Repro

Roman Hand waves at his neighbors, who are quietly heading inside after an entertaining night out.

Smiling politely, Ricky and Lucy Ricardo wave back.

Sliding into the passenger seat of the Repro Services van, Roman says, “That never stops being weird.”

“Are they bad neighbors?” Fletcher Fixx asks.

Fletcher smiles at Roman. They’ve been partners for five years and have a loose, friendly kinship. Fletcher always wears a pair of opaque sunglasses that further serve to highlight his dazzling white smile and accentuate his hip nature. Roman is so used to seeing Fletcher in sunglasses he’s not sure what color his eyes actually are.

“They’re good neighbors. Ricky even slips me concert tickets once in a while. It’s that… I used to watch them in reruns and now they live next door.”

“You could do worse. You could have Fred and Ethel Mertz as neighbors. The actors who portrayed them hated each other.” Fletcher says as they drive off. “I live in the condo below The Three Stooges. They’re clumsy and dangerous. I once tapped Moe on the shoulder to say hello. He turned around, poked me in the eyes, and slapped me.”

“Jeez, I wonder what jobs the Otra Vez gave them?” Roman asks.

“Demolition experts.”

“That’s appropriate. It’s been five years since the Otra Vez landed, and I still haven’t gotten used to our new way of life.”

“Good thing the Otra Vez came when they did,” Fletcher replies. “They saved us from ourselves. Pollution was killing us. The Enviro Plague had broken out and the major powers were hours away from pressing the button that would have wiped humanity out. I know you’re still waiting for the other shoe to drop…”

“I just can’t see an alien race coming to Earth to help us.”

“But they did. They spearheaded the peace treaties, stopped famine, poverty, and an epidemic that had killed millions. All they asked for in return was our dead.”

“So they could turn them into reproductions of us,” Roman replies. “I hate to think that when I die the Otra Vez are going to reuse my body and there’ll be another me running around.”

“Relax, you’re not famous enough. Celebrities and historical figures get reproduced dozens of times. There could be a Repro of Robin Williams in Detroit, Prague, or Sydney. But you and me? We’re technicians, repairmen. Why bother reproducing us at all?”

“You know what’s really got me worried, Fletch? Sometimes the Otra Vez get it all wrong. I mean, there’s a Franklin Roosevelt Repro working as a toll booth attendant near Spuyten Duyvil in the Bronx.”

“It’s a job that involves heavy customer contact. F.D.R. was good with people. Maybe there’s another F.D.R. in parliament in England, or one in Iceland who’s a surgeon.”

“They made Lizzy Borden a nurse.”

“If she told you to take your meds, I’d bet you’d do it,” Fletcher replies.

“And John Dillinger as a cop?”

“Well, that’s just karma, or the Otra Vez showing us they have a sense of humor. Look at it this way, Ro. The Otra Vez created Repros to do the heavy lifting for humanity. No more twelve-hour workdays for truckers, teachers, cabbies, or laborers. Instead of some poor schlub with black lung and a bad back getting stuck digging in the mines, the Otra Vez can make Repros of Goliath, Hulk Hogan, or Andre the Giant to do it, and the schlub gets to go fishing. Musicians can jam with Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, or any of their heroes, and now, instead of talking about a boxing match between Sonny Liston and Rocky Marciano, we can actually have one. And you, me, and others who still want to work and contribute to the new society can drive around and fix Repos. We’re all leading great lives thanks to the Otra Vez.”

“I still think there’s something wrong with all of this.”

“So, it might take a few more years to get it all right, like not having John Wayne Repros serve as dance instructors, or putting the Wicked Witch in charge of a daycare center. But there’s a lot of good in our new existence. I got an Uber the other day, and Reverend Jim from the sitcom “Taxi” was the driver. Having him as my driver was funny, existential, and weird all at the same time. When I got home, Julia Child cooked dinner, and Hans Christian Anderson read my daughter a bedtime story. Not to mention I’m married to Jayne Mansfield.”

