Android's Night Out

       It had finally happened. Greg, Amelia and Harold had invited me to the apartment they shared on the Eastside. I had worked for weeks to attract their notice, months to gain a semblance of friendship, and now, the epitome of our bond would be celebrated over delicacies and fine wine, not that I could partake in the enjoyment of consumption. Any food and drink I allowed to fall through my windpipe collected in a steel container I would empty at my convenience. Taste sensors lining my mouth allowed me to experience the sensation of eating, but it was about more than the food; it was the opportunity to partake in a normal human activity and cement tenuous bonds.

            They were not aware of my status as an android. My employer knew, of course, which was the reason I was hired. Humans knew we walked among them, carrying out a mundane existence, like them, but they failed to detect us on a daily basis. We worked hard to insure our status remain unnoticed during work hours, and were very successful. It was the off hours where matters became difficult. Socialization was a skill to be desired in many androids, and at the dinner party on the Eastside, I demanded of myself a level of excellence that would leave no doubt my socialization levels were exemplary.

            At seven o’clock on Friday I stood outside the door of the three most promising young people at the company. They were the best at what they did, and the envy of all for their intelligence, class, and success. I hoped my dark hair was at an appropriate shine level. I raked my hand through it, arranging it about my shoulders. My clothes were dust free, simple black, sharp lines that accented my slim shape. I adjusted the black glasses I wore, selected for style rather than necessity. I knocked three times and waited.

            Greg answered. He wore a large white t shirt, denim hung low on his hips, and his breath stank of alcohol; a red plastic cup was held loosely in his hands.

            He smirked. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

            Observing his lax clothing choices, I opted for an explanation other than style. “I lost one of my contacts.”

            “Sucks,” Greg said, stepping to the side to allow me entry into what I could only describe as a housekeeper’s nightmare. Dirty clothing strewn across leather couches, food caked dishes piled in the sink, an overflowing trash bin. Paperbacks, textbooks, CDs and a tangle of chargers heaped on a sagging coffee table. Stains spotted a rug that looked fairly new. A plethora of red plastic cups and droopy flowers in a marble vase sat on a faded white table cloth. The table cloth covered a battered wooden dining table in need of shining. The apartment had a faint smell of dampness and body odor.

            Amelia lounged against a wall, also holding a red cup, staring vacantly out the large bay window into the night. She wore a canvas-colored V-neck dress that hung off her body like a potato sack. It fell to her mid-thigh, exposing long legs and bare feet. Her brown hair was arranged in a messy ponytail. The work day’s makeup remained on her face; thick brows, darkened lashes and bold red lips.

            “Did you just come from work, hun?” Amelia said as I approached. She took another sip from her cup and focused her sight on me instead of the dark window. I believe she had been staring at her reflection.

            I glanced down at my blazer, dark narrow skirt and heels, then back at her peasant like garb. “Yes.”

            “Let’s find you some more comfortable clothes.”

            She peeled herself from the wall and indicated for me to follow. I obliged, my sight catching on Harold behind the kitchen counter. He still wore a pressed button down, although the top and bottom buttons had been undone, and socked feet poked out from beneath the legs of his trousers. He lit a cigarette and took a drag, running a hand through his tousled dark hair.

            Amelia flicked on a dull ceiling light, illuminating her bedroom. The queen bed was unmade, blood red sheets dripping off the sides. Like the common space, clothes littered the floor. I liked to think the disorganization was a result of too much time spent at the office, rather than object laziness and messiness, but I could not be certain.

            “Take your pick,” Amelia said, gesturing to her closet. Bold colors clashed with muted work clothing. A heap of jeans pooled at the bottom. 

            “I wouldn’t want to impose,” I said, smiling to diminish the harshness of the refusal.

            “Are you saying you don’t like my clothes?” Her hands landed on her hips; her bottom lip extended in a pout. I could not ruin this now, not when I had stepped into the den of the company best.

            I sighed and within a few minutes I stood clothed in a tight white t-shirt and cut off beige shorts. I tugged my blazer back on, wanting to cling to the hope of propriety I had envisioned the evening demonstrating, and kicked off my heels, going barefoot as Amelia. She offered me a tube of lipstick and I complied, applying to my mouth the same ruby shade as hers.

            Amelia considered me. “Let me fix your hair.”

            She moved towards me, hand extended, and I stepped back, my foot crumpling discarded mail scattered across the faded chic carpet. She stilled, frowning. I didn’t want her touching my hair, but the situation necessitated it of me. My hair was designed to be a step above that of a human; it would never tangle, never break, never grow. Luxurious softness and strength like Kevlar combined to create perfection. I didn’t want her to notice the difference, and by the slight slur in her voice, I had to believe she wouldn’t.

            “Nothing outrageous,” I said, again allowing a soft smile to part my lips, turning my back to allow her access. She arranged my locks into a loose bun, securing it with a velvet teal scrunchie; stray tendrils fell forward, framing my face.

