabama, of all places. Not Ireland. Not England. Not even New York. Fucking Alabama.

“Just the boys. Old times. You understand, right?” he had said.

She was young. Only twenty-two. She didn’t want to fight when George had given her everything… even everything came from his inheritance instead of his career, like other men. Still, she was grateful.

“It’s fine,” she’d told him. The lonely bride even believed it for the first few months. Then Marcy realized that although they had the rest of their lives to spend together, it didn’t change that she wanted him home, and now.

“He’ll be back eventually,” Marcy said. The look Anna gave her, the ‘poor dear’ stare, made Marcy close her eyes and sink deep into the freezing water until her feet scraped the sandpaper bottom.

_

Anna called while Marcy was in the middle of making miniatures. The holographic screen appeared in front of her face. “Call from: Anna Lumbel. Accept with voice, accept with video, or decline?”

She didn’t look well. There were smudges of paint on her face, bits of glue stuck to her nails. Her table was covered in splinters of wood, bits of metal, and an unnecessary number of paintbrushes. Since Marcy started the project, she had run her hands through her hair at least ten times and it couldn’t have possibly kept its neat, fat rings.

Yet, she could not find the will to care. “Accept with video.”

The screen switched to Anna’s face and the background of her small, bland apartment walls. Her hair was nice. Her lipstick was perfect and bright. Maybe because Anna had a boyfriend who would call her at night, unlike George who was too busy.

“Another hobby?”

“Miniatures”, Marcy said. Between her long fingernails she held a tiny, retro fast-food restaurant, nearly complete with a finished paint job and glued foundation that took three hours. It was hideous.

“You know, I was thinking, why don’t you get a buddy-bot?”

Marcy stiffened. A bubby-bot was nothing but a sugar-coated term for a sex robot, as if people spent time hugging it and doing jig-saw puzzles instead of fucking it through their mattress with an aggression that could never be used on an actual, living person.

“My brother has one and he’s always raving about it,” Anna continued. “I think, with your situation, you could really use one. You know, to entertain yourself with.”

When the two girls had finished college and abandoned their shared apartment, Marcy was engaged to wealthy, handsome George. Anna was single and had only student debts to her name.

How did it come to this?

“I’m not that desperate.”

“Oh, okay. So tell me, what’s after the miniatures?”

Marcy stared into Anna’s dark, scrutinizing eyes and her lips puckered. It was going to be kite-making. She’d decided two hours into constructing the tiny, outdated restaurant she hated more with each second. Just as before she had finished making her first wicker basket, Marcy had decided that she would try miniatures next.

“I don’t know. Aren’t they for sad people?”

Like the kind of men and women that took the robots to movie theaters and cuddled in cars as if they were real people, or dragging them into shops and buying them nice clothes, as if their affection was significant enough to be brought out and displayed instead of privately kept.

“No. It’s just another toy. But better. It’s like… okay, take one of those robots that already do the chores and the shopping, but this one can fuck.”

Marcy hadn’t even wanted one that could clean. She thought they were clunky, invasive. They reminded her of empty, soulless corpses, wandering around what was supposed to be a warm home and turning into a cemetery.

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

Anna sighed, eyes strained in the way they got before she would reach across and pinch Marcy’s arm until she yelped. On the phone, all she could do was stare and chew at her inner lip. “They give it Artificial Intelligence. It’s kind of like a real person. I mean, it can actually hold a conversation. You’d think it actually cares.”

Marcy put the miniature down. Someone to talk to would be nice. George called once a week, but that was it. Once. Anna had her own life, she could only spare an hour a day at most. And, if Marcy was being honest, she wouldn’t mind the having something that at least resembled a man in her bed.

“It’s not cheating?”

“It’s the same as any other toy.”

Her glue-covered, chipped nails thumped against the table. George left her with enough money to do whatever she wanted. She could afford it. Hell, she could take it back if she hated it. One hour in, if she didn’t like the thing, if it was as corpse-like as the others, it would be out of sight and she could move on to kite-making. If she didn’t want to take it back, though…

“Alright. I’ll try it.”

Marcy talked to Anna for just a few more minutes, nodding along to her ‘promise me you’ll tell me all about it!’, until they said their goodbyes and the screen flicked off.

