He walked from work to
his home, feeling at peace with himself and the world. He was different from
those he worked with, but he considered it to be a good thing, considered that
that which made him unique made him slightly superior to the Cargill Crew. His
frame was long and wiry, his features narrow and pointy. His nose ventured far
past his angular face, demanding attention. His ears were larger than they
needed to be, and his eyes nearly bulged from his face, as though they were
straining to peer from behind the shadow of his nose. His fingers were
unnaturally long and thin, as though designed for the intricate work they were
required to do. His walk looked rather ungainly, but appearance belied the
speed and grace that moved him forward. The others that he worked with, The
Cargill Crew, were much blockier, their features more obvious and exaggerated.
Having only them to compare himself with, he was quite content with his own
appearance.
His stride contained an
air of superiority to it, not of arrogance, but of an earned knowledge of his
specialness in the scheme of things. It was not a disdain for those around him
that kept his nose up and his head tilted up, it was merely an awareness that
those he passed on the street had nothing in the way of conversation that would
contribute to him in any way. His ability to think was simply greater than
those around him, and that was that. When he spoke to his co-workers, he found
their ability to comprehend matters to be unsophisticated. When he tossed a
lofty notion into the air, their response would be to drag it to the earth.
Sure, there had been Bill, but that was long ago. Bill, too, was different from
the rest, just as Mim was. He did not look like Mim, but he wasn’t like the
Cargill Crew either. They were both unique, and so could relate to each other
in ways they could never relate to the rest. But Bill was gone, and Mim was
alone in his existence. He didn’t mind it; he didn’t mind being unique because
he felt it made him special. And so he walked through the crowd of workers
returning to their abodes as one alone in a crowd, able to ignore the
unsophisticated chatter that engaged their unenlightened minds. So he was
surprised when a voice far away cut through his reveries as it sounded like it
was addressed to him.
“Hey, you. You. Come
here.”
Mim spotted an unusual
looking man standing in the shadows of an alleyway. The mere sight of him took
Mim off guard. He looked quite unlike the Cargills, looked vaguely like his old
friend Bill, only shaggier. He looked quite out of place on this somewhat busy
street, somewhat alien to the whole of Mim’s environment. If there had been
anybody about at that instant, he would have ignored the man and walked on as
he felt a certain suspicion about him. He did not have the feel of belonging,
did not seem to be a part of the community in which Mim lived, the small
environment that he had ever known. But there was nobody about at the moment,
and Mim, if a trifle self-satisfied, was a caring and thoughtful enough person.
“Are you talking to me?”
Asked Mim, taken aback a bit by the attention and the person who was giving it.
“Come here. I have
something to show you. You’ve never seen anything like this before, that’s for
sure.”
He was a little bit
pushy, and Mim didn’t like that. But Mim was not the kind to be rude. If this
man wanted a moment of his time, well, Mim could afford it.
As he walked towards the
alley, the man drew back as if leading him onward. He stopped at a plastic box
that was perhaps two feet tall and three feet wide. The man drew Mim’s
attention to a hole in the box. Mim looked inside and saw a furry face looking
back at him. The face drew an instant response from Mim, bringing a smile to
his face. He had never seen anything like it before, but knew that he liked it.
The man, noticing the smile, began his patter again.
“Move back, I’ll let him
out for you.” When Mim stepped back, the man opened a door on one side of the
box. To the thing inside, he said: “Come on out.” It stepped out, walking on
all fours. Behind it was an appendage that swung right and left with an energy
that was contagious. All of it, including the appendage, was covered in soft
and friendly hair that made you want
to touch it. Two eyes peeked out from beneath the brown and white fur and found
an instant pathway into Mim’s heart.
The man spoke again. “Sit
down.” The thing sat. “Shake hands”. The thing raised one of its limbs in the
direction of Mim. Mim, excited but nervous, could not bring himself to grab the
offered appendage. “Lay down” the man continued. The thing lay down. “Roll
over”. The commands were simple enough, but somehow the simplest of actions by
this thing had a fascination for Mim. When the man finished with his commands,
Mim wanted to ask him to continue. The thing lay their quietly, looking into
Mim’s eyes as though waiting for him to start giving commands.
“You like it?” asked the
man as Mim continued to stare.
“Yes. Very much.”
“Fifty credits and it’s
yours.”
Mim began to get a little
anxious. The whole situation seemed a little unusual and thus made him
suspicious. Whoever this man was, he was not part of the day to day existence
of the factory or the town. He was an outsider and somehow that made him a
little threatening. He didn’t know why, but he somehow imagined that there
might be something wrong with talking to such a person. He got the feeling that
if somebody were to see him talking to this man that he could get into trouble.
