I’m trying to decide between the burger and Cobb salad when the robot whirrs into the room. It’s accompanied by two human waiters, flanking it as if it might go haywire at any moment. Like they were police officers watching a criminal. On its tray is a hot pink birthday cake, candles unlit.
Our entire table turns to gawk at the thing; everyone except for my grandparents. They’re probably used to it by now. I doubt anything phases them now, living in a retirement home. When we first met them here, I was tempted to ask who died for them to get off the waitlist, but I didn’t. I’m nice like that.
“What is that?” My sister looks at the robot, dropping her fork. It lands on her plate with a clatter. We’re one of only two groups in the room, so everyone turns to look at us. But only for a second, because then we’re all focused on the robot again.
It stops beside the other table, a group of old women who all look like they could be named either Phyllis or Linda. The one at the head of the table is wearing a party hat. It’s lopsided on her head and much too big for her.
As I judge the poor old hag’s party hat, the robot begins to sing. Or, at least it begins to play music through its speakers. It’s a childish rendition of the happy birthday song. The waiters who guided it are singing along, but they look like they’d rather be anywhere else right now.
“That’s about the only thing it’s good for,” our waiter tells me. “Bringing in cakes.”
I take a glance at his name tag. Thomas, I manage to make out from the chicken scratch.
As he heads off to prepare my Cobb salad, my grandma nudges me. “You know, he’s not much older than you. You could probably find a job here, if you wanted.”
I study the waiter as he walks off. He’s definitely older than me. In college, at least.
“Sorry, grandma,” I tell her. “I’m not commuting this far to work every day.”
She just winks at me before turning to her appetizer of deviled eggs (which, by the way, smelled ripe.)
The robot has finished singing happy birthday now, and the old ladies clap politely. The waiters light the candles while it’s still on the robot’s tray and the clapping becomes more uproarious– not by much, though. It’s still a nursing home, after all.
The candles are blown out by the frail lady in the party hat, the cake is served, and nothing is amiss. The robot is guided back to the kitchen and our conversation drifts to other trivial topics. I almost forget about the thing, at least for a while.
After dinner, we all walk back to my grandparent’s apartment. They’re healthy enough, or at least in better shape than most of the residents here, so they live just half a mile from the restaurant. There’s a shuttle, too, but my grandparents didn’t let my parents put them in one. They insisted on walking with us.
“The cold air rejuvenates my spirit,” my grandma had argued. My dad has long since given up on trying to force her to do much of anything, so we all had it her way.
We’re almost back at their apartment when I see it: the robot. Just standing in the middle of the street, the green lights on its wheels pulsing softly as it whirred in place.
My sister and I exchange furtive glances. She must be able to see it, too.
“Is that the robot waiter?” My dad chuckles. “It must have escaped.”
“He’s a robot fugitive,” my sister replies, walking over to the thing to examine it.
The lights on its wheels fade, the whirring ceases, and then the entire thing powers off. It appears totally shut down.
My sister takes her hands off of it. “It wasn’t me, I swear!” she whines.
Then I hear rustling in the bushes. It’s quiet, but I know there’s something out there. Waiting, like a panther about to pounce. I freeze, staring wide-eyed at the bushes. And in the inky shadows, it takes form.
And then Thomas, our waiter, steps out onto the sidewalk. There’s a remote clasped in his hand. “Sorry about that, folks!” He chirps, voice tinted with annoyance. “It just keeps busting out.”
“Busting out?” I pipe up, intrigued.
Thomas just shrugs. “Yeah. Weird, right?”
“No kidding,” My sister replies with a nervous laugh. “Does it do that a lot?”
“More than you would ever believe,” Thomas tells her. “We have a board in the kitchen of who’s on robot duty. The weirdest thing? We always make sure he’s powered fully off, but almost every night we find him outside.”
“Maybe you’re doing it wrong,” my dad muses.
My sister grins devilishly, wriggling her fingers and leaning over to my dad: “Or maybe the robot is a ghost.”
This sort of banter continues for a few more minutes, and then the beginning of a winter wind picks up, so we say our goodbyes. I’m eager to get out of there, considering saving a nursing home kitchen robot from a) escaping and b) probably taking over the world had worn me out.
Thomas turns on the robot and begins guiding it back to the kitchen, and I swear I can hear a sad chirp from the robot as it turns away, like it’s a lost dog being taken to the vet.
Why in the world do I feel bad for a robot?
Back in the apartment, my sister and I pull out old quilts from my grandparent’s closet and pile them on our already half-deflated air mattresses.
By early morning, I was practically sleeping on the floor. I could hear the coffee pot calling my name: Parker, come on. Parker…
Yes, I decided before drifting off into another bout of sleep. I was most definitely a slave to coffee.
I had been hoping to sleep until at least sunrise, but when I wake again, the room is still dark. But what woke me this time was the gentle whir of a motor.
The robot is leaning over me, and there’s something glowing on its screen. Just 2 words: Help me.