At precisely 11:59 Mike pulled into the driveway of Harriet and Jack’s house. It was a nice house, both larger and newer than his, nestled in a cul-de-sac several blocks away from the freeway exit. Harriet had planted hundreds of perennials around her home and though they were not blossoming at that time, they were thriving thanks to the large blue UV umbrella that covered the entire neighborhood. Harriet was waiting as they walked up the path to the front door. Mike grabbed one of his signs from the trunk while Patience retrieved the Jell-o mold.

“Hi Daddy. Hi Patience.”

“Hi, Harriet,” said Patience. “Thank you for having us over.”

“Of course.” Harriet and her robot step-mother exchanged kisses on the cheek.

“Hi Honey,” said Mike. “You look gigantic.”

“Thanks a lot, Dad.” Harriet ran a hand over her protruding baby bump. “I am gigantic.”

“Where’s Jack?”

“He’s in the garage shampooing the car interior,” she answered but looked quizzically at the sign he held in his hand.

“Oh, I brought you a present for your yard.” He showed it to her and then pressed it into the earth in the small garden beside Harriet’s door.

Mike’s daughter guided them into the house and closed the door.

“So why’s he shampooing the car seats now?” asked Mike as he plopped onto the couch.

“It’s quite a story,” answered Harriet. “Renee Holmes—she lives down the street, well she asked Jack to drive her to the pharmacy. She has two kids and they had to go with her because she didn’t have a baby sitter. Anyway, she got her prescription, but on the way back she started coughing so much that she threw up right in the back seat. Well, her oldest—that’s Mikey—he got a whiff of the smell and threw up too. Then Mikey’s little sister Marie vomited right in Jack’s lap and that set him off. So the entire car was practically filled with vomit and I told Jack that there was no way I could ride to my obstetrician’s appointment this week with the car smelling like that.”

“It’s just like that movie Stand By Me,” said Mike with a smile.

“I… oh, I don’t think I’ve seen it.”

“It was based on a story by Stephen King,” said Patience. “Originally published in King’s 1982 collection Different Seasons, it tells the story of three adolescents who set out on a journey to see the body of a dead boy.”

“Um, Okay,” said Harriet, putting a protective hand on her belly. “Patience, why don’t we set the table? Daddy, why don’t you go out to the garage and talk to Jack? Maybe you could even help him.”

The next morning after breakfast, Mike was just thinking about making a run to the store when the doorbell rang. Opening the front door he found two teen-aged boys. He immediately recognized their faces as those of former students though only one of their names swam to the surface of his brain.

“Hey guys.”

“Mr. Smith, I thought you lived here.”

“I do. I have since before either of you were born. Come on in.”

He led them inside and gestured for them to have a seat in the living room. The teen whose name he remembered as Curtis was a tall thin African-American with close-buzzed hair. His friend was just as tall, though not quite so thin, with long blond hair and a very red face. Both were obviously hot.

“Patience, would you bring these young men something cool to drink please?” he called, and then turned back to them. “What would you like?”

“Just water,” said Curtis.

“Yeah,” said the other one.

Both stared at Patience when she brought them their drinks. Curtis had to elbow his friend to remind him to take the glass. It wasn’t that she was dressed provocatively, in a shorts combo and a pair of pump sandals, but it was just impossible it seemed for her not to be attractive. They both kept staring at the spot where she exited the room long after she was gone.

“So what can I do for you guys today?” asked Mike.

“Francis is doing a paper for his junior History class and he has to have an interview as one of his references. So I told him to come and ask you.”

“It’s August.”

“We’re taking summer school so we can get a credit ahead. He’s taking History and I’ve got Pre-Calc.”

Mike looked and noticed for the first time that the other boy, Francis, had a small wriTee tucked under his arm.

“Francis,” he said, more to reinforce the name in his memory than to address him. “What is your paper on?”

“The 1950s. Do you remember what it was like?”

“Well first of all boys, I was born in 1982. In fact, my father wasn’t born until 1963.”

“Oh. Well, do you know anything about the fifties?”

