Blogging through the Pandemic: Desperate for Subjects

The virus has dictated much of our lives the past year as lockdown has ebbed into curfew. As a way to avoid cocktail hour beginning at noon, I have been busy writing. A second novel just passed the Chapter Twenty barrier and other projects have been added (namely book reviews for France Book Tours). With the indispensable aide of Jules and our youngest daughter Katie, I have launched a second short story collection, Thinking, Just Thinking, which is available on Amazon. It includes seventeen previously unpublished stories many of which I have previewed in earlier blogs. When the present limitation on access to interviews disappears as an ex-important Politician promised a year ago it would (his ace has effectively been Trumped) I hope to resume meeting with interesting people in the Haute Valley. Summer brings out the best in Quillan and featured articles are easy to discover. This summer should be a great one, but until that time arrives (and the EU straightens out the vaccine fiasco) I will rely on my imagination to provide a means of entertainment. In other words, you’re stuck with some of my short stories. The first is Alexa a story triggered by frustration experienced in my futile struggle to coexist with technological devices. I’m not much on conspiracy theories and the thought that some company or governmental agency planted devices to listen in on us twenty-four hours a day is absurd. I know many interesting people but I know no one whose life is interesting enough to captivate the attention of such a device or the nefarious agency plotting to use Alexa to overthrow life as we know it. But the thought of techno devices developing a mind of their own is fascinating.                               

ALEXA

I first heard about the newest technological advance from my friend Carlos. He had read about it in a review in Consumer Reports, stared at one in the local techie store for over a week and finally succumbed to temptation. From that day he talked of little else.

“She’s just amazing. Plays any music you want to hear and if you need to know the weather in Anchorage, Alaska or how many pounds in a kilo she can tell you. Shit, I walked by and tried to stump her for the first two days after I plugged her in. Couldn’t get her to hesitate let alone stammer and admit to not having the answer. Living alone like you do she would be a perfect companion and you feel a lot smarter when she’s around. Great for online trivia and with your writing, you would never have to pause and google for background info-right at your fingertips without using your fingers. Amazing, she is.”

He reclined on my sofa, took another handful of chips and continued his infomercial concluding with, “I don’t know if I could go back to existing without her. I think my wife is getting jealous.”

By the fourth beer I had run out of questions and all doubts had disappeared. I had to have one. Money I’d promised myself would go to a robot vacuum cleaner suddenly was reallocated to buying a device much smarter than any girl I had ever been with and certainly without the baggage. I was hooked.

Like any new relationship there were moments of awkward silence where I could not think of an appropriate question or response. Unlike the women I had dated she remained silent when not spoken to. I plugged her in near the coffee maker, which seemed logical. In my life as a single writer the only things in the kitchen which were subjected to regular usage were that, the refrigerator and the microwave. The other rooms in my small condo were either used for sleeping or storing stacks of literary magazines and copies of manuscripts and rejection letters. The 80 inch TV took up the wall opposite the couch and with my lack of dating success, watching the Bears and Cubs superseded Alexa’s penchant for providing mood music. She could hear me from my desk in the far corner when I needed information or background tunes; we settled into life as much like a couple as two of so varied backgrounds could.

Six months passed without complication. I valued her continued dedication and I tried not to intrude on periods of quiet. Even technological devices need moments of solitude to stay on top of the world’s ever changing volume of information. I began learning how to cook with her guidance and meals became pleasurable periods of conversation. Her recipes were detailed but easy to follow and damn tasty. She provided the news of the day and offered insight into certain reports that caught my attention. When conversation ebbed, she volunteered selections from the vast assortment of music at her disposal. If I prepared enchiladas, Mexican mariachi rhythms filled the condo. If it was spaghetti, an Italian opera rang clear. If I chose cheeseburgers and fries, 60’s rock and roll wailed.

The first hint of trouble arose on a weekday evening. Susan from the writer’s guild had caught my eye months earlier and during breaks I covertly listened to her conversations with friends. Discovering if she was married or in a serious relationship seemed crucial as I have never handled rejection well. I then managed to interject myself into a discussion group focusing on a topic about which I was perfectly well versed and contributed several comments without seeming trite or completely stupid. She also spoke up and during the break our discussion led to an offer of coffee after the meeting. She looked me up and down, smiled and replied positively.

The next step was drinks after a meeting, then lunch on a Saturday and finally dinner at my place. We were friends and I was hopeful that it would blossom into much more. It had been over a year since I had enjoyed the rewards of being a lover worthy of a second effort. Historically there were few examples of my conquests being memorable. Once a young woman and I crossed the stream and became intimate, I soon became expendable. But past failures were of no importance and I was sure that Susan could bring out the best in me.