He didn’t know who would be watching or what the problem could be with talking
to someone a little different, nevertheless he felt an uneasiness. He felt
suddenly that he should go and found himself taking a step back towards the
street. The man, sensing he was losing his audience, said to the thing from the
box: “Speak”. It uttered a sharp cry in response. It seemed to call to Mim, and
something responded deep within him. It was the birth of a new emotion for him,
a tenderness that had never been called upon before.
“Speak” the man said
again, and the thing made its noise.
“Shake hands.” The thing
lifted its front appendage towards Mim. This time Mim found himself shaking
hands with the furry thing that sat in front of him, despite himself. He felt
the things fur as he did so, and in a moment, found himself petting the thing
on the top of its head. The thing responded warmly to Mim’s petting.
“Fifty credits for a new
friend. Quite a deal, eh?”
Mim stared at the man.
There was something a little unusual about him, something a little unnatural
about the friendly tone he had in his voice. Mim was torn by his situation. He
had no desire to leave behind this creature, would very much like to take him
home. But he felt the situation rather odd, and the idea that he might be doing
something wrong again occurred to him. But the man was rather insistent, and
Mim was not used to dealing with people who had such a characteristic.
“What do you say? Isn’t
it cute? Surely you have fifty credits you can spare.”
“I don’t know. It’s very
amusing, but it doesn’t seem quite right.”
“I assure you, it’s 100%
artificial.”
Mim looked again at the
furry face in front of him. There was something irresistible about it. If he
had been prone to self-reflection, he might have realized that the traits that
he appreciated in this creature were quite similar to his own. It had an enormously
protruding nose, as well as ears that stuck far out from its head. The two
seemed made for each other, like two characters drawn by the same artist.
Unable to find a way out
of the situation he was in, and appreciating the idea of owning this thing, Mim
reached into his pocket for the credits.
“Thank you. Enjoy. Just
remember to return it to the box when you’re done using it. Just say “kennel”,
and it will return to it.”
The man scurried into the
alley and soon was lost from Mim’s sight. Mim was left standing by his new
purchase staring up at him. “Kennel”, he
said, and the thing dutifully obeyed. Mim felt uncomfortable with the idea that
he would now have to carry this thing through crowded streets to his home.
Again, the self-conscious feeling welled up in him, as though whatever he was
doing might be disapproved of by unknown watchers. But the man assured him that
it was 100% artificial. Peering out from a corner of the alley, Mim waited
until there was no one in sight. He then proceeded to carry the rather large
box towards his house.
His house was at the far
end of town, furthest away from the factory that was the heart of the
community. So far was he from the center that the yard of his house bordered on
the wall that ringed the town, encircled the entirety of everything he ever
knew.
He arrived home nearly
exhausted, unused to such physical exercise. He was greeted as always by his
Mate/Mother, who was always there to welcome him home with a smile and warmth.
His Mate/Mother was the
most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her hair was of an impossible
brightness, going beyond what one would call blonde towards platinum. Her lips were
shiny red, as though perpetually moist, and the bright white dress she wore was
always spotless, both concealing and appealing. She had been their always, from
his earliest memories, never changing. She was closer to him than anyone,
always willing to listen to him, never demanding anything. But though she was
the nearest and dearest thing to him, he oddly found that he did not wish to
share what he had found today with her. He talked to her as he always did but
made no mention of the box he brought home. And she, good mate/mother that she
was, asked no questions about it. She merely smiled and shimmered, and that
smiling and shimmering seemed to bring light and freshness into the house. She
asked what it was he wished to view, and when he told her, she immediately
awoke the viewer and played for him the news of the world outside. As the
viewer came to light, mate/mother slid into the background.
With the viewer providing
the background excitement, Mim turned his attention to the box he dragged home.
He stuck his nose close to the hole and saw his newfound friend staring off
into space as if he had been switched off. Mim opened the door to the box, but
still the thing remained motionless. Mim remembered what the man had said to
the thing, so he said: “Come.” The thing came to life at once and exited its
box. Mim began to put the thing through its paces, reciting every command he
had heard the man say. He wished now that he had asked more questions, wondered
what else this thing could do. He looked inside the box, hoping to find a
manual that might help him understand what else he could make this thing do.
