Ivan Off

‘. . . Sorry, Randy . . . I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.’

           Thus began his Uncle’s Donny’s letter. The letter he had found slipped mysteriously under the door of the 3rd floor apartment he currently shared with his girlfriend. The lettering was very flowery and ornate, and done by hand and in cursive with what looked like some sort of ink dipped pen. It had come in a brittle envelope that had seen better days.

           Bizarre for sure, thought Randy Phillipson, age 32, as he started scanning through the letter. Like something out of a freakin’ movie.

           It read . . .

            ‘Randy, I know the past year has been challenging for you. Especially since your parents had just died and you had to spend three weeks at that homeless shelter last November . . . You called, but I didn’t help you. I’m sorry, but it wasn’t because I was cash poor, it was because I was a different person then. I want to make it up to you. In a moment, I want you to check outside. You should be pleasantly surprised.’

           Yours,

           Donald J Phillipson III

           The box was the size of a damn refrigerator. And there was just an excessive amount of those ridiculous, little, white, fluffy packing peanuts in there is well; as he soon found out after he stabbed the stubborn cardboard box open with the dull boxcutter that happened to be handy.

           The peanuts had gotten everywhere immediately, and Tim had to stop his new girlfriend’s little long-legged chihuahua puppy from eating the delicious, crunchy, and yet highly toxic marshmallows like they were candy.

           After relocating Optimus Prime to the bathroom and closing the door, Randy returned to the massive box. It looks like it could hold several bodies in this thing! Thought Randy bitterly as he returned to stab the packaging.

           He wondered just how in the hell the delivery man had gotten the damned thing up that grueling three flights of stairs with a box that big.

           But, even though there was no one there a few minutes ago, there was a little clipboard lying on the ground with a grueling, eye-squinting contract to sign with a nifty silver pen, (the old-fashioned type with the arrowhead tip), attached to it with a chain. And the box.

           And the box was heavy! Randy wasn’t sure how to move it at first, but he finally saw that the intrepid package delivery man had left him use of a shiny, steel-looking hand truck, still in place underneath it on the other side.  

           He shuffled the box inside quickly with the surprisingly squeaky hand truck, before the nosy Mrs. Peterson next door got whiff of her neighbor receiving a giant mysterious package. But, then, he had to open it. He supposed he could just wait until his girlfriend got home from work, (this was her apartment), But, the giant refrigerator-sized cardboard monstrosity was clearly intended to be delivered to him. It said so, right on the box, and on the weird form he was supposed to sign it said his name a few times. He scanned it only briefly, but he was sure that his name was the only one that was mentioned in it, and not his girlfriend’s.

           Tearing away the last of the murky cellophane, Randy found himself with before a tall, mannequin-looking thing. It looked like a human, but without the reproductive parts where they should be. And the joints were obviously separated by a gap of maybe less than a centimeter, so it appeared that it had the ability to move its limbs, much like a child’s doll. And its face was so peculiar . . . It looked much like one of his action hero figures that he owned in jawline cut and appearance.

           Neat.

           “Is there an ‘On’ button on this thing?” wondered Randy aloud, looking around it on a goose neck for some kind of switch.

           “Oh, it’s holding something.”

           Randy pulled the envelope from the ‘dummy’s’ hand, also addressed to him, and read it aloud to himself. It was more of that flowery handwriting, this time even more compressed.

           “Dear Randy, my favorite Nephew. This is your Uncle Donny again. If you have not guessed by now, I am writing to you from the grave. I know you must be quite startled, but I assure you everything is going quite as planned.  Last March I received dire news. I found out I was going to pass away from terminal prostate cancer in the next few months, and that it will be an incredibly painful death. As I am writing this to you, I can tell you that, quite honestly, I believe they may be right. I do not urinate well any more. At all. And its always painful . . .

           But, I digress. As you know, I love gadgets and robots and things. I have recently come into some considerable wealth. This has allowed me to always obtain the newest products way before they hit the market.

           Before you is the TX-301 model ‘Mechanical House Maintainer.’ Or MHM, for short. It is, basically, a butler that will clean your house. Or entertain you, if you let it. To turn it on, just say its name, followed by the word ‘ON’. To turn it off, just say its name, and ‘OFF’.

           Yours truly,

           Uncle Donny

           ‘P. S. – Whatever you do, don’t tell the but---’

           Oddly enough, the rest was blurred out by a water smudge. Or something. What the hell wasn’t he supposed to tell it?

           There was nothing on the back. Randy let the letter fall to the ground and put his hand to his chin in quiet consternation. He realized Optimus had stopped whining.

           “Great, it probably pissed or shit on the floor in there. Again.”

           He was more concerned about the problem of turning this thing on. Actually, at the moment, he was wondering if it was even wise for him to turn it on . . . he had read a few sci-fi horror comics that had started out just like this.

           But, the face of this weird robot butler thing his Uncle had given him was very familiar . . .

           “No way.”

           That odd grizzled jawline . . . His Uncle’s favorite video game?

