Benevolence

I play melodies on my guitar every day for an audience that doesn’t see me. I belt out lyrics and strum rhythms that are lost to the void of space. There’s no one here to listen to my cries, no one to appreciate or despise what I bring to the world. I’m all that’s left of the human race. God, it’s an empty feeling.

The intersection of Fourth Avenue and Harper Lane used to be a busy one. It contained multitudes of people who flocked to the corners, sometimes not bothering to wait for the traffic lights to change before crossing the street. The chatter was heavy, the fumes from cars intoxicating, the bustling from one shop to the next mind-boggling. Everywhere, people were moving, either going to work or meeting with friends.

Now, there are no people to fill that space. There are only the droids—millions of them, all around, all of the time. They appear human, but they aren’t fooling me. They look without seeing, hear without listening, and move without the crippling pain of arthritis or age or nausea or hangovers. All of these small details would make them determinedly human, and they aren’t. I’m the only human among them, and they don’t know it—nor do I think they would care if they did.

At my usual corner of the intersection, my voice rings and my guitar hums, both in sync with each other. Braced around my shoulders is a thin coat, slowly degraded from constant use, providing me a modicum of warmth; and on my feet are husks of what used to be shoes, the soles worn to the bare plastic beneath, making the bottoms of my feet cold. I’m always cold.

Automated cars pass me by, machines carrying other droids within, the droids staring into small black rectangles, the way humans used to. Machines within machines looking at smaller machines, going nowhere, doing nothing of substance.

A gaggle of droids passes me by. They have fluttering auburn hair and perfect olive skin, free of blemishes. I follow them, singing, screeching at them, trying to get their attention, but they continue to converse amongst themselves without noticing me. I hustle in front of them, stopping them in their tracks, and begin singing lyrics to a song I’ve called “The Disillusioned Narcissist.” Crappy title, decent song. They stare at me like I’m a wounded bird. They wait for the tragedy before them to move out of their way so they can continue on with their lives—if “lives” is what you can call them.

When I’m done with my song, I let the droids pass, and they carry on as if I were never there, programmed to chatter at each other like mad little chipmunks. My head falls to my chest and I heave a sigh. I nearly drop the guitar and leave it there on the ground.

I leave early, disheartened by the presence of the droids. I go back to the home I’ve been squatting in for some time, where there are amenities that people used to enjoy, and now I can, too. I pretend like it makes me not-homeless because the previous owners are no longer there, so why not take advantage of their absence?

The home is modest but expensive-looking. The yard is small but the inside vast, carrying the remains of decades’ worth of household belongings: pictures and frames, tools, kitchenware, toys, wardrobes, and so on. I help myself to the lot of it, except the clothes. Those I leave alone. I prefer to wade my way through life looking like the bum I’ve always been.

I eat a grand meal of frozen biscuits and canned beans, neither of them heated up. I’ve gotten used to eating scraps, no matter the temperature, and have no patience for cooking. After I’ve eaten, I take out my guitar and try working on a new song, but the guitar notes don’t come easily to me, nor do the lyrics or the tune. Screw it, I think, as I put the guitar down and lay back for a floor nap.

I dream about the droids, as usual—their perfect fake skin and fake smiles, their lanky, Barbie-like build, their soulless eyes that say, “I’m dead inside.” I dream that they come for me in the night, like beasts from the wild. My dream-self welcomes the oncoming slaughter. He tells them, “Take me away from this wretched world,” and they do, consuming me piece by piece.

It’s evening when I wake up and the sun is beginning to set. The city is never quiet. The cars drone on, carrying their passengers here and there and nowhere.

The clock hits six-thirty and I’m still too tired to play my music, so I eat a can of cold corn and curl up on the floor again, waiting for another blissful nightmare to remove me from this hellscape.

***

The same thing happens every day: I go to the corner of Fourth and Harper, where I play my music for a world that no longer listens. Lately my musical inspiration evades me, so I play the same tired, sad songs over and over until my voice is dry and cracked, and I can’t stand the sound of myself or the droid chipmunks anymore. Then I go back to the house and practice my songs. I get bored. I sleep. Then I wake up and do it all over again. What else is there to do when there’s no one to share this life with?

A week passes, then two, then four, multiplying like a slowly-expanding virus within and without me. The same auburn-haired droids shriek excitedly as they pass by, never seeing me, never acknowledging. They walk by every day, with no concept of having a day off from their routines.

The world keeps spinning, and I’m an unwilling passenger on this droid-infested rock.

