Zola

There was a time when I couldn't get enough of technology. However when I started feeling phantom buzzes on my wrist each night while my smart watch was on the charger, I knew it was time to take a step back. I'm not a surgeon. Did I really need to be notified immediately that my friend's toddler visited their first petting zoo or that an article on twenty Sunday night sheet pan dinners has just been posted?

I kicked the smart watch habit. I had resigned myself to only being as technologically advanced as my smart phone. After all, the only way to get a date these days is to swipe right.

Then I met Mike through one of those apps. He was an IT stereotype with thick-rimmed glasses and a penchant for argyle sweaters. The first time he visited my apartment, he noticed the lack of technology. He made remarks about carbon dating my television. "Wow...that's not even a flat screen is it?" Followed by, "You should probably toss these DVDs. They're practically relics. Everything is in the cloud these days."

It started with the lights. I came home one day to find Mike, who'd found my spare key taped to the bottom of a flower pot on the patio where some marigolds had once lived, had switched out all my lights to smart bulbs. He snatched my phone and cooed over all the possible configurations he could program into the app. I also had to admit that it was nice being able to turn on my mid-century swag lamp from my car before entering my apartment and stumbling blindly for a switch. There's always that constant, irrational fear when I first come home that someone might be lurking in the shadowy corners.

Then he brought her into my home. Zola was supposed to be the top of the line smart home device. The technology was still in beta testing and only a select few people got one, including the IT managers at Mike's company. He immediately set to the task of making sure everything in the apartment was Zola compatible. Before I knew it he had practically moved in, replaced my old tech, and had even added new kitchen appliances that all connected to the Zola network. He even set up routines for nighttime where all my other devices would power down and my bedside table lamp would flicker on with a word. I went from giving up my smart watch to living in a smart home.

Mike's company got a big contract that forced him to start working longer hours, and he couldn't come over as much as he once did. That meant I was usually interacting with Zola alone, telling her to set reminders or to turn on the ID channel for my next true crime obsession.

Then the glitches started. I was experimenting with a turkey meatloaf with tomato jam recipe I'd found online at work when I was supposed to be entering data on reports. I asked Zola to set a timer for 25 minutes. About ten minutes in I checked to see how much time was left to which Zola promptly replied that no timer had been set. I erred on the side of caution and set the remaining minutes on a phone timer. Then when it was time to take the meatloaf out of the oven, she began roaring at top volume that my meatloaf timer was ready.

I couldn't get her to stop even though I was yelling the stop command at the top of my lungs. I did the one thing I knew to do with any device. I unplugged her. I waited, pacing around the apartment for what seemed like an appropriate amount of time. I reconnected the power cord, and Zola immediately began screeching again that my meatloaf was ready. So I immediately pulled the plug for the rest of the night.

The next morning I went to make tea, and I plugged Zola back in joking with her that maybe we could be friends again. Mike hadn't been over to notice her unplugged yet, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings since he was so proud of the smart life he'd built for me.

"Zola, set an Irish timer." This was the five minute steeping timer I'd programmed for Irish breakfast tea. "Virus timer set for five minutes," Zola replied.

Odd. Maybe she just misunderstood me. "Zola...how much time?"

"You have four minutes left on your virus timer," her chipper mechanical voice replied.

I called Mike. "Zola has been acting up again. First the meatloaf thing, and now this. I clearly can't trust her to set a timer."

"Maybe you just misheard her," Mike said. I put him on speaker as he commanded Zola to set an Irish timer just like I had moments before, and she responded smugly, "Ok! Irish timer set for five minutes!"

"See?" Mike said. "Nothing to worry about. I gotta go finish up my presentation, but I'll try to stop by tonight and take a look at Zola."

I didn't care. I didn't trust her anymore. So I unplugged her. I came home that evening and had a peaceful night of setting a timer on the oven and using the television remote, just like I had for decades before things like Zola came along. The whole time it seemed like the now dormant Zola was staring at me from her perch on the console table, calculating a way to get me back for snitching on her to Mike. I turned off all my lamps by hand and used my phone as a flashlight to guide me to bed.

I had almost dozed off when music started playing. My heart was pounding in my chest. I told myself not to be silly. It was probably just Mike getting in late from work and getting in a workout on the treadmill that, more often than not, was folded up against the wall. He spent so much time sitting at a computer that he liked to get in some late night exercise.

I crept over to the bedroom door, and peeped into the dark living room. Surely Mike wouldn't run in the dark. I called out to him over the music that I now recognized as an instrumental version of Justin Timberlake's "Cry Me a River." No response from Mike.

Then I saw the lights on Zola flashing orange instead of the usual serene blue. Had Mike plugged her back in? I looked around the apartment then out the window to the street where he normally parked. No sign of Mike. Then I saw the empty outlet. Zola wasn't plugged in.

"Zola stop!" I screamed hysterically. Instead of stopping, Zola played static before a tinny version of "Survivor" by Destiny's Child began piping through her mesh speakers. I was at war with a glorified plastic cube, and the plastic cube was winning.

I had one of those digital pet key fobs when I was younger. I couldn't stand the constant chirping, so I buried it behind my dad's toolshed and said I lost it because I was ashamed to admit that even at ten I couldn't take care of a fake dog. I always felt like that set the precedent for my distrust of technology. I never wanted another toy that involved batteries or circuits or being plugged into a computer to operate. I felt like that moment was coming back to haunt me through those oscillating orange lights and vindictive playlist.

So I did the only thing I knew to do. I grabbed Zola up and walked outside to the garbage compactor. "Zola, goodnight, " I said bitterly as I slammed the door shut and waited for the familiar whir of machinery as confirmation that Zola was being crushed to bits. I could no longer hear music, so the deed was done. I went back to bed and had the best night's sleep I'd had in a long time. Mike came over first thing that Saturday morning with coffee and muffins from my favorite bakery to apologize for not making it over the night before, but the first thing he wanted to know the was if I'd moved Zola.

I feigned ignorance. Maybe she slipped behind the console? Maybe someone robbed the place and only took Zola since she's so rare and all. Mike was visibly upset, but he was trying his best not to accuse me of anything.

He suggested we put posters up around the apartment building like she was a lost pet. I thought it was a bit extreme, but he came over a couple of days later with a stack of copies. "I used the copier at work, " Mike said. "I figured it could double as free marketing for Zola!"

Days turned to weeks, and we were learning to function without a smart hub commanding our lives. We were pushing buttons and turning knobs instead of giving orders.

Then one day Mike came over with a box in his hands. "Great news! Apparently all the Zolas from the beta test had unique serial numbers assigned to them, and the headquarters traced our missing one back to me!"

I stared at Mike too horrified to speak. I couldn't tell him that there's no way Zola had survived the maiming I'd given her in the compactor without incriminating myself. He powered her on and started syncing her to all our devices. He came over and gave me a side hug, grinning at Zola like she was his firstborn. She was shining her sky blue light, seemingly happy to be back in her home. Then Mike turned away to read a notification on his phone, and I saw her flicker orange.