Choking on Citrus

It was bad enough that AI had overthrown humanity. It was even worse that Harri had to work in retail for them.

He was on his knees, scrubbing the linoleum floor with a sponge that had long since lost its bright yellow color. He tried to ignore his boss’s eyes on him as he dunked the sponge into a bucket of soapy water. If he let up his cleaning regimen for even a moment, Robo-Boss would be on him in an instant. Harri had no idea why people thought robots couldn’t express emotions because his boss was the moodiest AI on this side of the country.

The shop door opened with a chime, and a customer—human, by the looks of it—trudged inside, dragging his sand-crusted boots across the still-wet floor. Harri’s eye twitched as bits of sand scattered about, ruining his hard work.

“Welcome!” Harri’s boss had downloaded a fancy British accent a few days ago, and Harri was still reeling from the change. The AI’s voice was crunchy, as if the voice file had been compressed. Maybe the robot could get that fixed, but Harri bet it cost some vast amount of money that even an AI couldn’t get their hands on. Harri went back to scrubbing the floor, trying to ignore the grittiness of the sand between his fingers.

Seems even our brilliant robot overlords can fall victim to money problems. Who would have guessed?

The customer rattled off his order to Robo-Boss as Harri threw his sponge into the bucket. The man spoke in a language that Harri didn’t know, but his boss had no trouble crossing the language barrier. As RB began to make a smelly drink for the sandy man, Harri dragged his bucket behind the counter. RB refused to let Harri touch the drink-making machine ever since Harri had set the thing on fire (and no, he had no idea how that had happened). The only reason he was allowed back there was because of the tiny cabinet filled with chemicals for cleaning the shop. Harri dumped the dirty, sudsy water in a nearby sink, trying not to gag at the brown color. It was almost the same shade as the drink that RB was handing to the customer.

The sandy man and his boss were laughing, though Harri could hear the strain in RB’s robotic voice. Harri wouldn’t consider his boss a ‘people person’. RB basically looked like a human with silver skin and void-black eyes. Harri had long since cataloged the dents and scratches that were scattered about their metallic arms. The most unnerving thing about his boss was their refusal to wear any clothes, which…well, it wasn’t like they had anything to cover. RB noticed that Harri was staring, and their black eyes narrowed as they shooed the boy away with a wave of their hand.

“Get back to work,” they hissed, switching back to Harri’s native language. “The tables need to be wiped down before the lunchtime rush. Hop to it!”

Harri rolled his eyes but did as he was ordered. Grabbing a gray rag and a bottle of suspiciously neon green spray, he walked back out to the floor and began to furiously scrub at the plastic tables. The spray smelled like oranges. Like too many oranges. Like Harri was choking on the smell of citrus, and it made him want to puke. Harri swore that using the cleaning supplies every day had killed off the ability to smell anything else. Even the fancy drinks that RB made every day only had a fruity odor. Harri pulled his shirt up to his nose, trying to breathe through it as he continued to scrub. Barely, just barely, he could pick up the smell of home.

The smell of freshly baked bread that his mother pulled out of their small oven in the morning.

The smell of picking flowers to bring to his abuela as she lay in their only bed.

The smell of cigarette smoke, the one luxury Harri’s father still allowed himself these days.

“Harri!” The robotic voice snapped him back to the present. Harri let his shirt fall back as he turned to view his very ticked-off boss. The robot waved a hand to the table that the boy had been wiping. “You’ve been cleaning that table for the past 15 minutes. That man had enough time to finish his drink and clear out already, and you haven’t moved from that spot. How about you stop daydreaming about who-knows-what and get back to work? I don’t pay you to stand around and do nothing.”

“You don’t pay me enough to care, either.” But Harri’s response was so quiet he doubted even the robot could hear him. He did as asked, moving to the next table and spraying that disgusting fruity-smelling juice on it. Turning his back to his boss, he scrubbed the table with force. He tried not to think about the small paycheck he would receive in a few days. It won’t be enough. It won’t be nearly enough.

The shop was silent, save for the hiss of machinery behind the counter. Harri thought he heard RB sigh, but that was ridiculous. Robots did not need to sigh.

Or clear their throats, which is what his boss did next. “Hey, how is that grandma of yours?”

“Same as before,” Harri answered, voice monotone. “No better, no worse.”

“Still got that bug, huh? Heard it has been going around. The man who just came in was saying he knew a few people that got it, too.”

Harri didn’t respond, instead moving to the small table near the shop’s window. He tried not to think about his abuela. He spritzed the window and wiped it down, not caring about the streaks he left behind. That citrusy smell clung to him—clung to his clothes, his hair, his breath—and he hated going home with it still on him. Because Abuela noticed. She noticed the unnatural odor that Harri carried with him nowadays. Would smile and pat his arm and say how proud she was of him. And he’d hug her, breathing in the scent of dirt and sweat, hoping that if he held on to her hard enough, he would be able to carry a bit of her with him instead of sickly sweet oranges.

RB cleared their throat again, a scratchy sound that mimicked the screech of a microphone. “I thought you got some medicine for her?”

Harri swallowed, trying to push down the overwhelming feeling of inferiority. “Couldn’t. Prices got raised.”

“Ah.” His boss paused, and Harri thought they would drop the topic. Instead, they snapped their metal fingers. “Stop messing up my windows, Harri. And come here a moment.”

Raising an eyebrow, Harri dropped his rag on the table and walked over to the bar. Robo-Boss had one arm on the counter, leaning towards him. When Harri got close, RB ducked down and brought out a bundle of green leaves. Harri froze, one foot in the air as RB slammed the leaves on the bar top. Not leaves. Cash. And a lot of it.

“I was going to give this to you at the end of the week, but you can go ahead and take it now. Get your grammy that medicine, preferably before she croaks.”

Harri couldn’t bother to be offended by RB’s words. He reached forward, grabbing the stack of money and counting it out with his thumb. A few hundred dollars.

A few hundred dollars.

Harri’s mouth went dry. He held the bundle of money in both hands, scared that it would disappear if he took his eyes off it. “This is more than usual,” was all he could manage. His voice sounded shaky, like he was about to burst into tears. He saw RB shrug out of the corner of his eye.

“Think of it as a bonus. You’re a decent busboy. Sure, you could do with a little more scrubbing and a little less laziness, but you leave the shop looking good.” RB’s eyes narrowed, and they poked Harri’s chest with a slightly rusted finger. “And you’d better stay that way because you will not be touching my machines any time soon.”

Harri opened his mouth only to close it seconds later. He couldn’t think of anything to say. His brain was stuck in a deep fog, thoughts of his pale grandmother making his heart race. He’d be able to get medicine now. Maybe it would fix his abuela right away. Maybe not. But it was something. It was a start. Harri swallowed, wincing at his suddenly dry throat.

“Thank you, Boss.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll forever be in my debt.” RB waved him away, turning to clean one of the machines that was covered in some kind of black gunk. “Put the cash in the back until you get off. I don’t want you to lose it.”

And that was it. Conversation over. Harri was left clutching the money to his chest like a stuffed animal while RB tinkered with the drink machine. He looked down at the cash in his hands, blinking away tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes. He ducked into the back room, placing the money on the small ‘break room’ table. His index finger traced the outline of the top bill. He let out a long breath, aware of just how shaky he had gotten in the past few minutes.

And then he walked back out onto the floor. Because there was work to do. Because RB needed the store to look spotless. Because RB wanted the shop to smell like oranges (even if they had no way to smell it themselves).

Maybe Harri could get used to it after all. Maybe it wasn’t so bad to smell like citrus.