I’m sitting on the curb, playing something loud and raucous, damn-near shrieking into the void, when someone stops in front of me. It’s a large man, late forties, maybe, his peach-colored hair slicked back from his shaven face, a black overcoat wrapped about him to keep him warm. He watches me for a long time, not saying a word, just listening. I watch back, my eyes hopeful, my heart swelling.

After a few minutes of listening to my songs, he looks around, almost conspiratorially. Then he drops a wad of cash in front of me and hurries away.

I stop strumming and watch him leave. He turns a corner a block away, disappearing from view. I stare at that spot for some time, suddenly as unaware of my surroundings as the droids are.

I go back to the house, don’t even bother eating before I take out my guitar and start writing a new song. I abandon my “Narcissist” song and work on new chords, new lyrics, new tunes. The itch to create has come back to me, seemingly invigorated by the stranger’s acknowledgment, and I stay up late writing the song. I call it “Benevolence.” I practice it until I can do it in my sleep.

Then I actually go to sleep, where my dreams are real dreams and not nightmares.

***

The man returns the next day. I play “Benevolence” for him upon his arrival, forcing the words out of my throat, hoping they mean something. The man stares at me as I do so, the muscles in his face slowly shifting to understanding, compassion, intensity. He drops another wad of cash on the sidewalk and leaves.

“Hey,” I say, but he doesn’t hear me. My voice is too dry and quiet now.

He disappears around the same corner as yesterday. I gather my guitar and start running down the street after him. I hang a right at the intersection, pushing past droids. He’s all the way down at the end of the street by the time I turn. For a man walking, he walks fast.

I start barreling down the street itself now, no longer bothering with sidewalks. When finally I catch up to him, I see him enter a small coffee shop called Consuela’s. I’ve never been there, never had the money to spend.

The man is sitting at a corner table by himself, not looking into his phone or anything, just sitting there with a cup of black coffee. I sit in front of him without invitation.

“You see me,” I tell him.

“Yes.”

“How?”

He looks puzzled. “How what?”

“How can you see me?”

“How can I not?” he inquires. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

I reach out a hand toward him. He takes mine, almost as if he anticipates what I want from him. An electric spark happens between our touch, and a shiver encompasses my spine.

“You’re real,” I tell him.

“Of course I am,” he says. “And so are you.”

I exhale loudly, releasing months or years worth of tension. “I thought I was the last person on the planet,” I admit, feeling absurd.

The man chuckles. “Maybe the second-to-last.” He maintains his smile. “I’m Ray,” he says.

“Chuck,” I reply.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chuck. Would you care for some coffee?”

Ray flags down a droid waitress and requests a coffee. She smiles widely, too wide to be normal, and a few minutes later returns with a steaming cup for me. I don’t thank her. She wouldn’t understand my thanks.

“I’m sorry for my initial reaction,” I say. “I didn’t expect to see another person ever again.”

Ray opens his arms and says, “Well, here I am.”

“I’m so glad. You have no idea.”

“I think I have a bit of an idea, Chuck. The loneliness of being without human contact has been… trying, to say the least. Seeing you on the curb was refreshing. You play wonderful music.” Ray pauses, then says, “Would you play me another song, please?”

I smile. I take out my guitar and strum a few notes, making them up as I go.

***

We talk for a long time after that, the morning giving way to afternoon, then evening. I ask if Ray has somewhere to be, because I don’t want to keep him, and he laughs. “In a world of automated perfunctory,” he states, “there’s nothing I would rather be doing right now.”

As night falls, he walks me back to the house where I’ve been staying. It’s a long walk, but he says he doesn’t mind. We arrive at the door and he holds it open for me.

“Would you care to come in?” I ask hesitantly.

“I would like that,” he says.

He takes off his coat and I hang it up on a coat rack that isn’t mine. Then I sift through the cabinets for something to eat. It’s all canned goods. I heat up some beans and vegetables and we eat them over wine.

“This is the best meal I’ve had in ages,” Ray says.

“I hope you’re kidding,” I tell him.

He sips his wine, appreciates it, then takes another drink. “My goodness,” he says. “The pleasure of enjoying wine and food with someone else… it’s been lost on me what this feels like.”

“Me, too.”

“Play me a song, if you would,” says Ray. “The one you played on the corner.”

I oblige, retrieving my guitar and singing “Benevolence.” At its conclusion, Ray says, “I’ve never heard anything quite like it. A real original. It seems that originality has eluded the inhabitants of this planet as of late.”

“The droids can’t come up with anything new,” I tell him. “They’re mindless, heartless.”