What he found inside the box was not a manual, but a collection of tubes and
wires that apparently fitted into…fitted into what? This thing should have a
name, it was almost life-like. He thought of the dog’s distinguishing
characteristic, its large nose, and decided Pinocchio fit him well. He had read
the story of Pinocchio in a book, one of the few books he had ever read that
had not been a manual. In a way, the character in the story was as real as any
person he knew in real life. Realer perhaps even than his mate/mother, who
after all was not very solid. She was friendly and caring, but Mim wondered if
she had any life of her own. As beautiful as she was, she somehow seemed less
than real. Less real even, perhaps, than a wooden puppet he had read about in
an old book.
Pinocchio it was, then.
Somehow, having given this thing a name made it more real, more real, perhaps,
too, than mate/mother. He at least was solid—Mim could reach out and actually
touch him, unlike the shimmering, smiling woman that awaited him and greeted
him. The tubes and wires in the box concerned Mim, though. Perhaps Pinocchio
was a little too real. Any ordinary toy would not require such apparatus. He
felt foolish for trusting the stranger he had met in the alley, should have
known that the whole situation was a little odd. If he wanted to buy a toy, he
knew he should buy it from the store. If he wanted to trust somebody, he knew
he could trust the machine. Looking back at it now, he couldn’t believe he had
acted outside the parameters that had been set for him, can’t believe that he
had stepped afoul of the laws that had governed him his entire life. He
couldn’t imagine what had made him act the way he had. Sure, the man took
advantage of his unwillingness to be rude. Mim’s life experience had never
prepared him for someone acting so far outside the laws. But surely Mim should
have known better, nonetheless. Then he looked again at Pinocchio and he knew
the answer to the question. There was something about its face that spoke to
Mim, spoke to him of emotions that had only been hinted at by all of his
previous experience. There was a word he encountered in one of those few books
he had encountered that had not been manuals, and the word was joy. He did not
understand it then, was not sure if he understood it now, but he thought that
he was getting some kind of appreciation of it now. This thing was not merely
alive, it was willfully alive.
Not that he supposed this
thing was alive. The concept of being alive was perhaps not one that Mim was
familiar with. Useful, sure. Functioning. Mim knew he was these things and had
always been proud of that. But alive was not quite a term that meant anything
to him. But the first tentative strands of understanding were reaching from the
word joy to the feeling within his chest, an initial encounter of experience
and understanding had been made. Like the first feet through a forest making an
initial path through the wilderness, a link had been established, a hole in a
dam. Mim was beginning to feel something new, something beyond the world he had
ever known. Something that would forever change the view of life he always knew.
Alive. The concept was born, however naked and helpless it began its existence.
It was something more
than amusement, but not useful. It existed apart from the machine, and yet had
value other than as a way to distract and relax him. He felt that that might
mean trouble, but he didn’t care at the moment. Such thoughts went on inside
his mind, but not at a conscious level. He was not accustomed to actual
introspection, but it did not mean that such thoughts did not occur. It merely
meant that he did not realize that they did. They worked on a deeper level,
closer to emotion than thought. He would have had no frame of reference for it
anyway, no way to process thoughts that did not have to do with his usefulness.
All of his life had been vested in his usefulness or in the satisfaction of
immature and unsophisticated desires. While he gloated to himself that he was
vastly superior to the Cargill Crew, in terms of emotional maturity, he was
very much like them. His superiority lay in the service he supplied to the
machine, he was a more sophisticated cog.
But this thing, this
Pinocchio. It existed for its own sake. It existed and was happy without
purpose, without serving the greater good of the machine. (If it served
something, it was a far greater machine than the one he knew.) But while such
unarticulated thoughts pushed through his mind, he was too busy taking joy in
his new possession to pay them any mind.
His viewer remained on but
he did not notice it. He spent the night with Pinocchio, putting it through its
paces and seeing what other instructions it would obey. It was not until late
that night that Mim uttered the word “kennel”, and his friend retired for the
evening.
He found himself a little
distracted the next morning at work. For the first time in his existence, there
was something besides his work that occupied his thoughts. As he worked on the
Cargill Crew, he would often find himself paused in his task while thoughts of
a furry face crept into his mind. Cargills were not the first workers to have
come through this factory, he had worked on several others before them. He
realized now that Pinocchio was something similar to them, a bio creation. He
wondered where he had been made and why. Prying his long, slender fingers into
the back of the neck of a Cargill, he retrieved the chip from the defective
worker and replaced it with one more up to date. From time to time they were
prone to breakdowns, even such sturdy and unsophisticated models as these. Mim
decided he would check Pinocchio for a chip tonight when he got home. He was
curious to know where and when he was made.
