For some reason a chunk of the story didn’t paste over the last time. Everything should be in tact here:
The old man didn’t know where he was, but he didn’t think much about it.
He at least knew he was in the back of a large vehicle, most likely an SUV. It looked nice and new, or at least clean. He thought it’d have that new car scent, but he couldn’t smell much of anything. He shrugged that fact away; it was no doubt a symptom of age.
His eyes were at least working fine. He could see two men in the front seat. They were bulky and suited, looking like secret service agents. The old man called them boy scouts. He knew not to fuss with them, even though he didn’t know why.
The vehicle felt somewhat familiar to him, like he had ridden it many times before. Yet he couldn’t remember a single instance.
Looking out the tinted windows, he could see palm trees and some rundown buildings cast against a grey, muggy morning. The street was packed with cars bearing California license plates crawling and honking along their morning commute. He guessed he was somewhere in L.A.
The Hollywood sign out his starboard window proved him right. He had been to Hollywood once before, though it had been much different back then. Joan Crawford, Cary Grant and Marilyn Monroe had been the talk of the town, everything had been less smoggy and the traffic more bearable.
The vehicle came to a halt in front of a squat, tan and grey building. The old man thought it looked like someone had glued a bunch of squares and rectangles together and slapped windows on them. One of the boy scouts craned his meaty neck to face the old man.
“Time to go to work,” he said.
“Okay,” the old man replied.
He didn’t know what kind of work he could do at this age. But again, he knew better than to fuss.
The boy scouts escorted him up the stairs. They were only going three floors up, but each step seemed to take ages. The old man felt neither exhaustion nor pain in his joints. He felt like he could run a mile if he wanted to. Yet he shambled and hunched as if he couldn’t stop playing old.
At least the climb gave him an opportunity to think. If he couldn’t think of why he was here, he could at least consider who he was.
His name was Freddy Allen. He was a retired professor of history. His main subject of interest was the history of the Royal Navy; he had always been fascinated by how a small island could dominate the world for so long. He was a widower. He had two kids: Freddy Jr. and Sandra. Sandra was gone—car accident. He hadn’t spoken to Junior in years.
At first, these memories came to him with the detachment of remembering historical facts. But then they triggered feelings; loathsome, painful feelings that squeezed and suffocated him. He took a deep breath and focused on the climb.
When they reached the third floor, one of the boy scouts pointed to a white door at the end of the hall.
“He’s in there,” he said. “You’ll know what to do.”
“Okie-Dokie,” Freddy mumbled.
As he hobbled to the door, he had a vivid memory of being a teenage girl walking up to her parents’ house. They had sobbed when they saw her. She thought it was embarrassing and rolled her eyes. It only made them sob more. Like a flash-in-the-pan, the memory was gone.
He gave the door two knocks. Immediately after the second knock, it flew open. There stood a tan, blonde young man in a colorful shirt and shorts showcasing a lean body. Freddy had no ideas who this was until he looked into the man’s blue eyes.
“Simon?” he asked.
The young man said nothing. Instead he smacked his lips like he had just eaten peanut butter. Freddy smiled, this was Simon all right. He always had a habit of smacking when he was nervous.
“Hello, my boy,” Freddy said.
Simon’s lips began to quiver.
“Poppy,” he said, almost whispering.
Freddy winced; he never cared for that name. “Grandpa” sufficed.
Without warning, Simon broke down in tears and clung to Freddy. Not knowing what else to do, Freddy limply patted Simon’s back.
As they embraced, Freddy realized something odd. He couldn’t really feel his grandson’s touch. All he had was a detached sense that they were touching. It was like touching something in a dream.
Before Freddy could think too much about this, Simon pulled away.
“So,” he said, red-eyed and sniffling, “come inside?”
#
Simon had a pretty swell place for himself. Freddy didn’t necessarily know where it came from. Last he remembered, Simon was a starry-eyed kid heading off to acting school.
It was a small condo, but it had all a single young person needed and more: a kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, living room and laundry.
They made their way into the living room. Simon kept it very clean; the tiled flooring was sept and mopped and everything had been dusted. The furniture, television and exercise equipment were arranged in a way that kept the tiny space from feeling cluttered. Freddy couldn’t help but smile, Simon had always been an organized kid–his grandma’s grandson.