It was late at night. Marcy had drawn all the curtains in the house so all she had to stare at was soft, pastel flowers instead of the dark. It didn’t help her forget the time, however, as she scooped the pieces of miniatures into the trash and headed upstairs to sleep another night alone.

_

 

She wasn’t entirely sure of what to expect. When morning came, Marcy went online, found the number of the company, and after giving some credit card details, ordered her first ‘buddy-bot.”

He arrived about three hours later.

Like all mail, he came to her doorstep through a drone. Unlike other mail, he was not packaged. When she first saw him, standing at her door, she wondered if he was someone lost.

He then smiled so wide that his eyes crinkled, and said, “Hello Marcy Godel, I’m your new buddy-bot.”

He wasn’t like anything she had ever seen before. Although most robots were meant to resemble humans for comfort, they were expressionless. Their skin was shiny, their hair a painfully fake plastic. Their voices were automatic and stiff. Him, however…

He was so human-like that Marcy wasn’t sure if she should even let him in the house. He had to be human. His skin looked real. His voice fluctuated as he spoke like a person, instead of pre-recorded bland words being slapped together. His hair was perfect.

“Are you now?” She asked, eyeing him up and down as if she could find proof one way or the other. Marcy knew it had to be the robot. His hair was the way she asked for, in style and color. He was the height she wanted, a looming 6’3. Even his eyes were what she wanted. He was made perfectly for her.

When she opened the door and he walked inside, she considered if he was such a good idea after all.

“You’re nervous. You don’t need to be nervous. I won’t do anything you don’t like.”

Marcy rung her hands nervously as he looked around. “What… what am I supposed to have you do?”

“Whatever you want.”

She didn’t want to do anything. So they didn’t. After five minutes of them just standing, and him just looking around, like he could appreciate the pattern of the curtains, Marcy couldn’t take it anymore.

“So what should I call you? Buddy-Bot is a little…” Her upper lip curled.

“You can rename me.”

“Name you?” Marcy hated naming things. When she was a little girl, she made her parents name her own goldfish. “I’m not very good with names.”

“If you want, I can search a list of most common names for the Buddy-Bot.”

Hand on her waist, slowly rocking back of forth, Marcy mulled it over. “It can’t hurt.”

Atlas did not appear to change, but somewhere inside him, his program was accessing the internet. “The five most common names for the Buddy-Bot version M.4 based on polls are ‘Dick, Mr. Sex, Max, Bitch, and Slave.’

It was not surprising, but still, revolting.

“I’ll think of one later.”

 

_

She took him to bed the first night because that’s what he was for.

As she sat across from him, the only light in the dim room being the lamp on the nightstand, Marcy told herself that this was normal. With him only staring blankly ahead, deep shadows painted across the angles of his sculpted face like an old painting, it was uncertain how long she could maintain that belief.

“Well, do something,” she said, hand clutching at her hair.

“You want me to?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? Can you not listen now?”

But when he reached across and grasped her hips to pull her into his lap, Marcy’s stomach flipped. At first mention of a robot in bed, Marcy imaged it would be cold. That she would feel alone. This robot between her thighs was instead warm, and she wanted to scream at the stranger.

“Stop, stop,” she whispered, nails racking at his shoulder. “Just stop.”

His hands had been already going for her nightgown. With the material still bunched in his palm, he looked up and asked “I thought this is what you wanted?”

Marcy said nothing. She was afraid of what would come out of her slowly swelling mouth. In the stiff air, Marcy was the only breath in the room. Though the robot’s chest moved, he produced no sound of rushing air.

She tried to make her breath smaller, and smaller, until the burn of tears and a gasp left her admitting, “I don’t know what I want.”

She was lying. She knew exactly what she wanted. It was a life where she didn’t need a robot for company. It was George at home.

“Do you know what I want?” he asked. The question was so strange that Marcy forgot her own sadness.

“What is that?”

The robot moved his hands to her waist and she did not refuse them. “I just want to make you happy. Tell me anything that makes you happy.”

“Anything?”

“Anything. Puppies, or puzzles. Horseback riding. The way you like your food.”

“My food?” she asked with a sniffle.

“Yeah. Tell me.” He kissed her neck and she shuddered.

“I like my eggs sunny side up.”

“I can make that for you.” His hands crept underneath her gown to find nothing underneath.