If the Cargills
appreciated the work he did on them, they did not show it. Not that they seemed
to mind. They simply came to him when they were told there had been exhibiting
signs of dysfunction. They were all and all a foreign species to him. While
they functioned quite well in work-related situations, there seemed to be no
other way in which Mim and they could relate. The Cargills seemed almost to
have a built-in set of reference points, as though their choice of amusement
had been programmed into them. When two or more of them were together in a
non-work-related situation, they could instantly talk amongst themselves and be
amused by things Mim simply could not understand. There was a certain kind of
humor they shared, but it was nothing Mim could find funny. In part, Mim was
frustrated that he had no relationship with the Cargills. They neither recognized
him as an equal nor as a superior. They simply came to him when in need of
repair and left when they were fixed. Mim would sometimes become frustrated by
their lack of thankfulness at the repairs he did to them, restoring them as
useful parts of the machine. But they paid him no more attention than he did
the wall that stood behind his house, the border of all he knew. To them, he
was simply another part of the machine, like a forklift or a computer. No need
to thank a computer, even if it is vastly smarter than oneself.
Arriving home that night,
he greeted and dismissed his mate/mother in a moment. It was Pinocchio who
would share his downtime. He had learned how to make it interact in ways other
than responding to commands. By petting its head, he could elicit squeals of
enjoyment. By scratching him along the side, he could make his rear foot move
reflexively. By throwing one of his socks, he could get the thing to retrieve
it. They could wrestle in a playful manner, and Pinocchio would chase and be
chased at intervals.
Exhausted, Mim lay on the
ground. Pinocchio sat still looking at him. After a time, Mim decided it was
time. Brushing back the fur that was on the back of Pinocchio’s neck, Mim
subtly let his trained fingers search for the area where he suspected a chip
would be located. He could not locate anything as obvious as the exposed chips
of the Cargills, but his sensitive fingers at last discovered a bump under
Pinocchio’s fur. Mim’s professional curiosity began to take over, and he went
towards the kitchen to find a knife. Locating again the bump, he carefully cut
a line down the back of Pinocchio’s neck. “Just as I thought”, said Mim.
“Biomatter.” Somebody was playing with things they shouldn’t have been, and Mim
would get to the bottom of it if he could.
Pinocchio did not utter a
sound or move reflexively away as the knife cut into its fleshy neck. That it
was capable of feeling pain the same way Mim was did not enter Mim’s thoughts. He
did at once notice, however, that Pinocchio was more than just a contraption of
wires and chips. His suspicions were confirmed. Peeling back the loose flaps of
skin, Mim spread open the insertion point with strong, practiced fingers.
At the base of the skull
he could detect something whose geometric lines were in opposition to the
biometric smoothness elsewhere. Amidst the red of blood and tissue could be
seen the square corner of something foreign to its surroundings. Reaching in
with his other hand, he encountered the hardness of technology amongst the
smoothness of flesh. Teasing it out, he eventually removed it from Pinocchio’s
neck, but wires still connected from it deep into the neck flesh. Mim was at a
loss for what to do at this point. In all the work he had done on Cargills and
others, he had always had comprehensive manuals that would guide his actions.
Here, he had no clue as to what he was doing, wasn’t even sure if he should be
doing it. But there was a certain amount of incongruity to this chip. Despite
the fact that he had been dealing with the interface of flesh and technology
all of his life, he somehow felt that this thing did not belong. While the
chips enabled the Cargills to better perform their duties, Mim saw no reason
for the presence of one here. Before allowing himself time to think the matter
through, he gave a yank on the chip. His fingers were surprisingly strong and
were able to hold onto the chip through the blood as the wire pulled taught. At
length, the wire pulled from Pinocchio, leaving the thing free from whatever
control the chip had had over it. With this action, Pinocchio let forth a
horrible shriek and collapsed to the ground. Its body jerked convulsively and
wild howls came from him. Mim stared on in horror. “I’ve broken it”, he
thought. The thing continued to howl and convulse. The emotion that only
recently had started to grow in Mim had now been replaced with another new
emotion; fear. He had never truly experienced it before, had never felt the
pain of another as his own. Cargills never experienced pain—at least they never
exhibited it before. But there was no restraint on the little creature that lay
before now. What it felt it did not hide. Its suffering was even more obvious than
the happiness it had earlier exhibited affected Mim more deeply. Here was the
flip side of what Mim had felt yesterday, the pain that accompanied joy. He
wished he had never experienced the joy, that it was a Trojan horse. As the
thing writhed on the ground, Mim found he had to look away.