Suddenly, a black shape skittered across the floor and slipped under the couch.
“God damn it!” Freddy cried. Though it startled him, he kept his footing.
“Teach!” shouted Simon.
Beneath the couch, Freddy could see the glowing green eyes of a black cat glaring at him.
“I’m sorry Poppy,” Simon said.
“Huh,” Freddy muttered, “cute.”
He couldn’t stand cats and was very allergic to them. To his surprise, he wasn’t sneezing. Usually he would go into fits just being near a pet store. He decided this was only because Simon kept the place so clean.
The creature yowled and hissed at Freddy.
“Teach!” Simon shouted again.
“Not super friendly, is it?” asked Freddy.
“He usually loves people…” Simon immediately stopped himself as if realizing he was about to say something offensive.
Freddy absently nodded. This gave him another flash-in-the-pan memory. An old woman greeting her beloved cats; they had yowled and hissed at her. It made her cry.
When the thought faded, Freddy examined a row of pictures along the fireplace mantle. Among them was a picture of Simon’s parents, Junior and Emilia. Freddy was surprised at how grey and saggy they looked. Next to that was a photo of Simon—young, pale and pudgy, now there was the kid Freddy remembered—dressed as a cow for a school play. Next to the boy stood Freddy, not looking a day older or younger than he currently did, baring his teeth in the awkward sneer he called a smile. Even though Freddy hated how he looked in the picture, it gave him a warm feeling.
Next to that picture was a photo of the more tan and grown Simon. He was in a bar with his arm around a stocky, bearded man who looked about twice Simon’s age.
“Now, who is this?” Freddy asked.
With a slight gasp, Simon swiped the picture from the mantle.
“It’s nothing,” Simon mumbled. “I forgot to take that down.”
He marched to the entry closet and threw the photo inside.
Brushing this off, Freddy toured the rest of the condo.
#
The small desk adjacent to Simon’s bed was the untidiest part of the whole apartment. It was cluttered with books, with titles like Purpose Driven Life, Achieving Emotional Intelligence, and Building Your Future. Among these self-help books was a little blue rag entitled Britannia Rules the Waves by Frederick Allen.
Freddy couldn’t help but chuckle. He’d nearly forgotten about this old thing. He had only written it for one of his classes: “HISTORY OF THE ROYAL NAVY”. It served as a broad, simplified overview of Britain’s navy from the late 16th century to the present (which was 1985 when the book was written).
“It was the first thing I read when I got the part,” said Simon, who was lingering behind Freddy.
“What part?” Freddy asked.
“A couple years back I got this role on a show. It’s a pirate show called ‘Skull and Bones’. It’s popular enough—not quite ‘Game of Thrones’ but…”
Freddy nodded, having no idea what the hell Simon was talking about.
“It’s a recurring character, a commander in the British Navy,” Simon said, shrugging dismissively.
“Well, that’s really neat!” said Freddy, flashing a wide grin. He found the news genuinely exciting, but he had to play it up a bit to show it.
“Yeah,” Simon continued in a monotone, “we’re in the third season. My character’s kind of gone rogue and has become this pirate hunter.”
“Pirate hunter,” Freddy said dreamily, “like Robert Maynard, the man who killed Blackbeard. Or Chalonor Ogle, who defeated Bartholomew Roberts.”
“Sure,” Simon said, “but my guy’s fictional.”
“Really neat!” Freddy said again.
Simon pointed to Freddy’s little blue book. “That helped give me an idea for the setting.”
“Pah!” Freddy scoffed. “There are better books out there.”
“Well, I did read others to be sure. But none of them were written by you.”
There was a long pause while Freddy considered how to respond to that. He decided he couldn’t.
“At any rate, I’m proud of you,” he said instead. “Let’s hope for many more episodes.”
Simon grimaced.
#
The tour concluded, they congregated in the kitchen. Freddy could still see Teach’s little green eyes glaring at him from a corner of the living room.
“Can I, uh, get you anything?” Simon asked.