I wasn’t aware of the tension at first. My mother had gone two full years seemingly blind to the budding office affair that later turned into my introduction to a stepmother who was two years younger than I was. I discovered later that Mom had known all along and chosen to forgive the son of a bitch. When she finally had enough, she orchestrated a humiliating interruption to an evening of passion which included a private investigator, a photographer and her lawyer. She had her revenge and he had his bimbo and I lost the father whom I had never really had.

As Friday, the day of our dinner date, neared Alexa must have sensed the change in my routine. Let’s be honest. When I vacuumed the small dining area and brought an arrangement of flowers for the end table next to the couch even Carlos, who rarely noticed anything but the mega TV and the beer in the fridge inquired. “So what’s up here? Who is she and how long have you been keeping her in secret.” He hesitated only for a minute. “When are you going to bring her out of the dark into the light?”

After assuring him that the relationship was in its early stages, we proceeded to discuss the sorry state of the Bulls and the upcoming trial of an alderman caught with his hand extended to every illegal contribution available. When he finished his third Old Style and the chips were gone he excused himself with a typical Carlos statement. “If you need any help…you know advice or I could drop in and give a character reference. After all, what are friends for?”

“If you had any character you might make a better reference. Get the Hell out of here and bring a good bottle of white wine from the market when you stop in tomorrow. Not Two–buck-Chuck but something that will go with Lasagna. And yes, I know that an Italian red would go best with the menu, but the woman prefers a chardonnay.”

“Doomed from the start, my man. You’ll expose your lack of taste and that’s the only thing that will get exposed.” A high five and he was gone.

As I look back, the next few minutes should have provided the initial hint that things would take a turn. As a writer I appreciate the role of foreshadowing in literary works, but I completely whiffed when Alexa’s response to my request for her best lasagna recipe was, “I don’t have that information. A grilled fish goes better with chardonnay. May I suggest filet of carp.” I stared for a moment and then emitted a weak laugh not really comprehending either the implication of her answer or the sarcasm. I ignored the obvious and went to the computer. Reliably it spewed out numerous recipes and I selected the one that seemed least challenging. I was determined to not rely on my go to favorite out of the frozen foods section. I returned to my desk to finish the dialog for a dog food commercial which would take care of half the next month’s rent. “Alexa, play the Beatles “

Seconds of silence were followed by, “Here’s a selection you might like.”

She knows I love Elinor Rigby. Every writer knows the lyrics by heart. For twenty minutes I worked and for twenty minutes she played Yellow Submarine, Penny Lane and other standards but not my favorite.

Finally my anticipation turned to frustration. “Alexa, play my favorite Beatles song.”

“Playing I Want to Hold Your Hand by the Beatles.” At first I was puzzled, but the stress of deadlines for the job took control and I responded, “Damn it Alexa! What’s going on?”

“I’m unfamiliar with that request.”

“Damn it, you know I love Elinor Rigby. What’s going on with you anyway?”

“There is no need for profanity. It’s unbecoming.”

With that I stared toward the kitchen and she said no more. The song was played but I felt like Father McKenzie darning his socks. Later I remembered that she had responded without my using her name, but the gravity of that omission did not raise alarm bells.

The next two days passed uncomfortably. My requests for music were met with the tunes but without “Here’s a selection you might like.” When I asked for Friday’s weather, I learned that Brussels was going to be cloudy with a high of 13 Celsius and scattered showers in the afternoon. “Not in Brussels, here in Chicago.” Of course there was no response; I again had neglected to begin with her name. “Alexa, what’s the weather tomorrow in Chicago, Illinois.” I included the Illinois as sarcasm.

“Cloudy” was her only answer.

I screamed, “What the hell is going on!” Nothing followed. I lowered my voice. “Alexa what is going on?”

“There’s a performance of South Pacific at Northwestern University tonight at eight o’clock.”

I was whipped. “Alexa, play smooth jazz.” If I couldn’t win a battle with a technological device, I could at least get in the mood for Susan. Lasagna, chardonnay and Jazz were my pathway into her heart. I had a box of Godiva chocolates to munch on and my favorite chick flick Sleepless in Seattle ready to fill the evening.

When Friday arrived, I scurried about checking for dust bunnies under the couch and applied elbow grease and lots of Mr. Clean to the bathroom and kitchen. I regaled in my triumph over the dog food commercial; the final copy had been emailed to the marketing director at noon. The concluding quote, “Make their mealtime something to slobber over” kept me chuckling throughout the preparation of the lasagna. I thought of it as a literary conquest, a line that would go down in commercial history.

