wildcat

Awkward coffeehouse moment: "Can I. Take your. Order?" The robot -- an elongated egg-shape with a speaker in the front and six pincer-arms -- hovered in front of Gordon in line, having just finished polling the guy in the turban and pin-striped suit on his order. Gordon gawped. "Can I. Take your. Order?" The robot sounded like a talk-show host with all the personality drained away, the rough timbre of the voice reduced to scraps of pre-recorded bits pasted together.

"I'm not here for a coffee," said Gordon awkwardly. The woman in the violet jumpsuit directly behind him in line tapped her foot and checked the time on her phone.

"We have. Many. Other. Options. Besides. Coffee."

"No, no, I mean. I'm just here to drop off my resumé." He held up a square of white paper with all his vitals on it, safely laminated from stains. People up ahead finished paying for their drinks and moved off to the side, allowing the line to move up. The woman in the jumpsuit kicked Gordon's ankle and he shuffled forward. "Is the manager around?"

The robot regarded the paper for a moment, apparently processing. "Recycling. Facilities. are located. With the. Cream/Sugar/Other." One of the long pincer-arms indicated a station over by the door. "Thank you. For your. Concern. With. Regard. To the. Environment." The word environment barely squeezed out of the speaker sounding at all like English.

"No, I want to drop this off in case you're looking for people." Gordon held out the resumé for the robot to take. The woman in the jumpsuit clucked loudly and people behind her scraped their foam shoes against the floor, shifting their weight, and started to mutter to each other. This was seriously devaluing their coffeehouse experience.

"This unit. Is not. Authorized. To take. Your list. Of demands. All terrorist. Situations. Should be directed. To the. Senior Director. Of marketing. Or the. Manager."

"What? I'm not trying--"

"Trying. Something. New? I recommend. Our dark. Roast!"

© Ben Rawluk, 2008, all rights reserved.