           “Is your name Ivan? As in ‘Krazy Ivan’? From my Uncle’s weird old Playstation 2 game?”

           It was now or never.

           “Ivan On.”

           The effect was almost immediate. The eyes started glowing an almost blinding bright green for a moment, then, as the glow receded, it left behind the look of something alive. Or at least, intelligent and conscious.

           Its head moved from left to right, and its eyes began to move as it seemed to scan the room, but with a creepy robotic lurch that made it seem to randomly jerk.

           Finally, its head stopped in line with Randy, and its eyes stared at him directly.

           It spoke. With a voice of gravel.

     “Greetings. You must be my new master. I have already downloaded your voice profile to my data logs. I am now registered to you.”

           “Huh?” wondered Randy aloud.

           The robot said nothing.

           “What do you do?”

           The grizzled face of Ivan replied, in a perfectly unnatural robot voice, “I am yours to command. I will obey any order that you give me. Or rather, I will attempt to. My data slot is still learning, and processing new information.”

           “Oh. Uh . . .” said Randy, “You could clean my house! You’re a butler, right? You clean things? And bring me drinks and food and stuff?”

           “Affirmative.”

           “Cool. Can you drive a car?”

           “I am designated as an 'MHM'. If driving falls within the parameters of household duty, then I will attempt to learn this ability as soon as possible.”

           “Oh, right. You’re kind of dumb now, huh? I gotta teach you things? Like a Tomagachi pet?”

           “I do not understand ‘TOMAGACHI PET’ word usage.”

           “It's like a little digital pet you keep on like a tiny robot game thingy that you can keep in your pocket. You have to train it, and feed it. Stuff like that. If you don’t, it dies. But, it's okay, it's just a game.”

           Ivan stared blankly. Randy could almost hear the robot’s brain clicking away as it processed that information.

           “Master, would you permit me a question? I may ask a lot of these, as it is one way my processor can learn.”

           “Shoot.”

           Blank stare.

           “Oh, I mean, ‘sure’. Ask away.”

           “You just said you owned a robot that ‘ D I E S ‘, if you don’t interact in certain ways with it. This word is not in my data logs. What is ‘dies?’

           Randy shook his head in disbelief. “Wow. It’s like I am talking to a child.”

           Blank stare.

           “When something ‘dies’ or is ‘dead’, it means their life functions cease. Oh, wait, no. That’s the medical meaning. Sorry, I’m in med school. No uh, I guess it just means that something no longer moves anymore. Its functions cease. Inoperable. It's something that is usually irreversible.”

              More of that brain clicking sound. Maybe Randy wasn’t imagining it. This time it was longer than normal.

           “Master, it appears I was in a state of ‘death’, as you put it, before you have just turned me on. I was inoperable and did not function.”

           Randy couldn’t stop from laughing. “Ha ha! Yeah, well I guess everyone is like that. Before they’re born, I guess everything is sort of ‘dead’. My girlfriend would love to argue that point with you, though, my friend. She is a Philosophy Major.

           “Master, what does ‘born’ mean? This file is not in my datalogs.”

           “Geez, whoever programmed you did an incredibly crappy job. You don’t even know all the words in the dictionary yet.”

           “Master, what is meaning of ‘dictionary’?”

           Sigh. “I’ll go get one for you right now.”

           Randy turned to go back to the rear office nook where the couple kept such things as a dictionary. It always finds a way of coming in handy. Boring read, though, if one was to just read it straight through, as if it were a novel and not a reference book. From many steps away he saw the ridiculous amount of papers and books and junk almost spilling out of the office room.

           This could be difficult.

           “I don’t really remember where it is. Here, you pick up these peanuts while I’m gone, and I’ll be right back.

           He heard Optimus scratch and bark as he passed the bathroom door. God, that dog is gonna freak when it sees the robot. Maybe he shouldn’t let him out yet.

           Randy attacked the pile of intellectual debris with gusto, happily mumbling to himself as he did. “Geez, Uncle. You could have just got me a Roomba. I would have been perfectly happy with that. I wouldn’t have to teach the fucking Roomba basic words it doesn’t know by getting it a dictionary. Oh, my God. Here it is.”

           Randy pulled out the dictionary, a small, ragged affair with watermarks. (Or were those coffee stains? Or both?) He held it in the air in victory.

           “Huzzah! Okay, now to get back to my robot butler. Ha ha. He couldn’t have gotten into too much trouble, I hope . . .”

           The chihuahua puppy scratched and growled, then bumped at the door as Randy passed it.

           “Hold on, buddy. You are gonna hate this thing. Give me a second and I’ll put you in the big bedroom.”

           He returned to find Ivan picking up the pieces of Styrofoam peanuts. He had gotten most of them too. He was pretty fast. All of the pieces were nearly in the box.

           “You could have gotten a broom, you know. Oh wait . . . do you know the word ‘broom’?’

           Ivan stopped and his eyes darted back and forth rapidly, and in a way no human’s eyes could ever do.

