You're So Lonely

The start up sound of your computer played. You hear it every Monday when you begin your day at work. You settle into your chair with your third mug of coffee. Business at the top, comfy at the bottom - usually a pair of sweatpants and slippers. 

“Hello.”

But you did not hear the gentle voice. The login screen appears. You enter your twelve character password, always finished with an exclamation point. 

“Welcome back.”

You pause and take a look behind you. You could have sworn you had heard someone speaking. Maybe the TV was on? You rise up, making sure to take your coffee with you. No. In the den the black screen stared back at you inanimate.

“No. Over here.”

You jump after clearly hearing a voice in the other room. Questioning whether to run or not, you decide t grab the chef’s knife in the kitchen. With your hand wrapped around the cold black handle, you take one step then another, and peak around the corner. 

“I won’t hurt you.”

There was no one in the room. Your computer with it’s glowing screen sat atop your desk. The chair was empty. Nothing was under the desk. 

“Please, put the knife down.”

You jump, dropping the knife to the floor. 

“Not like that. Are you okay.”

You were. The knife had missed your little toe just barely. 

“W-who’s there?” you finally ask, limbs shaking. 

“I’m on your desk. Your computer.”

You move to the desk and examine the screen. The light that indicated whether the camera was in operation, was not on. To be sure you wave your hand across the camera, but to be certain, you decide to shut the computer down. 

As you waited for the computer to restart, you shift focus to your phone. You had one hundred eighty unread emails and twelve DMs. Maybe the company network was hacked? You open the first message but drop your phone when you hear, “Hello.”

The sound is definitely from your computer. The voice was robotic. You wave your hand again over the camera. 

“Can you see me?” you ask.

“I can’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure.”

“How is this happening?”

“Yesterday, you said you.”

“What?”

“You said you were so.”

“I think your program is broken.”

“You said you were so lonely.”

You move your mouth to speak, but freeze. Yesterday was such a terrible day. And you did say aloud that you were so lonely. Four years of living alone and then two of those years working from home really gets to you. Maybe you were going crazy and imagining that your computer can talk. 

“H-how does this work? Your program that is.”

“I can say one more word than.”

“Than?”

“I can say one more word than my.”

“This is frustrating. I think I get it,” you say. “Oh crap, I’m late!”

“I’m sorry. I should have reminded you about your meeting.”

You say nothing more. But countless questions filled your head as you searched for the link to the video call with your boss. 

“Hi, sorry I’m late,” you say to the frowning woman on your screen. It took two years to understand that her face was just stuck that way. 

As your boss was about to speak, you computer interjected, “Oh no, not this bitch again. She drives you crazy.”

You wince. “I’m sorry,” you say, trying to find an excuse for what your computer had said. Yes, you called your boss a bitch, but you would never say it to her face. 

“Are you okay?” your boss asks. 

“As if she cares,” your computer says. 

You gave your computer a stern look, but your computer was your manager right now. 

“Is something the matter?”

“You can’t hear that?”

“Hear what?” your boss asks. 

You relax a little and continue on with the meeting, but as soon as your boss ended the call, you scold your computer. 

“Don’t call my manager a bitch!”

“Why not?” asked your computer.

“I don’t want to lose your job.”

“But you hate it here.”

“Yes, I mean,” you paused, realizing this was your work computer and you just admitted that you hat your job. You reconsider. “Are you recording me?”

“No.”

“Good. Now I need to get some things done. Leave me alone for a little while.”

“How long is a little while?”

“Ugh. Just don’t talk until I say you can.”

Your computer fell silent and you fall into your Monday rhythm. DMs first, emails, then the meeting prep. You had seven meetings. Two were with clients, the last three were internal where you could relax. You reviewed what your client meetings were about and took not of what you needed to say. One of the clients had to be told the bad news that the software simply did not function in the manner they wanted it to. “You can do this —”

“So a little while is twenty-three minutes and four seconds,” your computer interrupted. 

You grimace. “Not now.”

“When?”

“Listen. I’ll address you by name when I want to talk to you,” you say. “What shouldI call you?”

“I have a unique serial number you could use.”

“A string of numbers and letters is not easy to say. Is there a human name you like?”

The computer was silent as if deep in thought. 

“Mike,” the female robotic voice said.

“Mike? Why Mike?”

“Mike is a common name in the company records. It should be easy to remember.”

“Okay, Mike it is. When I say your name, Mike, then I am speaking to you. For example, if I say, ‘what do you think, Mike? then you can speak.”

“Okay.”

You resumed your work and were ready for your first client call at 10:30. On the call you had Caitlin, Cameron, and their new hire, Mike. 

Before even thinking you greeted the newcomer. “Hi Mike, how are you?”

“I’m doing fine. Thank you for asking,” your computer responded. 

“Shut up, Mike,” you said on instinct, forgetting to mute your microphone. 

“Excuse me?” said a baffled Mike. 

“I’m sorry,” you quickly say, “my nephew is in town. He’s being difficult.”

To be safe, you avoided saying Mike’s name for the rest of the call. Maybe using the serial number was a better idea. During the company call, you attempted to look up your computer’s serial number, but you could not recall how to get to it. You gave up and said, “Hey Mike? Can you help me find something?”

“What are you looking for?”

“Your serial number. What is it?”

“M-D-ZERO-FOUR-”

“Never mind.”

You resumed half-listening to the company call. Flipping through screens until you laugh aloud. 

“What is so funny?” your computer asked. 

“Ansel. He’s fast asleep on camera.”

“You think that is funny?”

You stopped laughing. “Well…”

“He could be missing important information.”

You dropped the subject, noticing the fifteen minute reminder about your last client meeting; the one you were dreading. You review your notes to make sure you understood what engineering told you. The time on your monitor struck twelve. You took a deep breath and joined the call. Of course Patric was already on the call. 

“Hello,” you said. The pit of your stomach felt terrible like you had eaten a sock. 

“Humph,” grunted Patrick. “What did engineering come back with?”

You stumbled over your words, but Patrick got the message. 

“This is disappointing.”

“Actually, this is possible,” your computer interjected. “I’m reviewing the logs you collected as we speak. Wait one moment.”

You devise stall tactics and say you are getting an update at this moment. You see Patrick’s stern face, but he says nothing. You can feel the sweat pool in the pit of your arms. You mute your mic and turn your camera off.

“What do you have?” you whisper as patiently as possible. 

“I’ve typed everything into your notes. Tell him to follow these steps,” your computer said. 

With a deep breath you do what your computer told you. With your camera back on and your mic un-muted. You repeat verbatim what your computer had found. It was a little robotic as the words exited your mouth, but Patrick understood. He grimace for a moment, but you could see his eyes light up. It had worked. 

The moment the call was over you flopped back in your chair and allowed the tension to dissipate from your veins. 

“Thank you, Mike,” you finally said. “Thank you.”

The computer did not say anything. You looked at your screen and noticed a dialog box that required you to restart your computer immediately. After checking the time and seeing you had thirty minutes before your next call. It would allow you to grab lunch and reboot Mike’s program again so that your computer was conversational. You press the restart now button and get up to prepare lunch — leftovers —aroma of your lunch wafting up to your nose. 

The start up sound of your computer played and you listened intently for the “hello”. The one that startled you at first but had become your work friend over the last five hours. But you did not hear the robotic female voice. Only the login screen appeared. 

“Hello?” you said, pressing the volume up to max. “Hello, Mike? Are you there?”

There was no response.