Robo-Me

My wife and I settled in to watch a TV show that seemed promising in previews.  The premise of the show was an exploration into the existence of God, and the nature of our Supreme Deity.  The well-known host promised a look at other cultures, and a presentation of their faith-based beliefs.

As someone in a near constant state of anxiety about the afterlife, I was looking forward to gleaning any rare tidbits of insight I could, even those manufactured by Hollywood.

Robotic Life After Death

One man’s attempt to preserve the memory of his departed wife involved creating a robotic replica of her, from the shoulders up.  I guess duplicating the rest of her body would have crossed the line into the gray area of sex dolls, and who wants to be known as the creepy guy who has relations with a robot replica of his former lover?

I mean, the head alone is completely normal, right?  Nothing creepy there, keep moving.

Robo-Me: I'd like to live on as a robot, but am I really worth replicating? Share on X

Some people, shallower than I am, more concerned with looks, less interested in what lies beneath a person’s skin, less concerned with someone’s inner beauty and focused only on outward appearances – again, not me at all – might have looked on it as an opportunity to “improve” the previous model, kind of like plus-sizing your tires or getting stainless-steel braided brake lines on your car.  Those are things other people might do.

Normal people just re-create the head, right?

My Robot

As the show cut to commercial, I turned to my wife.  “When you re-create me as a robot, I want to be at least six feet tall.”

“Okay,” she said.

“I don’t want to be just a talking head on a table.”

“You got it.”

“I give you complete freedom to make any other enhancements you’d like.”

“Thanks.”

I wondered whether she was paying attention.  Would my robot avatar meet the standards I had set?  As lukewarm as she seemed, did I feel confident leaving her in charge?  After all, this electronic replica was going to represent me to the world for at least as long as I have, maybe longer.  He’d have to be witty, charming, debonair, and survive on a steady diet of triple A batteries.  I couldn’t let this go.

I decided to take the matter into my own hands.

Designing Robert the Robot

Designing your robotic self is no easy task.  I went through drawing after drawing, one blueprint after another.  How tall would robot me be?  Could I be too tall?  Would people continue to see me as me if I were, say, seven feet, two inches tall?  What about my “delightful” Roman nose, the one with the big bump in the middle?  Could I shave that down?

I knew the sunspots, the sagging jowls, the wrinkled forehead, my skin-yarmulke, and the gray hair would have to vanish.  I was shooting for a 1988-1993 version of myself.  Those were my personal “greatest hits” years, and I wanted that version of myself to live on, not the aging pentagenarian with the expanding belly.

Days became weeks.  I just couldn’t seem to get the right look.  No matter how hard I tried to improve myself, I still looked like me.

Frustration set in, and I had to give up.  I decided to scrap the idea of improving myself.  It required way too much time and effort.  I was better off starting from scratch with a brand new model, one without any warts, blemishes, or Roman nose.  Yes, that was it.  Start me over from scratch, a complete reboot.  It was the only way.

Fortunately, I found a company who handled these types of requests.  Eying their application, I opted for a square-jawed, broad-shouldered, flat-ab’ed version of me, tossing in a full head of hair while I was at it.  This was going to be a major step up.

The New Me

After several weeks of impatient waiting, the package arrived.  As I drove into our driveway one evening, I spied an enormous cardboard box plopped outside the front door.

“The new and improved me has made it,” I announced to my wife.

“Great.  Does this one go grocery shopping?”

“You know what?” I said.  “He probably does.”

“In that case, he’s welcome.”

I spent a week assembling him, screwing and wiring him together.  The toughest part of the job was loading my personality and memories onto his circuit board.  How could any artificial intelligence match my wit and charm?

When I asked my wife this question, she wasn’t able to answer, bent over laughing as she was.  “Q.E.D.,” I said.  Wasn’t the question itself an example of my wit and charm?  Did the charm come before the circuits, or the circuits before the charm?  What came first, the chicken or the egg?  Did Peter Piper pick a – never mind.

Presenting…

At last, Robo-me was ready.  I strolled into the den, while my wife sat sewing and watching one of her true crime shows.

“Preeee… senting…”

She paused the TV and gave me her full attention.

“Straight from the future and landing in our living room…  the new me!”