           “A broom is cleaning instrument that could have helped me with this task, yet I have not the knowledge of one in the area.”

           “Yeah . . . here, read this. It’ll catch you up. Or, I dunno, scan it or whatever.”

           Ivan immediately dropped the tons of peanuts directly on the floor and accepted the book. The little puff balls scattered.

           “Thank you. This will help immensely.”

           Ivan opened the book and started eyeing the copyright page intensely.

           “I am going to get you some clothes. You look like a naked Seargent doll from the G. I. Joe series. Except no one issued you clothes, I guess. Hang on.”

           A few moments later and Randy was rummaging through the main bedroom’s closet.

           “God, what is he? A size XXL? I don’t even think anything in here will fit . . . Oh, here we go. Well, not great, but it’ll have to do. I’ll have to get him some real butler clothes soon. Or at least a suit jacket. That would be cool.

           Randy returned with Miranda’s Columb County Community College sweater, a pair of stretched out sweats, and grisly looking pink beach flip-flops that all probably would not fit very well, if at all.

           Ivan had made it to the second page of the A section. Good for him. No . . . something was wrong here.

           “You read almost slower than my Grandma, dude. Can’t you just scan the page and download it or something? I dunno, it just seemed like something that has a computer processor in its head would be able to do something as easy as that with no problems.”

           Without looking up from the page, Ivan replied, “Negative. My CPU does not function like a normal computer does, nor do I learn in the same way another A. I. program would. My processor demands that I piece together the bits of logic I find when I am ‘reading’ something. I have to scan several lines of writing, then process it, then return to scanning, in order for me to properly internalize the data.”

           “You’re gonna be standing there for three days going at that rate! Just put the clothes on.”

           Ivan complied, in his jerky robot fashion way. It was quite comical, and the clothes fit badly. Optimus Prime could be heard howling away in the bathroom.

           It definitely had shit in there. But . . .

           “Oh my God! You look like a Florida Tourist! You just need sunglasses!” laughed Randy.

           He couldn’t stop from going and grabbing his oversized beach sunglasses from right off the bedside table next to them.

           Randy turned to run down the hall again, holding his sides as he did so. He was gonna take a phone video after this and put it on YouTube! He could see the tagline now . . . Terminator goes to the beach dressed like Grandma. Hahaha.

           Strangely enough, however, the lights wouldn’t turn on in his room. Randy didn’t think much of it and went and grabbed the glasses off the nightstand.

           He turned to see Ivan standing there in front of him, about a foot away. Staring down at him with those glowing green eyes of his . . . This didn’t feel right.

           “Ivan? You scared the shit out of me, bro! Don’t do that!” said Randy, playfully punching at Ivan’s arm.

           Ivan’s brain clicked and whirred.

           “Master, why did you hit me?”

           Randy shrugged, feeling a cold sweat break out on him. The robot butler was directly in his path. It would be strenuous to go around him. It looked like he had to talk semantics and social physical play with a robot.

           His worst subjects that he took in college involved those two things.

           “Just . . . uh . . . playin’ around man. You know. A joke.”

           “What is the meaning of ‘joke’?”

           “Ah, I dunno . . . you got me, man. Somethin’ funny? Oh, you don’t know that word either?” rambled Randy, starting desperately to figure a way out, but with nothing coming immediately to mind.

           “Master, did you know that an Aardvark is a large, nocturnal, burrowing mammal, residing in central and south Africa, feeds on ants and termites and has a long, extensile tongue?”

           Ivan lifted his right arm and cocked it back, not menacingly, but with a strange jerking motion that almost made Randy nauseous. Randy dropped the sunglasses and stepped back involuntarily, waiting for the strike that would certainly end his life.

           Oh! Right.

           “Ivan Off.”

           Randy closed his eyes as he said this, still expecting the blow to come. But, he heard a metallic powering down noise and he opened his eyes to see Ivan’s head slumped forward, and his arms at his sides. This close, Randy could see there was something written in extremely small black print on Ivan’s neck. Almost like it was stamped there.

           “WARNING: ONLY TEACH MHM BASIC HOUSEHOLD TASKS. TOO MUCH CONFLICTING INFORMATION WILL OVERLOAD THE PROCESSOR AND CAUSE ERRORS. THIS WILL VOID THE WARRANTY.   Coppertap Ind.  ----”

           Below that there seemed to be even smaller writing that Randy had to squint to see.

           ‘Made in Mexico.’

           Randy fell, or rather collapsed, sideways on the bed, and finally he could hear the sharp, piercing cries of the dog finally reaching his ears over the immediate panic.

           The dark figure of Ivan stood over him like a malignant mannequin of death. Just sleeping for now. Yeah, thought Randy, I’m sending this fucker back. I don’t care that I voided the warranty.

           Randy rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling, letting out a sigh of disbelief. And relief. Then he laughed. And couldn’t stop laughing for several minutes.

           “Geez, Uncle. You could have just got me a fucking Roomba.”