Muffled by the din of the morning rush, faintly, a bell rang, piquing the interest of Richard Pritchard, ricocheting off the expanse’s walls, when nine digits scrolled in green lettering across the displays hanging above the sitting area that’d not been his own, inducing a statuesque, strong-jawed lout to lift his tool belt, grumbling to himself about the delay, as he started out for the Department of Usefulness’s bustling, front counter, in ill-fitted slacks and well-worn work-boots, whereupon he was handed a hardhat.
The displays went dark and then flickered off, turning translucent, while a pint-sized man sat beside Richard, called Antonio, commented, “You think he’s gotten bigger.” Charily, he laughed.
Pritchard forced a smile for the acquaintance who’d introduced himself, previously, at the Department on another day, but didn’t respond.
The pint-sized man wondered, “How big do you think that guy’s corpus was?” speaking of the man’s erstwhile dimensions, before he was given his mannequin, his idyllic form, standing eight feet tall.
“Smaller,” Richard began, politely, “compared to his colleagues.”
Briefly, Antonio claimed, “He competes with the automates—but they’re still stronger,” as they were androids.
Mr. Pritchard shrugged.
The displays lit up; fixedly, the pair raised their gazes.
Pritchard scanned a girl gathering her things, who’d read her number, as he conjectured where she’d spend the day, failing to surmise from her appearance where she’d be going.
Inwardly, the pint-sized man claimed, “He can’t catch his mannequin. Last year,” he remarked, assertively, “he must have been your size; I’ve seen him before.”
“I can’t recall,” Mr. Pritchard told him, after a moment, looking to his thoughts, “but you might be right.” Objectively, he claimed, “Anyone that large has a problem with their ultra-mate. No one could like that. They’d simply be crushed.”
Reflexively, Antonio guffawed. As he wiped his eyes, he enquired, “Is he proportional?” his hands spread eleven inches apart.
“I should hope not!” Mr. Pritchard replied.
The pint-sized man pounded his shirt pocket. Shortly, he said, “Woo!”
“That’s,” Mr. Pritchard claimed, “how girls can tell. I know a woman who searches her prospective partner’s medicine cabinets.”
Antonio asked him, “What does she do?”
“Pretends,” Pritchard began, “there’s a red dot on her calendar.”
Noisily, Antonio clapped his hands.
“So, you’ve never heard about this,” Mr. Pritchard suggested.
Antonio told him, “No, the women I know aren’t human.”
“Mm,” Pritchard replied, “you haven’t experienced the 'lock,' then.”
Antonio searched.
“It’s,” Pritchard said, “when”—
Dismissively, the pint-sized man gestured.
“It’s painful,” Richard informed him, flatly.
The pint-sized man remarked, “They can’t catch theirs either.”
“Automates can’t feel anything,” Mr. Pritchard commented.
Mockingly, Antonio asked, “Is that what you told that girl?”
“She told me,” Mr. Pritchard claimed, promptly, “after I complained; it kept contracting.” Wrenchingly, he winced.
Blandly, the pint-sized man said, “It doesn’t bother her ultra.”
“I suppose not,” Pritchard claimed, shakily.
The pint-sized man asked him, “Is he human, himself?”
“Her mannequin reflects,” Pritchard said, pensively, “whatever her ultra finds the most desirable. Our automates do not have desires.”
“Her ultra lacks verisimilitude; you should have reported that young lady to the Department.”
“Of Happiness,” Mr. Pritchard replied, as he read his mien. “I wasn’t working, plus she wasn’t young; her corpus must be about fifty-five. I must have known her since kindergarten.”
“The Department,” the pint-sized-man insisted, “of Happiness could have been a help.”
Pritchard noted his altered inflection.
Enquiringly, Antonio asked, “How old’s her mannequin?”
Pritchard considered. “I’d say twenty-five. Perhaps, twenty-six. There wasn’t any point,” he informed his acquaintance, “in asking, as we’re childhood friends.”
Antonio told him, “She could bullshit those other people.”
“I’m certain,” Pritchard responded, “she does.” Tactfully, he needled, “How old is yours?”
The pint-sized man told him, “Now, forty.”
“When will your kids be grown?” Pritchard asked him, having read his tone.
The pint-sized man claimed, “Another three years. I’m,” he told him, certainly, “going back a couple decades once they’re old enough to find their own place.”
“You’re,” Pritchard suggested, “doing your face.”
Plaintively, Antonio claimed, “They wouldn’t allow me to while they were still young. Then, they told me teens.” Crossly, he grumbled. “Had they let me know, I wouldn’t have taken the little brats.”
“You took her advice,” Pritchard said, queerly.
Absorbedly, the pint-sized man squinted.
“She visited me too,” Pritchard said, “and gave me the whole spiel.” He added, “The truth is they’re obligated to place them somewhere; I informed her no.”
Antonio asked him, “How do you know it was the same girl?”
“It was the same model,” Pritchard replied. “Women get a man. They target people who’ve engaged the most with this department.” He pointed ahead.
Gently, Antonio said, “You’ve done work in this area.”
“The Department,” Pritchard claimed, “of Kinder wouldn’t hire me! My empathy quotient’s not high enough. Somebody told me, and then someone else”—
The pint-sized man remarked, “She had red hair.”
“In all cases,” Mr. Pritchard replied.
“What’d the others do?”
“The same,” Mr. Pritchard answered, “as you. I’d seen her model somewhere else before working as a shrink guiding young people into professions that needed hires.”
Antonio told him, “That long ago.”
“No,” Mr. Pritchard said, assertively, “I worked as a substitute in the same building teaching athletics.”
Shortly, the pint-sized man enquired, “What were those professions?”
“Jobs,” Mr. Pritchard explained, “requiring a human touch, like health services; those were her focus. No one was directed anywhere else, without exception, and the kids caught on. One told me,” he claimed.
Curiously, the pint-sized man said, “They didn’t suspect you.”
“The automates teach the hard stuff,” Mr. Pritchard informed him. “They don’t miss a day. We just fill time up.”
Tersely, the pint-sized man asked, “Is that all humans are good for?”
“Perhaps,” Pritchard claimed.
Nosily, Antonio said, “You’re here because your mannequin’s industrious."
“It always has been,” Mr. Pritchard said. “Its interpersonal skills were just a little bit better.”
“So, you were lonely. Perhaps, you should have listened to that guidance counselor, then.”
“Humph!” Pritchard replied. “It hasn’t gone well. Awkward conversation is still the norm.”
Pryingly, Antonio asked, “How long have you lived alone?”
Mr. Pritchard calculated the years. “Almost four decades.”
“When did you begin looking for work here?”
“Twenty-four months ago,” Mr. Pritchard explained.
The pint-sized man gaped.
“Recurrence is rhythm,” Mr. Pritchard informed him, “and routine is recurrence; routine is rhythm. I had a good one going for myself.”
Antonio claimed, “Something must have changed.”
“It’d taken its toll,” Richard said, “on me. I didn’t feel normal any longer in social settings, and I stayed home more which compounded it. It took me twelve months to get the courage to come here,” he added, “for the first time since I’d been a youth. I’d be so nervous I’d be tremulous. The Department,” he said, “of Happiness had been nudging me to change my routine and find a rhythm that served me better.”
Solemnly, Antonio claimed, “I’ve seen an improvement. Everybody has.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Pritchard said, sternly.
Antonio smiled and then tapped his watch; its screen flickered twice.
Keenly, Richard surveyed his surroundings that had turned silent, his co-inhabitants eerily stiffened, having been shut down, and he understood.
Intently, the pint-sized man enquired, “What was that girl’s name?”
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