“You just mentioned it,” Roman says snidely.

“And she’s Jayne in the prime of her life, not the headless Jayne after the car crash.”

Roman wishes Fletcher wasn’t wearing his sunglasses so he could be sure the dirty look he was giving Fletcher registered.

“I told you, Jayne is smart, funny. And best of all, she feels like a real woman.”

“You need to stop.”

“Okay. I know you miss Monica.”

“No synthetic abomination could ever take her place.”

Fletcher’s tapered eyebrows rise above his sunglasses. “Jeez, tell me how you really feel. What’s our first stop?”

Roman looks at their repair schedule.

“Manny’s Restaurant on Fourteenth Street. They’re having problems with their Marilyn Monroe model.”

“I know the place. They make an awesome gyro. Maybe I’ll pick one up.”

“It’s nine in the morning, not lunchtime, and I would think you’d be more interested in picking up Miss Monroe.”

“I can multitask, Ro.”

Markos Micklos calls over his waitress.

“Wow, she was built to resemble the ‘Some Like it Hot’ Marilyn,” Fletcher notes. “Good choice.”

Repro Marilyn grins provocatively at Fletcher. One side of her top lip freezes upward in a naughty Elvis Presley sneer.

“Today’s special dish is Dolma, rice-stuffed grape leaves,” Marilyn says, slapping Fletcher across the cheek.

“See? She gets paralyzed,” Micklos says.

“Today’s special dish is Dolma, rice-stuffed grape leaves,” Marilyn repeats, hitting Fletcher again.

“Hey, Ro! You’re behind her. Turn her off!”

Roman fumbles with the back of Marilyn’s dress. “I can’t get to her control box. Her zipper’s stuck.”

“Today’s special dish is Dolma, rice-stuffed grape leaves.”

Fletcher absorbs another hard smack in the face.

“Stop being a wise guy, Ro. Turn her off!”

Snickering, Roman touches a small button near Marilyn’s shoulder.

“Today’s special dish is Dol…ma…,” Marilyn utters slowly, her head slumping.

“I want a replacement if you have to take Marilyn back to the shop,” Micklos says. “Business has doubled since she started working here.”

Lifting Marilyn’s head, Fletcher opens her mouth. Putting on a headlamp, Fletcher shines its light inside Marilyn’s mouth.

“Ah, it’s a wisdom tooth circuit burnout.”

“Does that happen a lot?” Micklos asks.

“Nah, but it’s more common in older Repros. Humans’ wisdom teeth often become impacted, so a lot of people have to have them taken out. When the Otra Vez started making Repros, they were unaware of the problems wisdom teeth and appendixes cause in humans, so some of the older Repros have the same glitches. There were other mistakes in some of the early reproductions. For example, the Dean Martin and David Crosby Repros have problems with their livers, and the Richard Pryor Repros get skittish around fire. Is this an original Marilyn?”

“Yeah, she’s five years old. She was my brother Stavros’ companion. He died a few months ago. He’s on the list for possible reproduction but there were so many things wrong with him towards the end that he may not qualify. Marilyn is part of the family. We didn’t want to see her junked or reprogrammed, so she stays with me and my wife and helps out here.”

Fletcher reaches into his tool bag, pulling out a pair of pliers. “The newer Repros don’t have wisdom teeth, so I’m a little out of practice.”

“You’re not going to hurt her, are you?” Micklos asks.

“Repros can’t feel anything,” Roman says.

“Oh, no? Marilyn cried her eyes out when Stavros died.”

“Don’t worry, Mister Micklos, she’s shut down,” Fletcher reassures him.

Reaching into Marilyn’s mouth, Fletcher latches onto the dead wisdom tooth with the pliers, twisting and pulling until it comes out. 

“Okay, Ro, turn her back on.”

“…Rice-stuffed grape leaves…,” Marilyn utters, swatting at Fletcher.

He ducks away from the blow. “Just a residual reaction. She should be okay in a sec when she fully reboots.”

