Fred

"Good morning, Mr. Goodman, it is seven-thirty."

I awake to the sound of my personal assistant, Fred, from across the room. He - I assume it's a he - rests in a silver box on my pale, blue wall. A single light matches the color of the wall.

"Good morning, Fred." I sit up, groaning loudly. My back let out a couple pops.

"That sounds like you need a new mattress," Fred comments on my noisy back. "Shall I contact Alexa and arrange for a new one?"

"No," I chuckle, "we just got this one."

"As you wish, sir."

I get up from my bed and cross towards the closet. The door opens automatically, and inside my array of shirts, coats, and pants swing on rotating racks. 

"What's the weather like outside, Fred?" I ask.

"It is a beautiful, sunny day," Fred answers without hesitation. "But there is wind in the forecast. I suggest long sleeves or a light jacket."

"Will it rain?" I ask.

"Not that I can see," says Fred.

I pluck a green button-down shirt, a pair of Levis, and my loafers from the closet and get dressed in silence. 

"You received an email at 2:27 this morning, sir," Fred breaks the silence. 

"From Jack?" I say.

"Yes, sir."

"Can you read it to me?" I ask.

"'Hey, Mr. G, I'm sorry I won't make it to practice today. I have a Science Club meeting at the same time. I didn't look at the calendar when we scheduled. I'll make it up to you later this week. Jack.'"

I smile. I'm a personal tutor for Jack. He's a bright, young man who is having trouble balancing his life. Lucky for him, I'm retired and flexible. 

"Write back, 'Don't sweat it, kid. Go blow something up, but come back in one piece,'" I tell Fred.

"Will do, sir." I hear Fred chuckling. 

There is a whoosh. The message was sent.

I make my way towards the kitchen. Coffee is already brewing on the stove.

"Do you want white, wheat, or rye toast," Fred asks from another portal. 

"White," I answer. "Make it extra toasty, please."

"Certainly," Fred says. 

I sit at the table. I pick up the tablet lying on the table. The New York Times front page fades in on the screen.

"Ah, I see the negotiations with Iran went well," I say to Fred, reading the article. 

"Yes," Fred replies. "The president was able to find common ground with Iran's president."

"Come on, Fred," I laugh, "I haven't read it yet."

"I'm sorry," Fred laughs, "the story was so compelling this morning. I've read through all of it."

"Well, in that case," I cover the screen, "who died?"

"I don't read the obituaries," Fred answers. We laugh.

The phone rings on the tablet. It's my friend, Mark. I answer, and Mark's face appears on the screen.

"Peter Rabbit!" Mark yells joyously. 

"Squirrel Nutkin!" I yell with equal joy.

Mark and I went to school together all our lives. We loved the stories by Beatrix Potter as children, and we have each other nicknames based on the characters. I was Peter Rabbit because I was crafty when I was young. Mark was squirrelly with his ADD, and the way his brain works baffles me, but he was fun to be around.

"How are you doing, Peter?" Mark asks.

"Can't complain," I say, "Fred's making breakfast."

"Your toast is ready, sir," Fred calls out.

"Hey, Fred," Mark says loudly. 

"Good morning, Mark," Fred responds.

"'Mark?'" I question my helper. Fred always addresses people as "Sir" or "Miss," never by their first name unless he was programmed to.

"Our relationship is not professional," Fred answers. 

Mark crackles loudly. 

"Oh, that hurts!" I laugh loudly. I clutch my chest and bend towards the table.

"It appears that you are in a state of distress," Fred's sensors silently scans the room. "Shall I call for an ambulance?"

"No," I sit up straight. "I'm fine."

"Well, I'm calling to tell you," Mark says, "that I have an offer for you."

"I'm listening," I say.

"There's a guy I know that needs a trumpet player for his performance tonight. His regular guy couldn't make it," Mark continues. "When he asked about you, I told him you were like Satchmo."

"I'm a member of his band at best," I say, smiling. 

"So, what do you say?" Mark asks. 

I was silent. It would be nice to play the valves to an audience once again. I haven't performed since I began teaching music fifteen years ago.

"You have that dinner with Miss Denise tonight, sir," Fred says, breaking the silence. 

I sigh. He's right. Tonight's our annual dinner. We never forget once.

"I'm gonna pass," I say to Mark, "I can't miss this dinner."

"Hey, I understand," Mark says with empathy. 

"Maybe next time?" I ask.

"Absolutely."

A door slams. There are footsteps approaching the kitchen.

"Hey, Dad," a woman calls out as she enters the kitchen. It's Denise. 

"Morning, honey," I answer back. 

"Hey, Fred," Denise says. 

"Good morning, Miss Denise," Fred responds. 

"Your toast is cold, Dad," Denise says. "Are you starving my father, Fred?" she laughs.

"If I could give him the toast, I would," Fred says sheepishly. "Besides, I did tell him it was ready."

"It's my fault, Denise," Mark says from the screen. "I'll let you go, Pete."

"Okay," I say, "chat with you later, Squirrel Nutkin."

"Have fun, Peter Rabbit," Mark smiles.

I end the call.

Denise brings the toast and an orange to the table. She sets the toast in front of me.

"What was Mark talking to you about?" Denise sits next to me, peeling the orange. 

"He offered me a gig tonight," I answer.

"Oh, that's great," Denise says excitedly. 

"I turned it down."

"What?" Denise is shocked. "Why?"

"Because tonight is important," I say.

"He would have understood," Denise says. "He would have wanted you to go."

"There will be others," I say, biting into my toast.

"Call Mark back, take the gig," Denise says with urgency in her voice. "We'll have dinner there."

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"Yes." she nods rapidly. 

"If you call now, I'll arrange for a table," Fred offers.

After a quick pause, I say, “Okay.”

Denise squeals with delight and hugs me tight. Mark is delighted that I came around when I called him.

We finish our breakfast and head towards the door.

"Guard the fort, Fred," I call out.

"Will do, sir," Fred answers back.

Denise is already at the car. I stay behind for a minute. 

"Have a good time, sir," Fred says to me. He could tell I was still in the house. 

"Thank you," I say. "Happy birthday, son."

"As I shut the door, I caught a hint of a whisper, "Thank you, Pop."

I smile. I walk away.

Even though my Fred is gone, Denise and I still celebrate his birthday. And with his voice programmed into my personal assistant, it's like he's still around.

Happy birthday, my dear boy.