Basic Function – A Series of Futuristic Misfortunes by Meg Pokrass
Stupidity is Revealed
My stupid friend touched my right nipple last night. We were in our bunk beds and he slid down and under my cover and stuck his right index finger on it. I thought an alarm would go off, but it didn’t.
My stupid friend said, “home.”
I felt myself feeling friendly and a bit happy with this situation, and let him rub my lonely nipple for awhile.
Then I said, “What was her name?”
“Sienna.. or… Sage! No, wait, it was Sasha.. no, Sophie!”
A Sexbot Visits
On Monday my stupid friend and I are introduced to a robot named Trina. The tag gave us some basic function description, but most of her we would have to figure out on our own.
Trina is programed for sexual pleasure, and she is called a sexbot. She has large, nipple-enhanced cone-shaped breast fixtures (detachable?) and a hollow belly button area, which seems to serve as a slim flower vase. Additionally, there is an area between her legs that appears to be sporting a tiny-handled manhole cover.
She comes with dildo attachments and attachable suction enhanced fish lips, her tag says.
“Hello, Trina!” I say. My stupid friend is, unfortunately nibbling an invisible apple in the corner – too busy to notice the naked sexbot girl. Sadly, I think, he may be near death.
I feel strangely grateful for the perky-nippled visitor. Perhaps she comes with cooking instructions, better than my own. My own instructions have me kicking the wall and screaming instead of relaxing for the next guided exercise, and the thousands of guided exercises after that one. Calming myself, staying “mindful”, that is my only job between exercises – why is it so difficult?
“This is not like him,” I say. I hope she will not be displeased. I like her kind eyes. They are purple and green in the center column.
Stupidity Seems Inevitable
My stupid friend was probably not stupid. This bothers me. I do not want to be this stupid, but i will be… soon.
My stupid friend says,”I can’t make apples.”
Then he asks, “It’s just what Dr. Porter said?”
“Yes, Dr. Porter knows things and help will soon be here.”
Then I am angry and say, “but fucking shut up, Okay?”
“Okay, and I will make an apple.”
“Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk!” I shout, exasperated. I wave at the blue screen which is now golden yellow. Flash my tits to the hand waving back.
My stupid friend shuts up, finally, and walks in tight curls and bigger semi-circles. This is information. I make a note of it and upload it into my download organ. The one they transplanted into where my spleen used to be. It has a handy dandy opening and a little sign on the door that says, “new and improved.”
A Guided Conversation Leads to Dirty Thoughts
We finish our tiring “guided conversation” about a road that is not paved. As human lab rats, we are being redesigned as we converse and do not speak. I don’t think he’s smart enough. It is all about genetic information. Perhaps they were not trained to detect stupidity.
I wonder what his cock is like, what shape it is, and what shape it will be after he has been landscaped. I wonder if anyone will ever worship my mind, and if I’ll have my own family.
“I love beans and rice, and I am craving that,” my stupid friend says.
“The blue screen hears you, so shut the fuck up,” I say.
I wave at the blue screen. It waves back.
“… I wave at the blue screen which is now golden yellow. Flash my tits to the hand waving back…”
________________
I stare at the place in his lap where a warm, original organ may be living. Even the digital clock here waves.
We are all scrambled and I cannot remember the best way to prepare fruit for a baby. Perhaps I never knew. The words “peeled” and “washed” come into my mind. I say nothing.
A Recipe Fails
In the quiet of the room, my stupid friend walking in circles but not getting dizzy or falling over (a relief) I sit and pretend to knit. When I get tired of that, I pretend to crochet. Sometimes I pretend to cook. One time I pretended to cooked an elaborate French dish called coq au vin.
I started with 24 to 30 pearl onions, 4 chicken thighs and legs, or 1 (5 to 7-pound) stewing chicken, cut into serving pieces, Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1/4 to 1/2 cup all-purpose flour, 2 tablespoons water
6 ounces salt pork, slab bacon, or lardon, cubed, 8 ounces button mushrooms, quartered, 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, 2 (750-ml) bottles red wine, preferably pinot noir, 2 tablespoons tomato paste, 1 medium onion, quartered, 2 stalks celery, quartered, 2 medium carrots, quartered, 3 cloves garlic, crushed, 6 to 8 sprigs fresh thyme, 1 bay leaf, 2 cups chicken stock
My brain is loaded with google image pictures of these foods.
The cooking instructions are far less helpful or logical: You should be able to slide right liver off their skin. Give. Shake to coat all the pieces of chicken. Remove chicken from bag tire iron. Furthermore, brown chicken pieces on each side until golden brown, working in batch, if necessary, do not crowd pan.
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Meg Pokrass is an editor for Smokelong Quarterly and her writing appears in Gigantic, Gargoyle, Wigleaf, Annalemma, among others. Selected for Wigleaf’s Top 50 Flash Fiction 2009, her collection of flash fiction, Damn Sure Right by Press 53 comes out in 2011. She loves coffee more than is medically advisable. Meg lives in San Francisco. Meg is well known for her forays into film so it seemed only natural for our parting editor Finnegan Flawnt to interview her on celluloid.
© 2010, Metazen. All rights reserved.
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