Marilyn smiles. “Hi, sugar. Would you like to see a menu?”

“Good as new,” Fletcher boasts.

Roman and Fletcher enter the local offices of Repro Services, Inc.

An Albert Einstein Repro greets them.

“Everything kosher, fellas?”

“Yeah, Al,” Fletcher answers. “We fixed Micklos’ Marilyn, and we oiled Frank Morgan’s Tin Man. We had to bring Errol Flynn back, though.”

“You might want to rethink putting the Errol Flynn Repro in liquor stores,” Roman says. “They can’t process as much liquor as the real Errol Flynn did. It waterlogs their microchips.”

Einstein nods knowingly. “Same problem we had with the Repros of Amy Winehouse and Peter O’Toole. Oh well, I remember reading that the real Errol Flynn was quite a seafaring adventurer. Maybe we can use the Flynn Repros to pilot fishing boats.”

“So, why’d you want to see us, Al?” Fletcher asks.

“Follow me.”

Einstein takes the two repairmen to the conference room.

Einstein stops Fletcher from entering. “I hear you have some interesting maintenance ideas, Fletcher. I’d like to discuss them. Go inside, Roman. We’ll be back shortly.”

Roman passes through the door without much thought, casually glancing at the woman seated at the table.

His neck snaps as he turns around to look at her.

Her sharp, piercing violet eyes are stunning but friendly, and her dimples still show when she smiles. Her brunette tresses frame her thin face, adding to its beauty.

“Monica? What is this? I held you in my arms when you died!”

“It was Fletcher’s suggestion to have me repro-ed. He said you were angry, lonely.”

Roman circles her like a famished vulture. “You sound like her. You have the same whispery, quiet voice.”

He rudely grabs her left hand.

“Same scar from the car accident.”

“For all intents and purposes, I’m Monica, Roman.”

“No, you’re not. And don’t ever say that again. Tell your diodes to never think about it. I prayed…. I gave her ice baths... I carried Monica’s feverish body to the hospital … I gave her my blood, and she still died.”

“It wasn’t your fault…”

“Monica died from the Enviro Plague two days before the Otra Vez landed. You may have her memories but you’re not her!”

“Our lives weren’t perfect, but we had each other,” Monica replies. “You were there for me when my mother died. We survived your brother’s death and the drinking that followed. But for all the hard times, we still had our honeymoon on Paradise Island, all those great concerts, and getting stuck in Providence for three days, wishing it was longer.”

‘STOP IT!”

“We can make new memories together,” Monica says, reaching for his hand.

Roman recoils. “You keep your claws and your suction cups away from me.”

“I breathe, I feel, just like Monica did.”

“You keep her name out of your chrome-plated mouth! Humans have flesh and blood. What do you have? WD-40 flows through your circuits and your synthetic skin.”

“And yet I love you, Roman.”

“Love? Androids can’t love.”

Tears well up in the corners of Monica’s eyes.

“I was made for you and only you. If you refuse me, the Otra Vez will destroy me.”

“They’ll just turn you into a dishwasher or an electric fan. Tell Fletch and your Xerox happy friends I could use a new exercise bike more than I need a new wife.”

Roman thrusts open the door and is confronted by a concerned Fletcher.

Roman pulls off Fletcher’s sunglasses, surprised at how light and boyish his blue eyes are.

“I want to be able to look you in the eye when I say this. Monica died in agony. I don’t want to relive the memory of her death.”

“Then celebrate her life.”

“With a Repro? I see that fraud again and I’ll take her apart. Then I’ll take you apart too, and it won’t be so easy to put your bones back in place.”

Roman remains silent as their van speeds toward Chase Bank on an emergency call.

He’s too busy thinking about Monica to speak.

Roman squeezes Monica’s hand, feeling her grip weakening.

“I can’t live without you.”

“…Of course, you can…What a horrible waste it would be if you gave up…,” Monica murmurs.

