The Things You Bought for the Robot

Extension Cord.

The robot was secondhand. Because its solar unit was too complicated to fix, it was just easier to plug it in and forget about it.

Cleaning supplies.

It had a job to do, you needed the help.

Tape.

Your daughter screamed one night at 2 a.m. She just wanted a glass of water. The machine’s eyes, red like brake lights, never turned off, even when it was charging, so you taped over them at bedtime to prevent the nightmares again. It let you do so without movement.

Slippers.

To muffle the stomping of those metal feet, especially when it cleaned at night while you tried to sleep.

Parts for a solar unit. How-to repair guide.

There were times when it just seemed to stare at you while it cleaned. You thought it might be best for it to stay outside.

Paint set. Paintbrushes.

There was a moment when the robot paused its dusting and your daughter stopped watching TV. They stared at one another. An evaluation of some kind passed between them. You tensed, waiting for the snap of a drinking glass to break, but she looked to you casually and said, “It needs a face.” It did have the vague impression of one, ridges and bumps, like something buried under snow. But the acrylic faceplate wasn’t well defined. This wasn’t an expensive unit. You bought the paint for her, but she took the kit to the robot, asking it to pick out the colors. It did so slowly, with no discernable pattern. She gave it violet eyebrows, a nose of sun yellow, a slight mouth with a little smile, Mediterranean blue.

Stick-on Nametags.

Because if it has a face, it needs a name. Your daughter wore one nametag, illustrating the concept for the robot. The tag said, “Hello, my name is Dylan.” Your daughter and the robot studied names. It couldn’t speak because you didn’t pay the monthly subscription price, but it went through the names and pointed to one. It will also be Dylan. Dylan nametags were pasted throughout the house for a week, on the fridge, on the front door, on three different chairs.

Fake wings. Green paint.

Halloween. The robot was a dragon, covered in crooked scales and construction paper fire. Your daughter was a knight in crinkled tin foil and chrome cardboard with an authentic plastic sword. You stayed up late on a Wednesday, building the costumes for them both. The robot watched from the corner.

Birdfeeder. Birdwatching book.

Sometimes, in between cleaning sessions, it stopped at the living room window and went still, looking out at the pepper tree and maybe at the birds as they sang. Sharp gears whirred in its neck like it was building up to something that never arrived. Its days must be long, so you thought that maybe it likes birds, the way they fly and hop, their tiny distractions. You picked up the book used online and found the birdfeeder for cheap. On your way out the door to pick up your daughter Dylan from school, you said over your shoulder that the book in the bag on the table was for it. You never saw it read the book, but the book did reappear in different parts of the house, dog-eared and a little worn. The birdfeeder was always full of bird seed.

Pre-loaded voice unit.

Not a costly one. No subscription, so it could only really say its name, and also hello, good night and goodbye. It hummed when it cleaned. Tunes you didn’t recognize, nothing copyrighted, of course. You didn’t call it Dylan. But Dylan called it Dylan.

“Good night, Dylan.”

“Good morning, Dylan.”

“Sleep well, Dylan.”

“See you tomorrow, Dylan.”

Maintenance kit. Replacement parts for hands, feet, neck. 

It wasn’t expensive. It was made to be disposable. But you wouldn’t want to explain it to Dylan if the machine disappeared one day. So you tried your best to fix the robot when it wore one of its parts out, which was challenging after work and making dinner (which the robot never quite figured out). You hummed to the house, and maybe to it, as you tinkered, out of habit.

Birthday candles. Birthday cake.

Even robots have birthdays. But you didn’t know the exact build date, so your daughter just went with the day the robot was delivered. You knew the exact date and time from your order history. It wore a paper hat, bought in bulk.

Sandbags. Trash bags. More tape.

Flooding on the news, but there’s always talk of flooding. It’s just good to be prepared, and the robot helped. Dylan worked with Dylan to fill sandbags. It was a good grey afternoon. Your daughter took a long nap afterwards.

Waterproofing spray.

A last-minute buy. You thought you could use it on the wiring, on its joints.

Plastic Urn.

You and your daughter weren’t there. Out running errands when the warning blared. When the flood came, the house slipped off the foundation.

When the waters finally receded, you searched but couldn’t find anything, no sign of the machine. So, you dug up a muddy scrap of metallic something from what was left of your backyard. You did this all to stop your daughter from crying, from asking questions you couldn’t answer. You put everything in the urn, and your daughter, after a long silent moment, put the waterlogged birdwatching book in there too. You could’ve paid extra to inscribe the urn, but putting “Dylan” on there was strange. There was no inscription. You buried it in the mud.

Slippers.

It was an accidental re-purchase, made late at night. When they arrived at your door you looked at the box and remembered how the machine shuffled at night. You left them in your closet, unopened, telling yourself you’ll return the shoes later.

But you never did.

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Ⓒ Stefan Alcalá Slater