“I’m a teacher. I know everything about the fifties. I don’t worry about the bomb, I’d rather be dead than red, and I like Ike.”

“Who’s Ike?” wondered Francis.

“Eisenhower. Dwight D. Eisenhower. That was his nickname—Ike.”

“How do you get Ike out of Eisenhower? There’s no K in it.”

“I don’t know. That’s just what they called him.”

“They should have called him Ice,” offered Curtis, “like Ice-enhower, or Ice-double H.”

“Yeah,” agreed Francis. “That’s edge. Wait a second. I thought he was that World War II guy. That was the forties, not the fifties.”

“He was a general during World War II and he was President during the fifties.”

“See. I told you he knows it,” said Curtis to his friend. “Turn on your Dictathing.”

Curtis unfolded his wriTee on the coffee table and with a swipe of his finger the screen came to life.

“So what was life like in the fifties?”

PS: The His Robot Wife Facebook page is now online.  If you enjoy the book, type in the title in your profile under Arts and Entertainment.

The next morning after breakfast, Mike was just thinking about making a run to the store when the doorbell rang. Opening the front door he found two teen-aged boys. He immediately recognized their faces as those of former students though only one of their names swam to the surface of his brain.

“Hey guys.”

“Mr. Smith, I thought you lived here.”

“I do. I have since before either of you were born. Come on in.”

He led them inside and gestured for them to have a seat in the living room. The teen whose name he remembered as Curtis was a tall thin African-American with close-buzzed hair. His friend was just as tall, though not quite so thin, with long blond hair and a very red face. Both were obviously hot.

“Patience, would you bring these young men something cool to drink please?” he called, and then turned back to them. “What would you like?”

“Just water,” said Curtis.

“Yeah,” said the other one.

Both stared at Patience when she brought them their drinks. Curtis had to elbow his friend to remind him to take the glass. It wasn’t that she was dressed provocatively, in a shorts combo and a pair of pump sandals, but it was just impossible it seemed for her not to be attractive. They both kept staring at the spot where she exited the room long after she was gone.

“So what can I do for you guys today?” asked Mike.

“Francis is doing a paper for his junior History class and he has to have an interview as one of his references. So I told him to come and ask you.”

“It’s August.”

“We’re taking summer school so we can get a credit ahead. He’s taking History and I’ve got Pre-Calc.”

Mike looked and noticed for the first time that the other boy, Francis, had a small wriTee tucked under his arm.

“Francis,” he said, more to reinforce the name in his memory than to address him. “What is your paper on?”

“The 1950s. Do you remember what it was like?”

“Well first of all boys, I was born in 1982. In fact, my father wasn’t born until 1963.”

“Oh. Well, do you know anything about the fifties?”

“I’m a teacher. I know everything about the fifties. I don’t worry about the bomb, I’d rather be dead than red, and I like Ike.”

“Who’s Ike?” wondered Francis.

“Eisenhower. Dwight D. Eisenhower. That was his nickname—Ike.”

“How do you get Ike out of Eisenhower? There’s no K in it.”

“I don’t know. That’s just what they called him.”

“They should have called him Ice,” offered Curtis, “like Ice-enhower, or Ice-double H.”

“Yeah,” agreed Francis. “That’s edge. Wait a second. I thought he was that World War II guy. That was the forties, not the fifties.”

“He was a general during World War II and he was President during the fifties.”

“See. I told you he knows it,” said Curtis to his friend. “Turn on your Dictathing.”

Curtis unfolded his wriTee on the coffee table and with a swipe of his finger the screen came to life.

“So what was life like in the fifties?”

“There was a sort of dichotomy. There was the good and the bad. On the one hand, average Americans were richer in the 1950s than they had ever been before or have been since. On the other hand people were in a constant state of fear that thermo-nuclear war was right around the corner. The cold war between the United States and the Soviet Union threatened to erupt into World War III at any moment.”

“I thought people didn’t make much money in the old days,” said Curtis.