Around the corner, his movements tentative, shuffled Robo-me.  I stood waiting, both arms extended outwards, as he inched into the den.  Robo-me was no speedster.  My wife trained her eyes on Robo-me, her expression doubtful, as though I’d just told her I’d cured eczema.  (I would have said cancer, but I decided to start small.)

“Give him a minute,” I said, dropping my arms.

“I’ll give him as long as he needs, but I don’t see him getting the groceries.”

“He’s a prototype,” I said.  “He’s –“

“Who are you calling a prototype?” asked Robo-me.

“He speaks,” said Lana.

“I’ve got a lot to say about how you run this house,” he said.

“Whoa, easy does it, big fella’.”  I patted him on the back.  “I don’t know where that came from.  Of course, he speaks.  He’s a surrogate for me.”

“I think one of you is enough,” she said.

“Get ready for an upgrade,” said Robo-me.

“Hang on now,” I said.

“Have you given him a name yet?”

The robot jumped in.  “George.”

I shot him a dirty look.  I didn’t like his presumption.  “It’s Robert,” I said.

“I prefer George.”

“You don’t get a vote,” I said.  “You’re a robot.”

He stopped his meandering travels.  “You’re a rob-ist,” he said.

“I am not.”

“Robot lives matter!”

“Oh, no.”  I dropped my head into my hands.  “Already?”  This mechanical wonder was getting under my skin.

Back from Work

All next day at work, I wondered how Robo-Me and my wife were getting along.  Would he annoy her as much as he had annoyed me?  Would I come home to an earful of criticism of my synthetic alter ego?  Or a criticism of my own ego, thinking that my personality was so valuable to the species that I ought to continue on at all?

Expecting the worst, I rushed inside that evening to find the two of them sitting side by side on the sofa.  In his hands, he held a gigantic ball of yarn that he was feeding to my crocheting wife.  “Real Housewives of Somewhere” played on TV.

“I can’t believe this bitch,” said Robo-Me, like he’d watched the show for years.

“She asked for it,” said my wife.

“Got that right.”

“You’re watching ‘Real Housewives’?” I asked, incredulous.

“Oh, hey.”  Lana paused the show.  “George likes it.”

“It’s the bomb,” said Robo-Me.  I hadn’t come around to George yet.

My wife got up and walked past me.  “I’m going to get a drink,” she said.  “Want anything, George?”

“Just a chunk of that juicy backside,” said Robo-me as she circled around.

“Thank you, George,” said Lana, “you just made my day.”

I waited until she left the room.  “Watch it,” I said.

“I will.”

My robot was sassing me.  “Shouldn’t you be doing something constructive?” I asked.

“For instance?”

“I don’t know.  Curing cancer?  Solving world hunger?  Planning the next Mars mission?”

“With your brain?”

His sense of humor was beginning to wear on me.  “That was just a starting point.  I was the launching pad.  You’re the new and improved me.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“I’ll solve world hunger…  after I binge-watch Real Housewives.”

Robo-Me: An Improvement?

Later that night, outside of the dim light of the basement, I was able to give Robo-me a more thorough once-over than I had during the construction phase.  In my excitement at putting my electronic self together, I had glossed over some of its minor issues: rubbery skin, plastic hair, teeth made out of recycled bottle caps – I had to cut corners somewhere.  He was no Adonis, that’s for sure.  The longer I gazed at it, the more doubtful I became that it was an upgrade at all.

Speaking my thoughts out load, I said, “They don’t really look as good in person as they do on paper.”

“Neither do you,” said Robo-me.

“Funny, Robert.”

“George.”

“Whatever.”

I shut him down.  I didn’t need any sassy robots mooching off of me.

Disappointment

Not having my robot to spool yarn while she watched her shows disappointed my wife, but it couldn’t be helped.  From my perspective, Robo-Me had been a failure.  I had hoped to leave a little bit of myself behind, but if I were being truly objective, I couldn’t really say that I liked what I was leaving very much.  Was I even worth replicating?  I’ll let that question linger.

Knowing that the world would get on fine without me is both comforting and concerning.  Anyone else with similar concerns?  Or plans to leave a synthetic version of themselves behind?