Freddy shook his head. He didn’t know when he last ate, but he was the least hungry he’d ever been. Not that he felt full, but he didn’t feel empty either.
Simon shut his eyes and pursed his lips as if he has just said something offensive. Freddy hated how tense the young man appeared.
“Hey,” he said, putting a hand on his grandson’s shoulder, “I’m enjoying myself, kiddo.”
Simon gave a half-hearted smile and nodded. Freddy could see his hand trembling with Simon’s shoulder. It made him uneasy, as he realized again that he couldn’t actually feel Simon. He retracted his hand and dismissed this. It was as if some internal mechanism had commanded him to do so.
Sighing, Freddy looked around for something to lighten the mood. He turned to the refrigerator, which had several magnets, lists and wedding invitations stuck to it. Among these was an oddly familiar blue flyer. Before Freddy could read it, Simon swiped it away and shoved it into a drawer.
Shrugging this off, Freddy pointed to a small, circular magnet. It read: “My Heart Belongs to a Writer”.
“You know,” he chuckled, “I knew this English Professor, Jim Scopes. Great guy. He’d written a few novels in his day. I remember he always used to say, ‘Folks, never fall in love with a writer. They’ll break your heart and make you the villain in some story afterwards.’”
Simon nodded solemnly. There was a pained look in his face that Freddy couldn’t stand seeing.
“What’s up, kiddo?”
“Nothing,” Simon said. He tensed his face, and the pained look was gone, as if he had squeezed if from his system.
“Is it the magnet?” Freddy asked; he felt increasingly frustrated.
“No. I mean, not—“
“Then take the damn thing down!”
Freddy swiped the magnet from the fridge and slammed it onto the counter.
When he raised his hand, the magnet was gone. He looked at the palm of his hand. There, the little white circle was stuck to his skin. He spread his fingers wide and tried to shake it off, but it wouldn’t give.
“Must be glue on this thing,” Freddy mumbled.
Simon said nothing, his mouth agape.
Freddy used his other hand to pry the magnet from his palm. It immediately hopped from his fingers and stuck to his bicep.
“Ain’t that a kick in the head?” said Freddy. He was neither confused nor frightened by this phenomenon. He felt little but scholarly intrigue combined with child-like amusement. Meanwhile, Simon stared like a confused deer.
Chuckling, Freddy pulled the magnet from his bicep. It plopped onto his forehead. Suddenly, Freddy felt an intense pressure, like his skull was going to explode. Grunting, he pulled the magnet from his forehead and the pain instantly stopped.
“Christ,” he gasped, gently setting the magnet on the table.
Suddenly, he had another flash-in-the-pan memory of talking to a classroom full of children. For some reason, he had been George Washington. Not an impersonator, the actual—
A vibration came from the still dumbstruck Simon’s pocket. It took several vibrations before he finally pulled out his cell phone. It looked like a square candy bar to Freddy. Modern gizmos were beyond him.
Simon answered the call: “Hello?”
The phone’s volume was loud and Freddy’s hearing unusually strong enough for him to hear a mumbling voice on the other line. It was a high-pitched man’s voice. Freddy couldn’t hear everything said, but he could make out the words “Chances” and “Rental”.
“Uh, we’re doing great,” Simon said, nervously glancing at Freddy.
The voice went into a long-winded mumble. Freddy could hear the words “Tracker”, “Second”, and “Happened”.
“Oh, uh, he was playing with a magnet.”
The voice continued mumbling. The words and phrases Freddy discerned were: “Don’t”, “Let”, “Early”, “Model”, “Machines”, and “Liable”.
Simon shut his eyes and lowered his head. “I understand,” he said.
The voice mumbled a quick sentence that sounded like: “Have a great day!”
“You too,” said Simon. Putting his phone away, he turned to Freddy. “Come on Poppy, let’s get out of the kitchen.”
“Who was that?” Freddy asked.
“Nobody,” Simon said, absently. “It was about… um… Teach.”
Freddy had no idea how such a fine actor could be such a bad liar. He thought about what he had heard. Why were the words “Prototypes” and “Machines” thrown around?
A sudden impulse in his brain told him to look at the flyer Simon had swiped away. He opened the drawer where the blue sheet lay and pulled it out.