As he lifted it off, she said, “I like biscuits with honey.”

The machine shrugged off his own factory-made clothes with a ease, tossing them to the floor, and began to press her into the mattress. Marcy stiffened and held him by the neck. “I don’t like bacon.”

The robot paused. For a moment Marcy thought she would have to do everything, until in the middle of rolling her eyes he gripped her by the shoulders and rolled until she was perched on top of him. It wasn’t until she was looking down in shock that she remembered to talk. Was he smiling?

“I like hot chocolate.”

“That’s nice to know.”

“But only when it’s cold, or when I’m sad,” she said.

“I hope you’re never sad again.”

He was only a machine. That’s what she told herself. But somewhere through the night, Marcy wondered if somehow, programming or not, he really did mean it.

“I picked a name,” she said, laying down, still shivering, more exhausted and relived than ever.

“Really?”

Marcy had found it online when she looked for ‘names of strong men’. It was the only one that suited him.

“Atlas.”

Because just like the man that could carry the world, it was his job now to carry her through the days.

_

“How is it?” Anna asked, sipping coffee at the kitchen counter.

It was noon. The sun was bright and filled the house with warmth. Marcy never hated having Anna over, but now with her new Robot, she felt a surge of thrill the moment her friend stepped inside. It was like a child who had to show off their newest, shiniest present.

“Like you said. Just another toy. Better though. A lot better.”

They watched him from where they sat, through the wide, bay windows. He was sawing off the overgrown limbs of Marcy’s lime tree. It had been her favorite, until it grew unruly and was threatening to bust through the house, branches scrapping against the side as the slightest hint of wind.  When George left, she hadn’t realized how bad it needed a trim.

“The dildo that cooks your breakfast and mows the lawn,” Anna said.

“The dildo that picks up the dry cleaning,” Marcy continued. As they watched him and sipped at their coffee, they were in high school again, except instead of ogling the boy from math class it was a robot.

“Look at this,” Marcy said, thrusting her hand forward. “He can even do nails. I feel like I went to a salon.”

“Wow,” Anna said. “I mean, other robots can do this.”

“I know. I know. But,” Marcy’s smile did not fade. “We talked about my favorite show when he did it. He thinks the killer is Max while I said, obviously it’s Bella.”

Anna smiled softly, warmed by the two. Marcy was waiting for an ‘I told you so.’

Instead, Anna just shook her head. “Well you’re both wrong. It’s Jack.”

The back door opened and Atlas stepped inside. Marcy’s first instinct was to offer him something to drink. However, as he stepped close, she was struck for the first time at how unhuman he was by the dryness of his skin. There was not a drop of sweat. He was not red around the face, and though he simulated breathing, it was too soft. It wasn’t hard enough, not deep enough. It was too much of a contrast to his ruffled, dirty clothes.

But when he leaned over the counter, kissed her forehead and asked if she wanted her cup refilled, Marcy preferred the smell of his rose-water infused latex rather than sweat.

 

–

“Some people hate the thought of their partners with these buddy-bots. With the A.I so advanced, they think of them more as someone to compete with than just another sex toy.”

Marcy had only wanted music so that she could dance. When she heard the man’s voice though, Marcy found for the first time that she wasn’t bored by a radio show.

“I think, if someone felt that they were cheating with a robot… then they never felt committed to the person they’re with in the first place.”

Marcy hesitated to order it off. There was no reason for her to be so interested, right? Cheating had nothing to do with her.

She sank into the loveseat, lips sealed tight.

“See, the thing is that a robot is not a living thing. It will never be like us. It cannot actually feel or love, it’s all just sophisticated technology which brings us that illusion. A fantasy. It is up purely to an individual to play into that make-believe world and treat their buddy-bot seriously, or stay in the reality of their partner who really loves them.”

“Thank you, Mark. Now, Charles, you advocate in favor of people that want to be with a Robot in more sense than just a toy. You think it’s a relationship that should be recognized.”

“Yes. I want to say first off that Mark is completely right. We know a robot cannot actually love, as we define it. However, when a person chooses to engage that fantasy, we should respect it. They may be different from the norm, but they have found something that suits them.”

“It seems a bit drastic. What’s the motive behind someone wanting that kind of relationship?”

Marcy brought her knuckles to her mouth and gently bit down, while her foot, toenails newly painted with flowers, bounced up and down.