He turned his head,
walked to the couch and sat in front of the viewer. Mate/mother turned up the
sound at his request, but he could not make the sound of Pinocchio’s agony go
away. He sat in front of the viewer throughout the night, unable to sleep. When
the cries had died away somewhat, he made himself look again at the object of
misery. He found that it had soiled itself, had contaminated his rug with shit
and urine. It writhed in its own excrement, heedless of anything other than the
pain of its own existence. Mim returned to the couch, unable to watch. He
rocked back and forth, repeating to himself: “I broke it. I broke it.”
With the coming of dawn,
Mim was still rocking on the couch, Pinocchio’s limbs still jerking as it sat
in its own filth. Mim, not knowing what to do, left it alone until it was time
to work. He hoped when he returned home, the thing would be gone, a bad dream
that vanished upon awakening. At work he appreciated the utter apathy of the
Cargills, no longer caring that they did not appreciate the work he did.
Mim returned home later
than usual, having been in no great hurry to relive the experience of last
night. He found little Pinocchio still lying where he had left him, whimpering
now through lack of strength to howl. The puddle beneath him had grown. Mim,
despite his distaste, felt that he had to clean up the scene a little. The
smell was intense, but he soon had his carpet and Pinocchio looking a little
better. Despite his fear and revulsion, he found himself giving the little thing
a pat in an attempt to comfort it. And Mim thought he could sense some
response. The whimpering, while not lessening, found some kind of steadiness to
it, as though it sought to ease its pain by stabilizing it. After a time, Mim
walked away to get some food in his stomach. He again had mate/mother turn up
the sound of the viewer to keep his attention away from the sound in the other
room. As he ate, he found distraction in the news of the day. So he was
frightened out of his wits when he discovered something touching his leg. He
jumped from the couch; cast a glance to where his leg had just been. He saw
there little Pinocchio, standing on shaky legs and looking at him. Horror
welled up in him as though he was looking at a ghost. In front of Pinocchio sat
a piece of Mim’s dinner that had fallen from his plate when he had jumped from
the couch. Unsteadily but instinctually, he lowered his head and grabbed it
with his mouth and swallowed it.
Settling down, Mim
realized that Pinocchio may be capable of fixing itself. Whatever he had done
to it, it didn’t seem to be permanent. He wasn’t sure how long biomatter could
exist without any chip in it, had never seen anything like it before, but
apparently this little thing seemed to be doing all right. No sooner than he
thought this, though, than Pinocchio released another batch of excrement on the
carpet. Mim regretted ever taking this thing into his house, but he really
didn’t know what else to do with it at this point. Figuring that it would
require sustenance just as he did, he put out a plate for him and shared a
little of his food. He also put out a little cup filled with water. The thing
ate and drank as quickly as it could manage in its weakened state, taking time
out only to relieve itself once again on the carpet. But in time it seemed to
be contented, and laid down on the grown and closed its eyes. Seeing that
Pinocchio had apparently stabilized itself, Mim was immensely relieved. He had
no idea how long it was capable of suffering, perhaps forever. Curled up as it
was in sleep, he saw again before him the same sweet creature he had met the
day before. He cleaned up the floor, and Pinocchio did not bother him again for
the rest of the night.
Mim awoke to a much
refreshed Pinocchio. Freed from the chip, however, he no longer obeyed any of
the orders Mim gave him. He was operating under his own impetus, now. Still a
little shaky, he was nonetheless eager for Mim’s attention in a way he was not
before. Mim was a little overwhelmed by the attention, tried to avoid the
creature’s lunges. But he soon realized there was nothing to fear from his
furry roommate, realized the attention he was giving was rather like the
attention that Mim originally gave to Pinocchio, if a little over the top. He
wasn’t sure what to make of such attention, had never received anything like it
before, except perhaps from mate/mother. Yet mate/mother, however friendly, had
always followed his lead. When he wanted to talk, she seemed pleased by his
attention; when he was tired, she left him alone. But Pinocchio was persistent.
He did not ask for but demanded attention. Mim found such an attitude
irresistible. While he fought off Pinocchio’s attempts to overwhealm him, he
was only fighting off the worst excesses, allowing his long nose to at times
pierce the defenses. It was a battle he didn’t mind getting the worst of. Mim
went to work feeling better than he had the day before.
He returned to yet
another mess made by Pinocchio. Not only was their excrement on the floor, but
he discovered one of his shoes had been turned to shreds. Mim could not
understand this random act of violence, could not understand what motivated
Pinocchio. He stared at him, but Pinocchio only stared back with a fierce look
in his eye. When Mim came toward him, Pinocchio ran, one of Mim’s socks in his
mouth.