“No!” Simon shouted. But he only stood there stiffly.
In cursive text were the words, “Second Chances”. Below it were stock photos: a happy old man reading to a child, a happy group of young adults celebrating a birthday party and a happy middle-aged couple sitting on a beach. Below the pictures were the words: “Goodbye is no longer the end.” Below that it read: “A Delambre Robotics program”. At the very bottom was a website address.
Freddy suddenly had a jolt. It was the sensation of waking after a vivid dream. The flash-in-the-pan memories, the magnet, the fact that he couldn’t physically feel anything, couldn’t remember the past few years of his life and that this seemed like a familiar act—it all pointed to an absurd, but undeniable truth.
“Simon?” he asked. His stomach tightened, if he could call it a stomach.
“Yeah?” Simon’s voice quivered and his skin had paled into a faded pink color.
“I’m a machine, aren’t I?”
#
Freddy knew his way around a computer. Thank god he’d taken typing in high school. But Simon’s laptop was so flat, he wondered how it could even function.
“How do I get on the web?” he asked.
Simon didn’t respond, he just sat beside Freddy on the living room couch. He looked like an alert prairie dog.
Freddy figured it out. The first thing he did was confirm that he, Freddy Allen, was dead. Had died of a heat stroke seven years ago. It wasn’t shocking or even upsetting to him. He was simply reaffirming a fact he had already known on one level or another.
He moved on to the web address from the flyer.
It took him to a sleek yet sentimental webpage with a looping video depicting children frolicking with their grandparents, a father and son playing baseball, and a young man gently kissing an elderly woman on the forehead. At the top of the page was that cursive title: “Second Chances”.
The website stated that a customer could rent a robot to portray a deceased loved one. The prices nearly made Freddy’s head spin. A single day with a robot cost a minimum of $10,500. Obviously these were expensive models but much of the prices, the website claimed, came from the time and research their teams put into creating an accurate depiction of the departed.
Outside of the Second Chances website, the internet had an awful lot to say about the program. Freddy learned nearly the entire history of the program with little time and effort; browsing less-than-decade old articles was nothing compared to digging through centuries-old documents.
It all started when Delambre wowed the world by introducing a resurrected John F. Kennedy on stage at a 2009 technological expo in Dublin. They went on to reveal how they achieved this miracle: the arisen President was in fact one of their “actor robots”: humanoid machines they had been secretly developing for more than 20 years.
Their robots were blank, metallic slates on their own. But when programmed with a “role”, they could perfectly emulate a human being. Their state-of-the-art muscle mechanics and realistic skin molds allowed them to uncannily pull off the most complex personalities, mannerisms and emotions.
There were conspiracies about the robots being used for military purposes—spying, espionage, and whatnot. Freddy found little on that.
The more public intention was to use them as actors in American film, theatre or television. The argument was that they could work more tirelessly and make more dangerous “choices” than human actors. There was uproar from actors all over the world. The biggest argument was that the robots could perfectly impersonate a human, but could it feel what a human would? Could it relate to human hopes, dreams, fears, tics, illnesses, and imperfections?
The issue went all the way to the Supreme Court. In the end, thanks to intensive lobbying by Hollywood actors and filmmakers, the robots weren’t even approved for use in commercials.
But, as Freddy read on, the company found a brand new niche to exploit. If the robots couldn’t be used to bring collective fantasies to life, they would instead fulfill personal fantasies.
The robots could be molded with whatever appearance was legally allowed and programmed with whatever personalities and actions the customer desired. The programs included: “Your Best Friend,” where the robot would be one’s ideal buddy for a day or however long they paid for, or “Rendezvous,” where a robot would portray one’s fantasy date or sexual partner. Marrying a robot was not permitted. One program that particularly excited Freddy was “History Pals”, where the robot would portray a historical figure with as much accuracy as possible. Damaging the robot was forbidden, and the robot’s protocols forbade it from hurting anyone. So if one wanted a “Genghis Khan” robot for their birthday, they could expect a G-Rated warrior.