“Money had a different value then. You might only make five or six hundred dollars a month, but that was enough to support a family. You could buy a big, new house for $15,000 and you could buy a brand new Cadillac for $5,000. A loaf of bread was twenty cents. A comic book was a dime. Gas was less than… you guys know that cars ran on gasoline then, right? Gas was ten to twenty cents a gallon.”

“Wow. How much was a vueTee then, fifteen bucks?”

“Um, no. A vueTee, they called them TVs, only a fifth as big as this one,” Mike pointed to the vueTee above the fireplace, “was $500. And those TVs had no interactivity, no threed, no inscope, no Infinet… they didn’t even have color.”

“Man, I wouldn’t even bother,” said Francis.

“Sure you would. Everybody wanted one. It was the cool new thing. Remember, nobody had anything else—no texTees, no tPods.”

“So how come it was so expensive?” asked Francis.

“That’s just how technology is. TVs got cheaper as manufacturers geared up to keep up with demand and competed against other companies for business, and then cheaper still as they found ways to make them with fewer and less expensive parts. When real vueTees came out, it was the same thing. They were thousands of dollars, but got cheaper even as manufacturers added more features.

“The same thing happened with robots. When the first humanoid robots came out they cost a butt-load of money—millions. Now they’re under three thousand.”

“Going up though,” said Curtis. “The new Daffodils are more expensive.”

“That’s because Daffodil is the biggest corporation in the world now,” said Francis. “They can do whatever they want.”

Mike Smith first noticed the bright blue sign on his sixth circuit around the indoor jogging track. It was Thursday and he came every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday morning to jog twenty-five laps. Twenty-five laps equaled two miles. The sign was in somebody’s yard. That’s why he noticed it. It wasn’t an advertisement like the ones on businesses you could see from the other side of the track. It was bright blue and it had yellow writing and some kind of picture. The seventh lap around, he tried to make out the three large words at the top. It looked like they said “stop the perverts.” The next lap, he looked again. Now he was sure that it said “stop the perverts,” but what did it say below that? He strained his eyes but after three more laps, he couldn’t make out the smaller words below.

He put it out of his mind and instead watched the people on the track with him as he ran. There were two girls in their late teens or early twenties who both looked too chubby to be jogging. Never the less, they lapped him about every fourth circuit. There were eight or ten people walking, mostly in pairs. But one little old man was walking quite fast, about half as fast as Mike was jogging, and he constantly leaned to the left. Mike was sure he was going to just fall right over sooner or later. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Mike hit the finish line and immediately dropped his speed, walking over to get a towel and a bottle of water. Remembering the sign, he walked to the back wall of the running track and looked down over the neighborhood. There was the sign. He pressed his forehead against the hot glass and squinted. “Stop the perverts. Vote yes on 22.” Or was that thirty three?

Wiping his face and finishing his water, Mike walked back to the cubbyhole and picked up his texTee. “What is California proposition twenty-two?” The screen immediately came to life and began playing a news story. “Just let me read it.” The video dissolved into a page of text. “Blah blah blah. Supporters include blah blah blah. The proposition will amend the state constitution to define a person as a biological entity, preventing robots seeking redress for blah blah blah. Blah blah blah essentially an anti-robot marriage proposal. What? If this amendment is passed it will prohibit the state of California from acknowledging the marriages between humans and robots currently being performed in four states.

“Son of a bitch.”

Hopping down the stairs with much more energy than he usually had after jogging, Mike crossed the blistering parking lot and climbed into his Chevy, letting the cool air wash over him before he turned on the ignition. He counted it as a blessing that all cars now had auto-cooled interiors. He wouldn’t want to have to wait for the cool air. He pulled out of the parking lot and drove up the street, turning left into the neighboring block so that he could get a better look at the blue sign. But it took him several minutes to find the correct house. Finally he stopped in from of the one featuring the placard. “Stop the perverts. Vote yes on 22.” Beneath the words was a stick figure diagram, the kind used on street signs, of what looked like a man trying to have sex with a toaster. Mike thought about getting out of his car and ripping the sign out of the ground, but he saw the face of a little old lady looking out at him through the blinds.

“Assholes,” he said, and slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The car sped away, but failed to make the screeching tire noise that he was hoping for.