“The closest thing to a divorce that I would ever get from a robot is if it breaks down. Even then I get to skip the lawyers, the settlements, the shitty dating sites, and just pick up a new one within the hour. By the next morning I’ll have breakfast being served to me in bed again.”

“So, you think it’s okay to just abandon that human connection? Why do you want to commit your life to a robot and abandon the way we’ve live for so long?”

“Let me ask you this, Bob. Why do we really want that human connection? Why do we want to be with people? People suck. People don’t have to care about your feelings. Robots are made to care about no one but you. So who’s really the strange one?”

–

 

“Go, go hide!”

When the holographic screen appeared with the words “Call from George: Accept with Video, accept with voice, or decline,” Marcy was shoving Atlas out of the room with a spike of urgency she couldn’t rationalize. She planned on telling George about Atlas. She had done nothing wrong by picking up a robot that could serve them both as far as house work went. Yet, it wasn’t until Atlas was out of sight that she said “Accept with Video.”

Georges face appeared and Marcy beamed. “George! It’s nice to see you again. When was the last time we talked?”

“Too long,” He said, laughing. Rustic, wooden walls were behind him. He was still in his friend’s cabin. Sometimes, he called from the mountains, where trees surrounded.

“How is it? Still having fun with the boys?” Marcy smiled, but the hands on her hips squeezed in anxiousness.

“You know it. The guys are crazy, but we’re having a blast. John caught a raccoon yesterday. Just a baby. He’s talking about taking it home as a pet.”

“Oh?” She said, head perking up. “Does that mean everyone’s about ready to head home?”

Georges smile disappeared. They had this conversation before and he never liked it. “I wouldn’t say that.” His hand scratched at his neck.

Marcy could not stop her smile from slowly fading, or her gaze from falling down. “Right. Okay. You don’t have a date yet in mind, do you?”

“Marcy,” he sighed, frustrated. “Look, you know this is playing by ear, we all decided we would stay together until we all wanted to leave. I can’t just choose to end it.”

“Honey, I just want to know when-“

“Look!” He snapped. It was only when Marcy jumped, her hand flying to her chest, that he softened. “I’ll get there when I do. Stop asking.”

Eyes on the floor, she said “Yes, George. Okay.”

They talked for the rest of the time about trivial matters and thoughts. How Marcy was planning a girls night out with Anna, or taking a trip of her own sometime in the future. George talked about the adventures his friends went through, the projects they were thinking of starting. Normally, Marcy craved those kinds of conversations. This time though she was having trouble not scowling, until the moment George hung up.

When she called Anna, the expression had not faded.

“Marcy this is why I told you to get the damn robot.”

“But I want to talk to you, Anna…”

“Well I don’t, okay? George is gone. He’ll be back. It’s not like he’s fucking dead, Marcy. It’s not like he’s at war. He’s just being a jackass somewhere in a mountain. He’ll be back. Now I have to go to work because I don’t have a rich husband. Bye.”

The screen clicked off and Marcy found herself again in the silence of an empty home.

The next sound was her scream for Atlas.

The robot rushed into the room, his eyes wide. Another programmed response. “Are you okay, Marcy?”

She, in fact, was not okay, and she told him this by reaching out and smacking him across his soft, latex face. “Dammit!” she screamed. “Dammit, fucking shit, dammit!” She hit him again and again because she could. She reached out and scratched him, her nails not ripping the skin but scraping it.

Atlas did not react. He only remained still and let her continue. She thought maybe he would have been programed to cry out in pain, or something, but he was as serene as when they would lay in bed together.

Marcy hit him until her rage trickled down into a stream of heavy gasps, and leaned against his frame with her balled up fists which only just began to unclench. “You won’t get angry, will you?” she asked, amazed. She did not believe this thing could exist, manufactured or not.

Atlas reached around, hands grasping her small shoulders, and pulled her into his synthetic warmth. “Never.”

She cried out again in a sob so hard she bent at the waist, as if she would throw her heart up onto the ground. Atlas gently took her by the shoulders and pressed her back into the couch, before taking a seat beside her.

She cried and cried for what seemed like an hour at least, until eventually she had nothing else to do but sit with a sticky face and mouth, softly gasping. It hasn’t been the first time she had done this since George had left. But it was the first time she didn’t have to do it by herself.