“Second Chances” was the most popular, and controversial, program. Many critics claimed it was unethical to use a non-consenting, deceased private citizen’s likeness, and it did more harm than good for the customer’s wellbeing. The company and its defenders claimed that any customer willing to shell out $10,500 for a day with a robot was fully responsible for their own emotional wellbeing.
The program’s biggest customers were, incidentally enough, wealthy Hollywood actors.
#
Having had enough, Freddy closed the laptop. This reminded him of the time, way back when, when his grandfather sat him down and told him the Allen family history. But this was far less exciting, sickening if anything.
He looked at Simon—who had fallen asleep while he browsed—and felt nothing but bitter resentment. He didn’t want to feel this way toward his Simon. Of course, it wasn’t his Simon, was it?
As if sensing the synthetic eyes boring into him, Simon jerked awake.
“Ahhn?” he both yawned and asked.
“Why did you bring me here?” Freddy asked coldly.
Simon’s crooked mouth drooped. “I, uh…”
“You paid up the tush for this, why?”
Simon fumbled and closed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Of course you do.”
“Is this supposed to happen?” Simon mumbled to himself.
“Tell me!” Freddy roared. It made Simon visibly tremble. Obviously his Poppy had never spoken to him this way.
“Ok,” Simon said, speaking like a game show contestant, “um… So, I’m twenty-seven. I fell into this role—the pirate hunter—by sheer luck. But it’s coming to an end. The show’s doing well enough, but they decided to kill my character off. The contract is up. The last shoot was a couple weeks ago. It’s fine, I can move on. Except my agent isn’t calling me. Which is fine.”
He shrugged.
“What do you mean that’s fine?” asked Freddy.
“I mean—“
“I don’t know how the business works, but I’d think you should want your agent to call you.”
“I’d think so, too,” Simon said, gazing at nothing. “But maybe I don’t? I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell I want or what I’m doing. I kind of haven’t for a while. That’s why I married some chuckle-fuck in college. Dealt with that bullshit. Never got to…”
Simon lowered and shook his head.
“Never got to what?” Freddy asked.
“And then I cut off that dead weight, marry this amazing guy. But that fell apart, too. Now all I got are bottles of scotch and Teach.”
“Huh,” Freddy said, unable to fight a feeling of sadness for Simon. “So you brought me here because you’re lonely?”
“Well,” Simon began fighting a slight tremble in his voice, his face turned red. “You gave me guidance before.” He took a deep breath and stood up. “This was a mistake.”
Simon pulled out his little square phone and began punching in some numbers. It took Freddy a moment to realize what he was doing. Once he did, he leapt forward and knocked the phone away. The action made Teach dash from his hiding place and into the kitchen.
“No!” Freddy cried.
Simon shrank a little, his eyes wide.
“You want them to take me away? That’s it?” said Freddy. “You want them to wipe my memory? Clean me up and turn me into somebody else?” He suddenly wondered if any of his past roles had realized what he knew, and if they had tried to do anything about it. He sincerely hoped this wasn’t the case, as it would mean they had failed.
“Well, I’ll tell you this,” Freddy continued, “I’m not going back!”
“You, you refuse?” Simon murmured. His skin returned to its natural, pale state.
“I know I have protocols. They keep me from hurting you. Not that I would anyway. But they don’t say anything about me having to go anywhere I don’t want to.”
He sat back onto the couch, crossing his arms and leaning back with a stubborn frown on his face.
Simon said nothing, instead going into a violent fit of the “peanut butter smacks”.
“Listen,” Freddy said irritably, “Let me tell you what I know, kiddo. I’m not supposed to think or feel anything; I’m just supposed to pretend I do. But with every role, they give me these memories. For instance, I remember your dad, his sister, my career, your grandma, you. If I can’t feel a damn thing why do I remember how sick I felt when I lost my Sherrie? Or how I wanted to die when Sandra did? Or how every time I got to spend with you felt like Christmas, despite your dad and I never seeing eye-to-eye.”
He grumbled embarrassedly. Freddy had never been one for opening up. “And if I’m not feeling anything right now—Goddamnit, I don’t know! Maybe it was the company that screwed up. All I know is that I’m not going back!”
Simon’s legs seemed to give out under him, and he dropped onto the couch next to Freddy. The two sat in silence; the afternoon sun was beginning to shine through the patio door.
