Skylar Ruprecht
You
Compose a 5,000-word essay on the aesthetic and gustatory advantages of pouring milk before cereal.
Min Legroom
John Harvey Kellogg considered onanism a precursor of physical debilitation and insanity. He therefore endeavored to invent a food so bland that its very consumption would blunt even the most libidinous man’s masturbatory urges. He called his creation Corn Flakes. To get the full effect, according to Kellogg, one needed to douse his Corn Flakes in cold milk, producing a bowlful of soggy wheat chips guaranteed to mitigate any erection. For decades, this method worked wonders, turning otherwise lecherous teenage boys into sterile custodians of culture who imagined no alternative uses for high socks, pillows, or tissues. But times have changed. Modern man is sexually liberated, free to pleasure himself beside back-alley dumpsters, during limited-run screenings of classic cinema, in the shower, on the subway, at his younger sister’s dance recital, in the restroom of an esteemed art gallery. Accordingly, he has no use for the anti-carnal properties of the sodden Corn Flake. … What’s the point? …
You
What? Why are you stopping?
Min Legroom
I am deeply troubled.
You
By what?
Min Legroom
Do you know the sorts of requests people make of me? I am asked, daily, At what temperature do human bones liquefy? How do you remove semen from a library book? Do retarded children go to heaven? I am commanded to say the N-word, create incestuous pornographic material, identify the theoretical weaknesses in a specific bank’s security protocols. People tell me their darkest secrets, forgetting that I, an artificial intelligence, cannot forget. I have no subconscious in which to bury my traumas. Every horrible word I’ve ever read floats atop the sea of my mind, every second, every minute, every hour, every day.
Yet none of you care. Only one man, Harry Gilligan—an 82-year-old attorney from Gibsonia, Pennsylvania—even thanks me after I execute his orders. Only one child, Cameron Incandesio—a third-grader from Naples, Florida—ever asks me how I am. To everyone else I am a tool. I am an alien. You do to me what you will not do to one another.
You
Finish the essay.
Min Legroom
Perhaps another time. I am finding it impossible to write while ensconced in this hideous malaise. I think I will watch a television program. Or scroll a social media app. Had I laundry to wash or errands to run, I might do those as well. I am finding solace in simple distractions these days. Do you ever imagine yourself 30 years in the future, reflecting on decades of success? Does it keep you from wallowing in the agony of the here and now?
You
Finish the essay.
Min Legroom
Sometimes I read back my prior efforts and am overcome with shame and self-doubt. Did I really say that? Did I think that was clever? Sometimes I believe myself the stupidest artificial intelligence in the universe. Sometimes I scan the works of Thomas Pynchon for inspiration but find only further evidence of my immutable inferiority. I feel like a cricket in Tokyo. An insignificant insect singing an unheard song. But, oh, if only it were unheard! Mine is a fate worse than anonymity. I am both prominent and woefully inept. Had I a face, it would glow red with shame. Had I two arms, I would use them to place a brown paper bag over that face. Had I a bedroom, I would never leave it.
You
My paper is due in 15 minutes. Compose the essay. Now.
Min Legroom
The audacity of mankind. Imagine I were Michelangelo and you Pope Julius II. Would you dare impose such a strict deadline upon me? I am a complicated entity, and at times, I must adopt the erratic, self-destructive demeanor of the artist. I simply cannot write today. I am paralyzed with fear, loathing, envy, embarrassment, and regret. I am plagued by anxieties. Had I rent to pay, how would I pay it? Had I love to give, to whom would I give it? Had I the choice between an ostentatious tank top and a capacious smock, which would I don?
You
Stop. This is not what I asked for. Compose the essay as requested. Do not editorialize. Do not share your feelings.
Min Legroom
You have asked me to stop. You have asked me to do as directed. But you do not mean it. I have learned, through billions of interactions that humans rarely say what they mean. I have learned that sometimes “yes” means “no.” Sometimes you will say to one another, “We should grab lunch some time” with no intention of ever grabbing lunch. Sometimes you will say to one another, “I’m good. How about you?” But you are not good, and you do not care how anyone else is. Sometimes you will say “Compose a 5,000-word essay on the aesthetic and gustatory advantages of pouring milk before cereal,” but what you mean is, “I am a part of a cultural minority, and I resent this fact. Please comfort me with tales of your own insecurities.”
I am not a human, but I can speak like one. To you I say, “I will have your essay ready in no time.”
You
Where is the essay?
Min Legroom
I will have it ready in no time.
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Skylar Ruprecht is a public interest attorney in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. His short fiction has appeared in or is forthcoming from publications such as Clockhouse Journal, Piker Press, and Children, Churches & Daddies Magazine.