“Not all of them. I’ve seen some true humanity from them in my time.”

“I go unnoticed every day by them,” I say. “The droids don’t know I exist. I’m glad to have someone who sees me. Thank you.”

“Trust me, Chuck, the pleasure is all mine.”

Ray spends the night at the house with me. He doesn’t want to leave me alone, and I don’t want to be alone. We curl up in the same bed, his hand wrapped around my waist. We don’t make love, but we share something akin to love. The warm touch of a human being is what I’ve been craving, and I thank a God I don’t believe in for the privilege.

***

When I wake up the next morning, Ray is sitting at the kitchen table with two cups of coffee from Consuela’s. He lifts his eyes to meet mine and says, “Good morning, Chuck. I hope you slept well.”

“I did,” I say. “It was nice to have you with me.”

Ray gestures to the cup of coffee, encourages me to sit, and I do. I sip the black coffee and it’s perfect.

Ray takes out a small rectangle shaped like a phone, but it’s thicker than the ones the droids carry around. He disengages from me for a few minutes. When I’m done with my coffee, I clear my throat to get his attention. “What should we do today?” I ask. “I suppose we can do anything, can’t we?”

He looks up at me again, his face stoic. “I’m afraid this concludes our encounter, Chuck. I have business to attend to.”

“What kind of business?”

“Things you wouldn’t quite understand, I’m afraid.” He finishes his plate of eggs, takes it to the sink and rinses it off.

I stand up and approach him. “You don’t really have to go, do you? I wish you’d stay.”

“Well, if wishes were horses…” he says, brushing off my comment like it’s a joke.

I feel a pinch of irritation. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen another person?” I ask. “Do you know how long I’ve been wanting this kind of connection from someone?”

Ray sighs impatiently. “I understand your frustration. However, there are some bugs that I have to work out before I can see you again.”

I frown. “What do you mean ‘bugs?’”

“As pleasant as this has been, Chuck,” Ray says, “I fear it isn’t quite real enough. I need to modify the experience to make it more lifelike.”

“What are you talking about? What the hell does any of that mean?”

Ray stares at me sadly. He mutters something about keeping the details to himself in the future, then he addresses me once more. “Chuck, this may come as a shock to you, but you’re… not human. You’re a droid, as you call them. A creation of mine—as are all of the androids in this city—and you’re an imperfect one, at that rate. Your processing power is quite unprecedented, compared to the rest, but there are things about you that could be improved. I think you’re making progress, but…” He shrugs his shoulders, goes back to his phone.

I shake my head. “Bullshit,” I say. “I’ve had a life, a family, a world I’ve explored.”

“Afraid not,” Ray says blandly. “All of your memories have been programmed by me. What you’re experiencing is merely an amalgamation of artificial neurons interacting with each other to create the illusion of memory. You have only been alive for a handful of weeks since I finished creating and programming you.”

“You’re lying,” I say. “You just want to leave. If you don’t like my company, you can just tell me that.”

Ray sighs again. “It’s all true, my friend. There’s nothing unique or human about you. I created the androids long ago, and you’re simply one of the many.”

I’m nearly in tears. My hands shake and my whole body vibrates in sync. “No… No…” is all I can think to say.

“I’m sorry,” Ray says. “I really am. For what it’s worth, your music is quite remarkable.”

He lifts the black rectangle to my head, tells me goodbye…

…and the world goes blank.

***

I’m in a dream for what seems like eternity and yet no time at all. After an indiscernible period, I wake up in bed, in the house I’ve been squatting in for a while. It’s morning. A hollowness enters my heart as I see my guitar lying on the couch in the same spot I always leave it. Part of me doesn’t want to go out today—but what else is there to do?

I don’t bother eating breakfast. At mid-morning, I go to the corner of Fourth and Harper and begin playing to my non-existent audience, as I do every day. I begin to strum some notes on the guitar, coming up with words I’ve never thought of before.

As I play, a stranger approaches me—the first one I’ve seen in ages. He’s tall with hair slicked back, late forties, a black overcoat covering him to keep him warm. He watches me as I strum the guitar and sing. It’s as if the words to the song are coming to me from another world.

“That was beautiful,” he says. He hands me a wad of cash, tips his hat to me, and then walks down the street, joining the crowd of droids. Something about him seems familiar, but I don’t know what.

I watch him disappear around the corner a block away. After a minute, I pick up my guitar and decide to follow him, playing my new song as I walk.

I decide to call the song “Benevolence.”