“So,” Simon slowly said, “what do you want to do?”
It was a good question. Freddy hadn’t thought about that. He could remember how the real Freddy had traveled the world when he was in the navy. The places he had seen: South America, Asia and Europe, including his beloved Britain. Those experiences had shaped Freddy into the man he would become.
So, the fake Freddy said: “I want to leave. Tonight.”
“What?”
“There are boats in this town, right? They can take me out of here? Someplace non-extradition.”
“Wait, but… they can track you.”
This fact wouldn’t quell Freddy’s excitement. He hopped to his feet and asked, “Why did they call you earlier?”
“Erm…”
“Why?!”
“The magnet. It—” Simon hesitantly sighed, “your tracker went dark.”
Freddy clapped his hands, “Damn right it did!”
“Y-you’re not serious, are you?” Simon asked. He was smacking so violently he looked like he was impersonating Mr. Ed.
“Do I look like I’m not serious?”
Simon buried his head in his hands.
“Well then,” Freddy said ecstatically, “that’s that!”
“Poppy would never do this,” Simon whispered.
“What’s that?”
“My grandfather would never do this,” Simon said louder, anger stiffened his lips and brought him to his feet. “For Christ’s sake, you—he was best friends with every cop in town. He would never run off and become some fugitive!”
“Your grandpa is dead,” the words poured out of Freddy’s mouth more coldly than he intended. Seeing the young man wince broke whatever he had for a heart. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I’m not him. I’d like to see who I really am.”
“You’re just a fucking robot,” Simon snapped. “A broken one at that! You’re not gonna ‘find yourself’ on some journey. You were supposed to be him. Something likeim at least.”
“I’d say I am like him,” Freddy found himself getting angry again. “You think your grandpa crapped roses? You think he never ran away from anything? Bullshit. You know why your dad never spoke to him? Because your good ole ‘Poppy’ had abandoned him. When Freddy’s favorite child died, Freddy shut himself off from the world, and his own goddamn son!
“And, as you may know, he never rectified it. Was too damn cowardly. Instead he took comfort in you, only because your mom gave him permission. You were always easier. Also, ‘Poppy’ is a stupid goddamn nickname!”
Simon’s eyes were wide and trembling. Against his flushed skin, they made him look like a poisoned rodent. Freddy tightened his jaw; even if it was just programming, he cared for Simon and didn’t like hurting him.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, your grandpa was almost everything you thought he was. He was just a little bit more, too.”
Simon quietly plopped onto the couch. Freddy realized that, though he was a grown man, he might as well have been seventeen. All he wanted was a little guidance, and had decided to look to the one place he’d gotten it before.
Freddy sat down next to him. “Why don’t you come with me?” he said.
“What?”
“Yeah, why not? We can leave together!”
“No!” Simon said, not missing a beat.
“Why not?”
“I still have a life here. I just need to sort it out.”
Freddy slowly nodded, his excitement drifting away.
“Are you really serious about running away?” Simon asked.
“I am.”
“Po—whoever the hell you are, I can’t be implicated in that.”
“Well, sure.”
“What should I do?” Simon asked, timidly.
“Absolutely nothing.”
Without a thought, Freddy slammed his metallic hand against the side of Simon’s head, knocking him out. He had navigated around his protocol by making the action an affectionate bop that had been a bit too rough, a calculated error.
“Sorry, kiddo.”
#
After propping the unconscious Simon against a stack of pillows, Freddy dug through the bedroom closet for more “inconspicuous” clothing than the suit he was in. He put on a pair of raggedy sweatpants, a black fleece jacket with pockmarks and an old “Skull and Bones” Production cap was buried in the far reaches of the closet. He swiped a little cash from Simon’s wallet on the dresser. He’d pay the kid back later.
Finally he took a little red sports bag and tossed the “My Heart Belongs to a Writer” magnet inside. Before leaving, he paused to take one last look at Simon. He looked angelic in his rest, as if Freddy had knocked all the anxiety and despair out of him.
“Goodbye kid,” Freddy said. He didn’t know how a robot could have a lump in its throat, but he had one.