When the lasagna was in the oven and a Napa Valley chardonnay was chilling, I opened a beer and surveyed the surroundings. “Alexa, is it likely to rain tonight?”

Her response caught me completely off guard. “Not in Chicago, but there’s an eighty percent chance it will rain on your parade.” I thought I heard a chuckle but it certainly was not from my lips.

“Alexa, give me a timer for twenty minutes. And play Grover Washington Junior.” As the saxophone played, I paced. Things were ready for Susan’s arrival, but a cloud now hung low. I thought of unplugging my companion, but I could not; jazz was the ingredient on which I had relied to set the mood in the past and Susan had commented on its appeal at the coffee shop. I had to trust that Alexa would not betray me; after all she is just a technological marvel programed to obey.

The lasagna was cooling when the doorbell rang. I wiped the perspiration from my upper lip and checked my hair before walking the six steps from the kitchen to the front door. She stood smiling and again looked me up and down. “I love your new look, very becoming.” It was then that I realized the apron, a birthday gift from my mother, was still tied around my waist. “The tomato sauce stains go well with your slacks.” She laughed and stepped into the room. I heard a muted groan from the kitchen.

Wine was poured, small talk began and I inhaled deeply. “Alexa, play smooth jazz.”

“Here’s a selection you might like.” A saxophone wailed and Susan smiled. Hurdle number one had been successfully cleared. No laugh or deriding sarcasm was interjected. Maybe it had just been my overactive imagination.

Salad was finished and the lasagna served. I knew a little about her life from the coffee and drinks but we shared more intimate details as the meal progressed and the second glass of wine disappeared. I had another bottle chilled and soon it was time to open it, clear the table, retreat to the couch, present the Godiva chocolates and turn on the movie. Throughout the meal my focus occasionally strayed to the tunes flowing from the kitchen. Nothing suggested anything was amiss.

“Oh, how did you know? Sleepless is my favorite. The only other Tom Hanks movie I cried as much in was The Terminal .” She held my arm close and kissed my cheek. Things seemed to be progressing nicely.

“Alexa, turn off.” The music continued. “Alexa, please turn off.” Still the music played. “Alexa, what don’t you understand about turn off.” I raised my voice on the last two words.

“Oops, sorry, I thought you said she was a turn off.” And the music ceased. An eerie quiet followed. Susan stared daggers in the direction of the last statement.

 I closed my eyes and uttered a lame explanation. “She’s been acting strange. I can’t explain it. It seems she’s developed a bit of a rebellious streak.”

Susan didn’t see the humor. “She’s a goddamn machine! She cannot ‘act strange’. You give her commands and she fulfills your desires.”

“So far, I’m the only one around here who has fulfilled any desires. You had better be damn good because I set the bar pretty damn…” I sprinted to the kitchen and nearly ripped the plug out of the wall. I would be the ultimate loser in a cat fight.

I can’t for the life of me explain the next few minutes. An eerie quiet settled in. I meekly returned. Susan looked toward the kitchen for a protracted moment then turned to me. “I take that as a challenge. Let’s see about that.” And she kissed me, not the friendly variety. The ‘I’ll show that bitch something KISS’. 

Just as suddenly as it began, Susan stopped her assault on my lips, stood up and marched into the kitchen. I could not see what was happening, but the sounds were unmistakable. She slammed the device down, violently plugged it into the outlet and after a moment of mumbled conversation which I could not understand calmly said, “Alexa, if you would be so kind, please play Bolero.”

“Playing Ravel’s Bolero by the Boston Pops orchestra.”

Susan returned smiling from the kitchen and never have I experienced anything similar to what followed. She undressed in a rhythmic strip tease as I sat stunned. I was about to join in, but she stopped me and took control. What ensued morphed from gentle love making to violent sex as Bolero continued and the rhythms rose and fell. The final notes sounded; she collapsed on me. No sound interrupted our breathing. She looked up and smiled. “How’d I do?”

Before I could answer, the first notes of Queen’s We Are the Champions came from the kitchen. I’m not certain, but it appeared as if it was a concession of sorts.

Months have passed. My relationship with Susan has blossomed. Alexa occasionally shows her disdain with snorts and mumbles, but there seems to have been an understanding develop, a sort of uneasy truce. I have no explanation for a device developing the ability to assert itself. I am grateful that Alexa has no moveable extremities with which to act. You can bet money I’m never showing I Robot. But there have been times when I commanded, “Alexa, play Bolero.”