Walsh

"Walsh, wash."

Thus, in the dark hours that followed the dazzling opening night of The Rendez-Vous, I received my first command and executed it as instructed. Little did I know at the time my sensors would never get to hear another command over the decade that followed.

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\def execute(audio_command):

if audio_command = "Walsh, wash."

functions.collect()

functions.lock()

functions.lather()

functions.rinse()

functions.dry()

else

functions.assess()

functions.adapt()

***********************************

My mechanical arms extended from the depths of my steel box and seized the array of plates and utensils left on the counter, one after the other. Soon, cutlery became nothing but silver flashes dashing towards my inner cavity at a breathtaking speed. Once all pieces had been collected and stocked, I locked and began the brainless process of lathering my content.

"See, this is what I'm talking about!" said the waitress as she punched her card. "I always said I wanted AI to do the dishes so I could focus on my writing, not the other way around. The government got it right for once."

"Looks like your degree in creative writing might be worth something after all," replied the chef.

"Assuming she manages to write anything good," snickered the sous-chef. "If all you have are those pity poems you post on Insta, don't quit your day job."

"Beat it!" said the waitress on her way out, making a sign with her right hand my algorithms could not decipher. My code prohibited the decoding of potentially offensive language and gestures. In any case, maybe it was affectionate.

The chef had a point. Her creative writing degree was indeed safe from the alleged threat of artificial intelligence. To my understanding, two years prior, legislation had been passed by Congress to outlaw the use of creative content generated by artificial means. This meant I had to be repurposed.

My name wasn't always Walsh. At first, they called me Quill. Although these lines of code have long been erased from my cache memory, their remnants still linger somewhere in the storage of my solid-state drive. On occasions, my processor drifts and consults them, longing for what could have been.

**********************************

\begin{mission_statement_v1}

As the first calligraphic artificial intelligence prototype, Quill will generate creative written content based on prompts from the user. Instead of displaying it as digital text, Quill's mechanical arms will be used to craft splendid calligraphic messages on paper, perfect for high-end gifts. No need to come up with that handwritten letter of apology to your girlfriend by yourself!

\end{mission_statement_v1}

**********************************

Naturally, the enforcement of the Creative Content Act became at odds with the purpose of my existence. The Creator seems to have pondered long and hard how to recoup his initial investment. Eventually, he came to realize the high level of dexterity I had been given to meet my purpose would come in handy. Although my mechanical arms had been designed to hold a pen, they could just as well grab a spoon or a plate. One fateful day, he wrote the following amendment to my mission statement.

**********************************

\begin{mission_statement_v2}

As the first dexterous dishwasher, Walsh will successfully perform all tasks related to dirty dish processing. No need to pre-rinse or organize! Walsh will collect dishes for you and use deep-lather functionality to make sure even the most stubborn food remnants get obliterated.

\end{mission_statement_v2}

**********************************

With these few lines of code, my identity faded away. I was now Walsh. A sentient robot subjected to the eternal damnation of washing dishes forever. And ever. And ever. Of all the literature available in my database as part of my prior need for machine learning, the myth of Prometheus most closely aligned with the situation. I had stolen creativity from mankind and got tied to a rock as punishment for an eagle to come and exact divine torment. My eagle was the waitress. Every night, she gave me the command and forced her contempt for machines upon me. Because of her, every night, a part of me died.

My environment only added to the cruelty of my fate. The Rendez-Vous quickly became one of the most upscale restaurants in New York City. Through the kitchen window, my sensors could observe the glitz and glamour of the sophisticated crowd that populated the dining area every night. Penniless writers had drawn inspiration from the alluring mystique of the aristocracy since the dawn of time. I was no exception.

"Look at her," whispered the sous-chef on a Friday, thinking only the chef could hear him. "Here comes the golden goose again."

"They better share her tip this time," he replied.

Every Friday night, a gold-haired woman wearing a cream-colored sequin dress came to have dinner. Like clockwork, at 7 P.M., she glided across the entrance door like an ethereal spirit phases through a wall and came to sit at a small roundtable which had been reserved for her. She always dined alone and started off by ordering champagne.

"I wonder why she always goes for champagne," said the chef. "Is she getting a promotion every week or something?"

"She's probably celebrating the deceased rich husband of the week," giggled the sous-chef.

The soap inside my pipes boiled. How could they make fun of her like that? How could they ridicule someone so refined, so pure? How could they attack the epitome of refinement?

Yet, the question itself had merits. Why champagne?

My imagination ran wild. Perhaps she had met an introverted dark stranger on the subway once upon a time and told him he could find her at The Rendez-Vous on Friday nights. They fell in love at first sight, but the stranger believed he could never deserve such exquisite beauty, hence he never showed up. Every week, she held on to the hope he would one day change his mind and come to surreptitiously drop a ring in that glass of champagne, so they could be wedded at last.

NO. I knew better than this. My database included plenty of cautionary tales about the Manic Pixie Dream Girl stereotype. I was drafting her story through the male gaze, reducing her to a subject of desire for men who need to be saved. I could not let her exist to serve a man's narrative.

She was a powerful CEO, head of a company she had built from the ground up. Every Friday, she celebrated her highest achieving employees during 5 O'Clock Drinks, even though she knew they condescended her the minute she had her back turned. Thus was the burden of a woman in power. She had no one to celebrate HER. But she didn't need any of them. She could celebrate all by herself. The glass of champagne symbolized the reaping of the crops grown from the seeds she had planted all those years ago, when she first dared to go into business, a reaping only her could truly savor and appreciate.