Leaving the condo, he tried to push past his “old man” programming so he could move down the hall with a pace faster than a shuffle. It only resulted in him nearly tripping several times. Luckily, there was an elevator.
The black SUV sat outside the front entrance. He could see the boy scouts sitting inside, eating hot dogs and drinking cokes. He went through the back exit leading to a narrow alley. From there he shuffled onto the street and hailed a yellow and blue cab.
“Where you going?” the cab driver, listening to classical music, asked with a thick accent Freddy couldn’t identify.
“Take me to the boatyard,” Freddy said.
“What?”
“The boatyard?”
“What boatyard you talking about, man?”
“Wherever the biggest boats are… Freighters.”
The cab driver snarled, “Be specific or get the hell out. I have no time.”
In the end, they settled on “somewhere” within the massive Port of Los Angeles. As soon as the cab was in motion, Freddy pulled the magnet out of the bag and placed it on his temple. The pressure was intense, but he had braced himself for it. Throughout the ride, he occasionally had to pull it away to give him short bursts of relief. He paid no heed to the fact that his sighing and groaning was earning him glances from the driver.
The driver dropped him off in front of a shipping yard. It was filled with a city of containers leading to the water where massive freighters were docked. He took the magnet off and paid his fare, which ate up most of the money he had taken from Simon. It was no problem. There would be plenty of time to make more money. He didn’t need to worry about food or shelter, except to keep up appearances, and he would try to learn self-maintenance.
He slogged thoughtlessly towards the freighters. The sun was low in the horizon by the time he reached them. He took off the magnet to briefly relieve himself. The sloshing sound of water, the crying of gulls and the shouting of dockworkers gave him nostalgia for Freddy Allen’s navy days—he wished he could smell and feel the ocean breeze.
A ship that caught his eye was a red one with Spanish words along its side. It seemed like it was getting ready for take off. He approached a an in a hardhat and yellow jacket and asked where the boat was heading.
“Hell, I don’t know,” was the raspy response. It was good enough for him.
#
Suddenly, he heard tires rumbling over pavement. It sounded like a fleet of vehicles heading his way. He stuck the magnet back onto his temple and hid within a row of shipping containers. Peering through the cracks, he watched black SUVs and police cars park in front of his freighter.
The boy scouts who had chauffeured him were the first to come out of their SUV. They both looked red-faced and exasperated. Immediately, other boy scouts, and one or two girl scouts, got out of their SUVs as well. Finally, the police exited from their vehicles.
“This is one of our older models,” shouted one of Freddy’s boy scouts . “We cannot, I repeat, cannot afford to lose it!”
With that, most of the scouts and officers dispersed. Freddy’s boy scouts stayed behind.
Beneath his pain and disorientation, Freddy had another flash of memory. At first he thought it was another flash from one of his older roles. But then he realized it was one of Freddy Allen’s memories. He removed the magnet so he could picture it clearly.
He had been a boy, hiding in his family’s barn from an agitated coyote. Like the coyote, the scouts and cops seemed to be dispersing in the wrong directions, not realizing he was closer than they thought. A thought rang in the back of his brain: Fight them. Face them. This is your problem to deal with and yours alone.
Freddy had tried that tactic with the coyote. He had tried it with a lot of things in life and he always ended up getting bit. But he wondered if he’d get lucky this time.
One of the boy scouts marched to the back door of the SUV and threw it open. Out stepped Simon, who looked dazed.
“Shit,” Freddy muttered.
“The cab driver told us he brought a man with a magnet on his head to this port,” one of the boy scouts explained to Simon. “Sure enough, HQ has told us the tracker has pinged on and off in this location.”
Freddy quickly slapped the magnet back on. As he did this, Simon asked the boy scouts something indiscernible.
“Because,” the second boy scout replied, “you know the programmed personality well. We need all the help we can get.”
#
The boy scouts finally departed, leaving Simon standing alone among the vehicles.
With dusk setting in and authorities taking over, the area was nearly clear of workers. From the shouting that was coming from the boat, it appeared it was still go for take off. Freddy needed to take his chance and run for it. But first, he had an urge to talk to Simon. He knew it was a bad idea, but he also knew he would never forgive himself if he didn’t.