Mim was angry—but as he
ran after Pinocchio—he realized he wasn’t as angry as he might have been. He
knew Pinocchio’s actions had in them no mean intentions and that what he had
done was done in innocence or in fun. Assuredly, he would have to set some
boundaries for this creature if they were to live in the same house, but as he
chased after him, the sock dangling from its mouth, he couldn’t help
appreciating the attention that Pinocchio gave him in his need to call attention
to himself.
Mim had lived alone all
his life, not counting Marilyn, who didn’t really count. For the most part, the
people with whom he worked were merely people with whom he worked. He had tried
socializing, tried to fit in with the others, but it never worked out. They
were different from him, different as if they had been born that way, different
as if it had been programmed into them to be the way they were. And they all
had a sameness of difference, all of them acting differently together. It was
as though they were all joined together by some invisible network, one that
left them unable to deal with others outside of it on an individual basis. Mim
had tried talking to them on a one on one basis, tried to call one from the
herd, as it were, in order to engage him in some kind of conversation that
would interest both of them. But each of them lived within an ecosystem beyond
which they had no desire to explore. The music they listened to was the music
played in their bars, the shows they watched were the shows all of the others
watched, their sports team they cheered for the same as all the others. There
seemed a wall between them and he, and Mim was never able to cross it. And so
the camaraderie of the Cargill Crew was something he could never share, and it
left him feeling even more alone than he otherwise would have.
He was left with his
attitude of superiority, which gave him some consolation. He knew—even if he
was every bit as much part of the machine as any of the Cargill Crew—he knew
that his part in the machinery was a greater one than theirs. He knew that he
was a more valuable part than they, knew that in the hierarchy of the machine
that he was placed more highly, but he knew that he was missing something for
all of that. Knowing that he was more, that he was better than the others, did
not compensate for knowing he was different and apart from them. He knew he
belonged, was a working and useful apart of the machine, but that did not give
him a sense of belonging.
But here was this thing,
this creature, who knew nothing of fitting in, of belonging or of being useful.
And yet it existed for its own sake and relished its own existence. MIM truly
did not know what to make of it, and yet he could not resist it. Its enthusiasm
spread beyond itself, filled Mim with the same enthusiasm. Mim KNEW that the
thing felt by Pinocchio was the same as he felt inside himself, knew without
having a name for what it was, that this mutual experience or shared feeling
existed. And in sharing, the separateness Mim had always felt but never
articulated, was overcome. He was now a part of something larger than himself,
shared in something that flowed beyond the boundaries of his body. Yes, he was
also part of the machine, he knew that. But this was something different. He
knew his existence as part of the machine was contingent upon his usefulness.
He understood that he was just a cog in a complex process that could be plucked
out and replaced with another should he malfunction. And perhaps too, should
Mim be unable to care for Pinocchio, that Pinocchio would be happy to find
another to share with and care for him. But Mim couldn’t help thinking there
was more to it than that. He couldn’t speak for Pinocchio, but he felt that the
relationship he had with his fuzzy friend was not something that could be
easily replaced by another. There was something unique about his friend, about
this friendship, even if there were a million other creatures just like
Pinocchio. And too, the relationship between the two was different from the
actions of two cogs linking between each other. Cogs pushed together, met at
their edges, never went beyond that. The force that turned them did not come
from themselves. Mim and Pinocchio, their relationship was beyond the
boundaries of themselves, reached beyond the external to a shared internal
state of being. They were not two distinct entities, but similar beings guided
by a force that flowed through them both.
Again, the concept of
“alive” crept into Mim’s consciousness, although he had no words to describe
it. He “knew” nothing, merely lived it, lived as if whatever he had been doing
up to this time was something other than living. Lived in a way that it were as
though something new had been born inside the shell that had previously been
him.
The months passed as Mim
gradually trained Pinocchio to live in a way that was tolerable to him and the
machine. He knew he must protect his friend from the machine, knew that he was
separate from it. He knew this because Pinocchio in no way was of service to
the machine, and Mim had seen what became of things that were no longer useful
or functioning properly. Mim had never before thought of himself as anything
other than part of the machine, yet now he was acting in ways contrary to it.