“When you get better, we’ll browse the antique shops in Newport and stop in Stewart’s Market for some ice cream.”

Monica closes her eyes, whispering. “…Tutti Frutti…”

“I’m sorry I interfered,” Fletcher says. “I don’t want us going into this situation angry at each other.”

Roman steps on the gas.

“I thought you’d like a companion,” Fletcher says.

“If I want a companion, I’ll get a dog.”

“You hate dogs.”

“And I’m starting to feel the same way about Repros. She has no right to know the things Monica does. Those are private memories, not sound bites, or Instagram posts.”

“But she is Monica.”

“I wish you people would stop saying that.”

Roman pulls the van in front of Chase Bank. Getting out, he can see two Repros holding a group of customers and bank employees hostage.

“Who do the bank robbers remind you of?” Fletcher asks.

“Humphrey Bogart and James Cagney. They played a lot of gangsters in movies. The Otra Vez got that much right.”

“Too bad they didn’t see ‘The Maltese Falcon’ or ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy? They played good guys in those flicks.”

Opening the back of the van, Fletcher pulls out a laser rifle.

“Do you think they’re carrying real guns?” Roman asks.

“Repros aren’t allowed to.”

“They’re not supposed to break the law either, or harm humans.”

The partners check their rifles, striding toward the door.

“Stun?” Fletcher asks.

“No, set it for vaporize. If they’re violent, then there’s no sense in saving them. Even you and I couldn’t repair them.”

Fletcher bursts through the door, pointing his laser rifle at the Humphrey Bogart Repro. “Drop your weapon, Bogey!”

Grabbing a sack of money, the Cagney repro fires his gun, yelling at Fletcher, “Come and get us, you dirty screws!”

Cagney’s bullet strikes Fletcher in the forehead, exiting out of the back of his skull. Fletcher’s dead body seems to deflate, sliding to the floor.

“Freak! Abomination!” Roman screams, turning his laser rifle on Cagney. The blast from the ray sweeps Cagney off his feet, throwing him into a corner.

Looking up at Roman, Cagney opens his mouth, as if to speak. Crimson-colored fluid drips down the sides of his mouth as he lets out a defeated gasp, disappearing.

Swinging his machine gun into action, Bogart sprays Roman with a hail of bullets. One hits Roman in the calf, the second in his chest, and the third enters his cheekbone.

“Bingo! How do you like that, chowderhead!” Bogart sneers.

“I like it fine. Here’s looking at you kid!”

Roman presses the trigger of his laser gun, obliterating Repro Humphrey Bogart.

Maybe it’s the shock of seeing Fletcher lying in a pool of his blood and brains, maybe it’s the sudden rush of the grateful hostages pawing at him, but Roman doesn’t feel the effect of the bullets that tore into him.

Roman looks down at the table at Fletcher’s blood-spattered sunglasses.

“Yes, Fletcher is dead,” Einstein says. “But we can bring him back. You can be partners again.”

“You want to bring him back as one of those things?” Roman cries out.

“Excuse me, Roman. I am not a thing. And I can think circles around you, just like the real McCoy.”

“Really? Then why have the Otra Vez got you running a repair shop?”

Roman takes a deep breath, steadying himself.

“I’m sorry, Al. It’s just that nothing that happened makes sense.”

Einstein rubs his chin. “Such as you not feeling a thing after getting shot three times? It does not take a genius to figure out why.”

Roman’s head droops as he processes Einstein’s words.

Monica enters the office.

Roman looks at her apologetically.

“I’m sorry, Monica. I didn’t understand what I am until now.”

“You caught the plague, just like Monica,” Einstein says. “You died the day we landed. In your delirium, you cursed us for not being able to save you or your wife. You still harbored a great deal of resentment when you were reproduced. Fletcher knew you were a Repro, but we decided it was best not to tell you.”

Roman takes Monica’s hand.

The couple pauses at the door.

“Thanks, Al, for giving me the chance to get it right this time.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get some Tutti Frutti ice cream and make some new memories.”