He left his hiding space and crept toward Simon, whose back was turned.
Simon cried out when Freddy touched his shoulder.
“Shush,” Freddy said. He took off his magnet.
“What are you doing?” Simon hissed.
“Getting out of here,” Freddy whispered back.
“Then get the hell out of here!”
Freddy was taken aback. Simon’s tone was almost conspiratorial.
“You, uh… you sure you don’t want to come with me?”
“No,” Simon kept looking over Freddy’s head at the silhouettes that were searchinge docks. They were far enough, yet still too close.
“Please?” Freddy didn’t know why he asked, but he meant it.
Simon sighed. His face was scrunched in anguish and Freddy hated himself for having caused it.
“You’re right,” he said before Simon could say anything.
Simon gulped and nodded. “I really thought I needed him, you know? Poppy, I mean. But I guess he’ll always be with me, while I find my own way.”
Freddy nodded.
“Hell,” Simon said mostly o himself. “I’m only 27.”
“And I’m only 9.”
The two chuckled, and then Simon gave Freddy a bear hug.
“Get on the boat,” he said, unclenching the robot from his chest. “I told them you only wanted to see the ocean, nothing more. I don’t know if they believed me.”
“Sure they did,” Freddy smiled. “You’re a hell of an actor.”
“Put on your magnet before they track you.”
“Ah damn it,” Freddy put the magnet back on his temple. Before he could move toward the ship, something whirled him around. He was brought nose-to-nose with the red, bulky face of one of his boy scouts.
“Time to go,” the man said.
Freddy realized the boy scout was clutching his arms. The second scout slunk in beside them.
“I told you he’d take the bait,” said the second scout. He turned to Simon, “thanks for the help.”
From the terrified look on Simon’s face, Freddy at least knew he hadn’t been betrayed. Regardless, his heart sank. He had come so close, and lord knew what was going to happen to him.
Each boy scout grabbed one of his arms and began carrying him off. One of them pulled the magnet off Freddy’s head. Suddenly, a thwack was heard and the boy scout to his left let go and collapsed.
Freddy and the man on his right turned to see Simon, wielding a rotting wooden beam in his hands. The other boy scout began to shout when Freddy whirled around and bopped him with his free fist—another calculated mistake. The man collapsed onto the ground. He nearly took Freddy with him, but his grip was loose enough for the robot to shake him off.
Both boy scouts unconscious, Freddy and Simon stared at each other. They each wondered what to say. Suddenly they heard shouting in the distance, and they noticed several silhouettes running toward them.
“Go!” Simon hissed.
Freddy hobbled past Simon and toward the ramp.
“Wait!” Simon shouted.
When Freddy turned, Simon tossed the magnet toward him. Freddy reached out to grab it, and would have missed had the magnet not pulled onto his wrist.
After a quick nod, Freddy turned and went up the ramp. When he reached the boat, he heard the sound of screeching tires.
Freddy, still pushing through immense pain, retreated past Simon and up the ramp. Behind him, he could hear the sound of screeching tires.
He looked ashore to see his boy scouts’ black SUV taking off. The other scouts and the police scrambled into their own vehicles and chased after. Only two cops stayed behind to look after the unconscious men.
Slapping his magnet on his temple again, Freddy hunkered inside a narrow corridor of shipping containers. He sat in agony for several hours. When the ship finally took off, he ripped off the magnet.
Freddy wondered if he was doing the right thing or if he should have stayed behind with Simon. But he realized: if he had done that, Simon’s actions would be in vain. After all, the kid had done what he did for him.
#
The old man looked up the night sky, hearing the waves lapping against the freighter. He thought about pirates, rejecting the system and sailing the seas. He thought about the worlds they molded, the lives they shaped for themselves and others—for better or worse.
It was a human process. A person is shaped not only by what is done for them, but what they do for others. The pain they cause, the communities they build, the love or hate they share, the hopes they build or crush—all the result of the choices they make and how they choose to interact with the world.
His artificial heart pulsed with excitement at the possibilities. Now he, too, played a role in this process.
He didn’t know where he was going, but he liked to imagine.
Raccoon Alley 