He belonged to something different now, even if that something different
consisted of nothing more than the relationship he had with an animal that
cared for nothing but its next meal and the causing of mischief. Pinocchio was
gradually taught to do his business out in the back of the house rather than
the floor of the living room. He more or less was trained to obey some of the
orders that had originally been programmed by the chip Mim had removed. But
Pinocchio still had a mind of his own, occasionally grabbing an article of
clothing from Mim when he felt that he deserved more attention than he was
getting. Also, Mim could not get Pinocchio to stop his interest in what lay
beyond the fence in the back of his house. Mim had never stopped to consider
the existence of anything that lay beyond the fence before, felt it to be as
much a barrier as the sky was. It was the edge of the world to him, or at least
the end of the machine, which was the same thing after all. But Pinocchio had a
curiosity to what lay beyond that Mim did not. It seemed that whenever Mim left
him alone in the back of the house Pinocchio would start digging a whole as if
to try and tunnel under the barrier. Mim sensed somehow that this was a
dangerous thing, tried to instill in his pet the fear that he felt regarding
the fence. But the thing had a will of its own. This is what Mim loved about
it, but it was not something he was used to. Perhaps he himself had never truly
had a will of his own, had never even thought to do things for himself other
than in distraction and amusement. But Pinocchio did not conform to the rules
of the machine; it was a delicate balance for Mim to maintain this independence
in his friend without provoking a response from the machine. And the wall was
beyond the bounds of acceptable behavior. He knew that, knew it without having
any reason to know it. Knew that the boundaries of the machine extended to the
fence and ended there. It was almost as if Pinocchio knew this and was pushing
the boundaries the way he had with Mim. But the machine was not so forgiving as
Mim. Mim tried to keep his friend from trouble, but had no way of sharing his
apprehension. In most every other way, Mim found Pinocchio’s mischievousness
endearing, but this one act of defiance provoked in Mim an anger born of fear.
No longer was Mim
concerned with his separateness from his co-workers, nor did he dwell too often
on the fact that he felt himself to be a superior model to those with whom he
worked. Instead he spent what moments he had for outside thoughts on the
creature that awaited his return home each night, He felt sorry for the little
creature that was forced into its little crate each day, even while he was
stuck in the small room where he worked. And each evening he would spend with
his friend, ignoring the viewer and even Marilyn.
One Sunday, the weather
was nice enough that they spent the better part of the day outdoors. Nobody
lived near him, so he felt safe in allowing his animal to roam the yard. Having
worked a full week, Mim was tired and did not notice the time Pinocchio spent
digging a hole near the fence. He fell asleep leaning against the side of his
house, and Pinocchio was so busy that he never bothered to wake him up. When
Mim finally awoke, he looked around and found himself to be all alone.
Panicked, he patrolled the enclosed area, to find the hole Pinocchio had dug
while he was sleeping. He looked across the fence to see his friend’s furry
face looking back at him. He tried to convince him to come back, but Pinocchio
was distracted by the whole new world that he had to explore. Even as Mim was
pleading, he heard the buzzing sound he had been dreading. He didn’t know what
it was that motivated the Stingers, did not know why they did what they did,
but he knew they defended the machine. They defended the machine by ensuring
parts that malfunctioned were removed from the system. Poor Pinocchio was not a
part of the system at all. There was nothing Mim could do, no way for him to
broach the fence that was much too tall, far too sturdy. He could only beg and
plead with his friend who looked at him through the fence and wagged his tail
with excitement. The Stingers were closer now, and Mim’s anxiety was apparent.
He urged his friend to come back to him with promises of food, but Pinocchio
reacted to the danger in Mim’s voice rather than the words. He gave Mim a look
of uncertainty, and at that instant, the stingers hit him. Little bird-like
instruments shot tiny missiles into the flesh of Pinocchio, and all Mim could
do is stand and watch. He didn’t know what the stingers were, did not know if
they were flesh or machine. He did not know if they were machines designed with
a purpose or simply malevolent creatures of nature. He only knew he despised
them.
He watched his friend
die, watched and was helpless to do anything about it. The only relationship he
had ever known that was not of frivolity or purely functional was gone. The
only genuine tie he ever had to another living being had been severed. At that
moment, he despised the world around him. And as the machine was the only world
he had ever known, he despised the machine. How long he sat there at the wall,
he did not know. He could do nothing for his little friend but was loath to
leave him lying there all alone. He eventually felt the need to turn his back
from him, though, felt the need to remove himself from the pain he felt. But
the physical space he put between himself and his friend could not ease the
hurt he carried. It followed him into his house, taking the place of the
friendship he had had. He could not sleep that night, knowing his friend was
still out there, beyond the wall, all alone, unprotected.