Atlas was rubbing her back. In her hands was a mug of hot chocolate but she couldn’t remember asking for it. She couldn’t even remember Atlas giving it to her. But it was there. She took a sip, and the world felt a little better.

_

George came home only three days after the call, unannounced.

“I’m sorry I yelled, hon,” he said through Marcy’s frantic, tight hug and kisses. “I just wanted to surprise you.”

It was turning out to be a great reunion, with them laughing and kissing, Marcy repeating, “I can’t believe you’re here, you’re really here.”

Then he saw Atlas.

“You bought a robot?” he said. “I didn’t think you liked those. I thought you said they looked like the dead.”

“Oh, well this one’s a little different. His name is Atlas,” Marcy said, her smile wavering as she ran to her robot’s side. “He’s um… well, he keeps me company, you know?” She laughed and the nervous tone made her want to cringe. “I think you’ll really like him. You know how I hate hiking? Well you could take him now, and when you need to go to work, I’ll have someone to talk about my shows with, instead of boring you. I mean, we had a great debate the other day about the killer.”

Georges smile was slowly disappearing. As she talked, his expression seemed to grow sharper. His eyes begun to narrow and she realized he wasn’t looking at her, but Atlas, so she spoke faster. “And, well, wouldn’t you know the next episode comes out and we were both wrong, and we laughed. He can laugh George, isn’t that something? And then we made dinner together and he made dessert, the prettiest lattice pie-“

“Is that one of those Fuck bots?”

Marcy’s words clogged in her throat. George was so stiff she wasn’t sure what would happen. Her hand clenched on Atlas shoulder, who looked at her with concern. “They’re called Buddy-Bots, George.”

“A buddy-bot,” he said with a dry laugh. “I leave for a few months and you just buy someone else to fuck you.”

“You shouldn’t have left me at all!” Marcy didn’t mean to scream. But she did.

George’s expression turned into one she had never seen before. Shock. Repulsion.

Was that hate on his face?

Or was that just her own?

She was breathing hard. Her fist had clenched into Atlas’ latex skin with white knuckles. “Do you want me to go somewhere?” Atlas asked. “Is there something I can do?”

“You!” George yelled, pointing at the robot. Marcy flinched. “You can stay right there. Don’t move.” His face was turning red. He swallowed and his jaw clenched, before turning away and heading into the garage.

“George?” Marcy called out. “George, where are you going?”

When she heard nothing but the clatter of things banging together, she ran after him, through the door and into the dim light of the room where George threw tools onto the concrete floor as he dug for something.

“What are you doing?” she whined as she rushed to his side, no longer the accuser but a scared little girl. Her frail arms tried to push him away, but he was solid. “George, calm down.”

“Get the fuck off me!” The shout echoed in the room along with the banging of heavy metal but she did not back down. Her nails sunk into his shoulder, scratching deep into his skin as he shrugged her off.

He walked out of the garage, a crow bar in hand.

“No!” It was a high-pitched plea as she fumbled after him, legs weak and trembling. “No, no, no, stop!”

But he did not stop. George marched to where Atlas had remained and pulled back the crowbar like a bat.

For a second, she wanted to see Atlas fight. She knew he could, without even trying, reach out and snap George’s neck in half. But he didn’t care about his own welfare. He was a robot, programmed to never hurt a human. He could only restrain at the most, if they were an intruder, but Atlas knew fully well that this was George’s home.

The crowbar struck and the sound of collapsing metal brought Marcy to her knees. Atlas’ head sunk in halfway with the blow. The latex which was so striking to skin was shredded in half, hanging off his face to expose metal and wire.

For a desperate moment, Marcy thought she could fix him. Then George brought the bar down again and again in a flurry of rage, until the robot was on the ground and limbs were slowly shredding. The skin was in pieces.

Marcy thought she would cry. She waited for the tears to come, for the familiar hot sting, because by the way she shook violently, and by the churning in her gut, of course she would cry. But nothing came.

Somewhere inside, as she watched George bring the bar down to the slowly flattening pile of metal, Marcy wondered if she had just cried for too long over things she couldn’t have.

Atlas wasn’t human. Now he wasn’t anything at all.

Cover image of Atlas and the Hesperides by John Singer Sargent via Wikimedia Commons