            I felt the wires in my brain ring with delight as Amelia offered me a satisfied smile, and I felt sensors of pleasure spark as Harold offered me an approving nod when I stepped from Amelia’s bedroom. We were not designed for romance, but it did not stop my artificial hormones from desiring Harold’s attention. I had noticed him from my first day at work. He was not only attractive, but poised to become the future face of leadership for the company. That is, unless I took it first, which I wouldn’t. We were meant to be the best, without becoming the best. Further developing a friendship with Harold and his roommates would not only satisfy my urge for human acceptance, but secure my future at the company.

            Greg emerged from his room clutching a full cup, and Amelia shuffled by him, ducking into the bathroom.

“Where’s the food?” Greg asked.

            “It was your turn to put in the order,” Harold said, extinguishing his cigarette.

            “My turn? It was your turn.”

            “No food then tonight.”

            Greg swore and took several gulps from his cup.

            “Putting on some show for our guest,” Harold said, grinning.

            “You called Angelos. You’re just messing with me.”

            Harold shook his head and Amelia rejoined us.

            “I called Angelos,” Amelia said.

Greg wrapped his arm around Amelia, pulling her in for a chase kiss. “What would we do without you?”

“Starve.” Amelia extracted herself from him as there was a tap on the door. She yanked the boxes from the delivery man and slammed the door, waltzing to the counter. She extracted a large piece of mushroom pizza and began to eat. Greg grabbed a slice, grease sliding off the cheese to coat his fingers.

Amelia moved to the table of electronics, and within a few moments, a bossa nova began to play softly. Pleased, I chewed on my slice. The jazzy music was the kind of classiness I had expected from them. Amelia swayed her hips as she sauntered over to Greg, pulling him closer to the speaker. They danced, alternating between eating pizza and drinking from their red cups.

“Here.” Harold pressed a cold beer bottle into my hand, leaning back against the counter.

Greasy pizza and beer were not what I had imagined, but I popped the cap, took a few gulps, and helped myself to another slice. No plates or napkins, the opposite of fine dining, yet the longer I stayed, the less bothered I was by it.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, drinking from his own bottle. I noticed he had not taken a piece of pizza.

I nodded. “You’re not eating?”

“Not a pizza fan. Amelia pretends to not notice because Greg loves Angelos. They get what they want, and I get drinks and whatever isn’t covered with mold in the fridge.”

I made a note to myself to not open their fridge to see the truth of his statement.

“Your presentation yesterday was great,” Harold continued. We lapsed into easy conversation about work.

            Greg moved into the kitchen, humming along to the music, to refill his cup. I watched as his face turned sour. “Are you talking about work right now?”

            “Are you dancing right now, after all the pizza and booze? I’m not sure our carpet can handle another incident.” Harold raised a brow, a smart smile played across his mouth.

            “Har, you know I can handle it. And you know you don’t want to stand here talking about work,” Greg grabbed the nearly empty bottle from my hand and poured what was in his cup into the bottle. “Here’s the good stuff, four-eyes. Loosen up, stop making my buddy talk about work, and dance. This is a party.”

Greg shoved the bottle, now sticky with grease and spilled drink, into my unprepared hands, and he twisted on his heel to go to his room. I stared after him, shocked. I had thought things were going well, but apparently, I was failing. I was disgusted with myself.

“Hey, don’t let Greg bother you,” Harold said, placing his hand on my cheek to turn my attention back to him, leaving Greg, who returned with a full cup, and Amelia to crank up the music and resume dancing. When Harold didn’t pull away, I resisted the temptation to turn from him, instead, I pressed my synthetic skin further into his warm palm. This was what people did, I told myself, this closeness, this messiness, this spontaneity; it was how people behaved, not the fictitious dinner party I had imagined. I was engaging in the most authentic of socialization, and I had been wrong to judge myself based on loudmouth Greg. I was succeeding, not failing.

Harold dropped his hand when we heard a crash. Greg had fallen onto the coffee table; Amelia stood over him, laughing, as his overturned cup soaked into the rug. Greg popped back up and grabbed Amelia. She shrieked with delight as he began swaying her to the upbeat pop tune.

I turned back to Harold, thinking about his hand on my cheek. “Should we dance?” I asked. “Like Greg said.”

He smiled, exposing a lovely set of teeth. “I don’t want to embarrass myself. You go ahead, if you want.”

I downed half of my spiked beer, set the bottle on the counter with a definite clunk and stepped closer to where Greg and Amelia were singing along, badly, to the music, their hands thrown into the air. Amelia latched on to my arm when I approached, barring me from changing my mind. I glanced back at Harold where he had his hands folded, watching us with perceptive eyes. Amelia yanked on my hand, laughing, setting me into motion. I moved with an awkwardness reserved for preteens at their first school dance. The only positive thing was, no one seemed to care.