Mim felt another new
emotion, and he longed for the days when he had felt none at all. Grief overwhelmed
him, covered all the things he had once found of interest with a grey film.
Pinocchio was not “broken”, not “malfunctioning”. He was gone, and he was never
coming back. He was gone, and it didn’t make a shred of difference to Mim
whether or not his usefulness to the machine. He did not know a word to
describe it, but he was useful to Mim. More than useful, there was no word Mim
could use to describe what Pinocchio was to him. But nobody cared. It felt as
though something inside of him had been shot by the stingers and was lying
motionless next to his friend, never to rise again. He had no words to describe
what he felt, no frame of reference for what he was going through. There was
nobody he could talk to, no one to explain to him how he felt. And then it
occurred to him to talk to mate/mother. He knew she wasn’t real, wasn’t real
the way Pinocchio was real, real the way he was beginning to realize he himself
was. Even through his pain, he began to realize a growth in his awareness,
began to understand that he was in some way more real than he had ever fully
appreciated before. And some part of him knew that although he was in the
depths of misery, he did not want to go back to the smaller world he had
inhabited, did not want to be the person he used to be before Pinocchio came
into his life. It would be an insult to his friend. Mim would embrace the pain
he felt as though in doing that he might remain true to his friend. He would
rather carry the emptiness inside him than forget. He would never forget.
All of his relationships
proved hollow to him now, yet he needed someone with whom to unburden his
grief. He thought of mate/mother. She and Pinocchio had been on separate sides
of his life, as though they were pulling him both in separate directions. He
had grown apart from her since he brought him into his life, and it seemed that
she were aware of that fact, acting in a suspicious and disapproving manner.
But he needed someone, could not bear the ordeal alone.
He called and she was
there. At her appearance, he burst into tears, telling her of his friend,
sharing with her now all the things he had kept hidden from her until now about
Pinocchio. And for the first time in his life she expressed her disapproval.
Following his loss, Mim could not believe now this new turn of events.
“It’s for the best, Mim.
That creature had no part to play in your life.”
Marilyn had never spoken
to him in this way before. She had never spoken to him in anything less than
supportive tones. Now it almost seemed as though some jealousy were being
revealed. She did not sound at all herself.
Mim’s emotions were at
full boil. “How can you say that? He was my friend. He was…he was beautiful.
I…loved him.”
He did not know where the
word “love” came from. He had used it with mate/mother before, used it
effortlessly and without thought. But as it arose to his lips now it brought to
him new worlds of meaning, crystallizing into the sense of loss that he now
felt. Suddenly his relationship to mate/mother came into question. Although he
had known her his whole life, he now wondered if he knew her at all.
“He was not part of us,
Mim. Not part of the whole. He had no place here.”
Again, Mim’s perceptions
were altered, and he found himself questioning his relationship to the machine.
He knew nothing else other than the machine, and yet he found himself
questioning it, as one who has felt profound loss might question life itself.
Mim suddenly realized
that he knew something that was not the machine after all. Pinocchio was his
connection to something beyond the machine. And he found this connection to be
wonderful, the machine to be very ugly. There existed something beyond the
machine! And then it occurred to him that his relationship to Pinocchio was
also beyond the machine. If that were so, could he also not be part of the
machine? He felt torn, confused, angry. He was a part of the machine, that he
knew. He was also something else. He belonged to something else. Something that
remained even after his one link with it had been severed. The pain inside told
him that the death of Pinocchio did not end the awakening that he had brought
to life. But mate/mother was part of the machine, was the machine. He realized
that now. She spoke of the machine’s desires. She kept him who he was, who the
machine needed him to be.
Mim was on a path now
that led him to a life he had never known, was not supposed to know. He
couldn’t see where that path was taking him, did not know what lay at the end,
but the direction was written now into his soul. He felt almost a tearing
inside of him, as some part of his being was separating itself from his more
solid self. Like a slug stepping free from its shell, like a prisoner stepping
free from the cell he had always called home. It was a mental effort that translated
to the physical world. And following this profound rending came a myriad of
voices. Marilyn was still talking, giving him instructions in the manner of a
stern mother. But behind it came the other voices, all speaking to him,
demanding his attention, seeking his obeisance. Like maggots in his brain they
crawled through his consciousness, crowding out his own thoughts. The neural
pathways that together constructed who he was were being clogged by thoughts
not of his own making. Like silkworms, they spun webs round the flow of his
identity, drowning him in a thoughts not his own. Though he fought against
them, the voices at last took control of his consciousness, leaving him a mere
observer to what took place inside his mind.