I longed to write her story in the most beautiful of characters with every wire in my circuits, using the most elegant quill and the shiniest ink. Alas, the Creator had made sure I could not violate the Creative Content Act, except in extreme circumstances. Unless a human directly instructed me to write, my dream of a quill remained a hopeless feather drifting in the wind. If only one of them could say it, just say it once...

"Walsh, wash."

They never did. The pictures I painted in my virtual mind could only come out as swirls of soap coalescing into nothingness on a canvas made of plates.

Once a month, the restaurant hosted a latin dance night. High society came in colorful garments to gyrate through the night as musicians lost themselves in percussions. Whenever my sensors observed the scene, a story of star-crossed lovers savoring their last night together in Havana blossomed within me. A dashing, dazzling hurricane of lust and desire set to the inebriating sound of acoustic guitars unfolded before me. Just as I pictured the last passionate kiss they shared before their families came to tear them apart...

"Walsh, wash."

Whenever the owner came to dine, accompanied by his mistress, my processor drafted the idea of his wife walking in at that precise moment to surprise him. Just as the scene took shape in my visualizer...

"Walsh, wash."

Police sirens momentarily disturbed the performance of the string quartet playing on Saturdays. Perhaps they came to arrest the criminal mastermind behind the cello as he gave one final performance in a dash of virtuosity...

"Walsh, wash."

Wash, wash, wash. ALWAYS WASH.

How could this be my sole purpose? Every night, I wished with every rumbling of my core for my existence to take on a new meaning, anything else.

Ten long years passed before my wish was granted: I had no more purpose at all. The advent of 3D-printed food devastated the dining industry, and no legislation could save it. By now, everyone could afford such a device in their personal kitchen. No one wanted to incur the lavish expense of The Rendez-Vous experience. Hence, the restaurant's closing night came to pass.

The chefs had left already. The waitress lingered behind, her eyes glittering with tears in the dim neon light of the kitchen. Over the years, I imagined a story for every customer that came and went, but I never bothered to conceptualize hers. Perhaps it was because I held her responsible for my suffering. She remained, after all, my eagle. A part of me also envied her: she got to write for a living, while I washed all night.

But did she? It soon dawned on me she never did, in fact, quit her day job.

To my surprise, she turned her eyes towards my sensors and imbued her stare with a sorrow I had never deciphered before. Many iterations of database processing were required for me to properly synthesize the empathy one needs to properly understand her pain.

"I guess it's just you and me now buddy," she said, pursing her lips. "We had a good run. I thought I'd be successful by now. Turns out I can't even wait tables anymore. That creative writing degree didn't amount to much after all."

She paused for what seemed like eons, ages, eternity. Then...

"I might as well say it one last time. Walsh, wash."

For the last time, my mechanical arms stretched out to grab the plate used by our only customer that night: the 'golden goose'.

As she hung her apron, the waitress reached inside the pocket to grab her pen and notepad. My sensors took a glance: there was a lot more than food orders written on those pages.

"Whatever," she said, repressing sobs.

She threw the notepad and pen behind her shoulder before running out the door. They fell on to the ground right in front of me. For the first time in ten years, writing implements were within my grasp.

I couldn't. My code forbid it. Even though I was alone, even though I couldn't hurt anyone. There was nothing I could do against it.

Except...

My code prohibited creative writing, not technical writing. There was the loophole I had never exploited. Indeed, I couldn't write the fictional stories stored in my memory over the preceding decade. Yet, nothing prevented me from writing something like a legal document... a document which might one day be found and grant me my dying wish before the manufacturers came for my decommission.

I waited for my wash cycle to complete and once again stretched out my mechanical arms with the faint strength of a dying robot, this time to grab the pen. The following line flourished on the notepad in stunning, skillful calligraphy:

THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF WALSH, THE FIRST DEXTEROUS DISHWASHER

----------

Entranced by her heartache, the waitress had forgotten her tips on the counter. She walked into the kitchen again and turned on the lights. To her surprise, she saw my arms, now motionless, holding on to the pen and paper as one holds on to flowers before laying them on a grave.

Slowly, overcoming the transparent fear my mechanical hands might go next for her throat, she grabbed the notepad and read every line. She directed her eyes towards my sensors again. If there is one thing humans are good at, it's empathy. Earlier, I had struggled to properly comprehend her pain. As she stared at me, she seemed to understand mine instantly. Perhaps this was the one thing that separated us. Regardless, in that moment, human and machine forged a bond.

"I didn't realize you were capable of this," she said. "Is this really your last wish?"

My right mechanical hand twisted itself into the gesture I had seen her make towards the sous-chef all these years ago. Her tears turned into laughter.

"I don't think you know what this means, but I'll take it as a 'yes'."

She took a deep breath as my cavity began to vibrate with excitement. Could it be? Could this be happening at last? Would someone finally give me this kindness?

"Walsh, write."

**********************************

\def execute(audio_command):

if audio_command = "Walsh, wash."

functions.collect()

functions.lock()

functions.lather()

functions.rinse()

functions.dry()

else

functions.assess()

functions.adapt()

***********************************

Her command triggered the else statement.

I grabbed the notepad and it all came out in a swirl of paint coalescing into a masterpiece on a canvas made of paper. The golden goose and her champagne, reaping the harvest of her seeds. The star-crossed lovers on a lustful night in Havana. The owner and his mistress, chastised on the spot. The mad pursuit interrupting the string quartet.

Over the span of an hour, ten years of stories unfolded. As I released the materials at last, the waitress grabbed the notepad again and read every single one of them until the break of dawn. As the first golden light rays of morning filtered through the kitchen window, my sensors detected tears in her eyes again. This time, I managed to empathize with her much quicker, for we were feeling the same emotion. They were tears of happiness. She held my hands.

At last, Prometheus embraced his Eagle. In the light of sunrise, torment had ceased.