“You are not getting out of this,” Greg said as the pop song ended and an old timey big band song began. He grabbed Harold by the shoulder and dragged him to the circle. Harold was right, he was a terrible dancer, but he moved with such gusto and self-depreciation, the three of us could only laugh. He grabbed my hand and spun me around. I had never felt so light, so inadequate. So close to being human, though not quite. Never completely. 

            We continued to dance through a few songs, until Amelia’s playlist ran out.

            “Cake time!” Amelia said, bounding into the kitchen, pulling a box from the freezer. We gathered around the marble counter as she pulled out an ice cream cake, bright frosting and red glazed letters declaring happy birthday.

“Guest gets to cut the first piece,” Harold said, handing me a large knife.

“It’s not her birthday, man,” Greg said. “It’s no one’s birthday.”

“Let her go first,” Amelia said, nudging Greg’s shoulder.

I cut into the cake, licking icing from my fingers as I dropped my piece into a red plastic cup.

Greg held out his hand for the knife across the counter, eyeing the cake with hooded eyes. I wondered how many drinks he had consumed. I moved to hand Greg the knife, still processing the brief taste of sweetness on my tongue, and my arm spasmed. We weren’t meant to have faults, but we all did, in one way or another. Spontaneous shut downs or abruptly losing the ability to move our limbs and appendages. Minor glitches, while inconvenient, were brief and irregular. They rarely happened, and they rarely hurt anyone.

            Except, now, due to my glitch of uncontrolled strength. My arm jerked and the knife rocked from my hand, flying through the air, turning over itself until it became lodged in Greg’s shoulder. Blood blossomed across his white t-shirt and he fell to the ground, head landing on the carpet, mouth parted in a soundless scream, grasping at the knife.

            “Don’t pull it out, you idiot!” Amelia said dropping to his side, putting her hand over his, before throwing herself sideways to vomit on the carpet, adding another stain.

            I rushed around the counter and dropped to the floor, pressing my hands against the wound.

“We need to stop the bleeding,” I said, as blood coated my hands, but no one was listening. Greg swore, fighting for breath, while Amelia remained bent over, clutching her stomach, vomit dribbling from her chin. Harold was on his cell, speaking to a dispatcher, requesting an ambulance. I noticed his calm tenor rise in pitch as I leaned harder on Greg’s wound, causing blood to squirt onto my glasses, splattering over my white t-shirt. I ripped the useless accessory from my face and lifted my eyes to search my surroundings. Spotting the tablecloth in reaching distance, I grabbed it and pulled. Half empty cups tumbled to the floor, spilling their contents. Notebooks and pens fell. Marble shattered as the vase crashed to the ground, a piece bouncing off, lodging itself into Greg’s cheek.

            He screamed again, hands coming up to his face, pulling the shard free. I ignored the shallow wound, instead, balling up the table cloth, pressing it around the knife.

            “Amelia, I could use some help.” I glanced at her. She remained crouched over herself, shaking, trying to light a cigarette. If she helped apply pressure, I could perhaps attempt to remove the knife and stich up the wound before Greg lost too much blood.

            “I can’t. Not again, I can’t do this,” Amelia said.

            “Can you please help, Amelia,” Harold said, still holding his cell to his ear. Amelia didn’t move from her squatted position. 

            “Amelia,” I yelled, sharp. She jerked her head around, having just lit the cigarette, and it soared, passing over Greg, almost skimming his hair, and landed in the mess of alcohol-soaked notebooks.

            Flames erupted, snaking over paper, up the legs of the dining table. Flames raced over the alcohol strewn floor, running into the stained rug, setting it aflame. Amelia coughed on the smoke, rising on shaking legs, and fell to the floor beside Greg, vomiting again.

            “We have to get out of here,” Harold said, walking around the counter to where the three of us huddled. “I assume lifting him won’t be a problem for you, with your apparent strength, android.” He grinned.

            Greg tossed his hands above his head, a lopsided smile crossing his face, as flames licked the ceiling and blood spread over his shirt. “I knew Alexis was an android.” His voice was weak.

            “Bet you didn’t know I was,” Harold said, tossing his empty beer bottle into the flames. Greg’s eyes rolled back, exposing red-lined whites, before his eyelids closed and his limp head twisted to the side. Looking up from where she vomited, seeing Greg looking half dead, Amelia stifled a scream and passed out.

            The sprinkler system decided to function, water beginning to rain down on the flames. It was too little, too late. I tried not to hide my panic as water soaked through my hair, droplets collecting on my skin. We weren’t meant to become soaked. Luckily, Harold didn’t want to stick around either.

            Harold picked up Amelia and I picked up Greg, maintaining pressure on his wound. I wasn’t sure if Harold was joking or not. Androids were not meant to be the future leaders of companies. They were not meant to be sharing an apartment with humans. Smoking messed with our systems, and drinking too much could overflow our containers, causing damage to our wires. Either he was an android with an impulse for self-destruction, or he was a human impractical joker.

            Or, I thought, as we stood outside damp from the sprinklers, listening to sirens in the distance and watching the building burn, he was excellent at blending in.