The Man with the Robot Wife

The Junk Shop

Gage Barman was proprietor of a junk shop located on the corner of a busy urban intersection. The crumbling brick building was over a century and a half old. How he stayed in business was a mystery. Since all electronics were inexpensive enough to use and discard half a year later, it was incomprehensible that anyone needed scrap parts to repairsomething. In fact, if you managed to get your hands on a proper dictionary the entry for the word repair would be followed by an asterisks stating: seeupgrade.

Gage was a curiosity to the neighborhood residents. With wiry gray hair, a leathery pockmarked face, teeth like rows of maize, milky eyes, and a particularly offensive natural scent, it was a wonder anyone could stand to be in the same room with him let alone keep a conversation going. He let rip bodily functions freely and spoke whatever came to his mind however crude. To put it all into one word, Gage Barman was disgusting.

Early in the morning of December 31, 2049, he gassed up his jalopy pickup truck, mended one of the plywood planks serving as a fence around the flatbed, fiddled with the secondhand solar panels on the hood, and toured the neighborhood alleys for junk. He squinted at a garage with bags of trash teetering against it in the distance.

His joints popped and snapped as he lowered himself out of the truck and surveyed the heap of garbage. A stray cat peered up at the stranger and arched its back. Its calico tale puffed in self-defense as it hissed out a warning.

"Oh shut up," Gage hollered and the cat scampered off.

The pile of bulging black plastic was filled with cheap flatware and place settings. He lifted the lid of the garbage can and ripped open the bag inside. There, between a gravy boat and a chintzy metal platter, were two chalices tarnished a dull blackish-brown. Gage spat on one and rubbed it generously with the cuff of his oversized wool coat. The sheen of reflection he produced told him they were solid silver.

Gage flung the average junk over the top of the plywood fencing and cracking porcelain and clanking metal clamored in the flatbed. He wrapped the chalices in his dingy handkerchief, sat them carefully on the passenger seat, and returned to his shop.

Gage parked the truck and carried the chalices through the short rear hallway and into the main store area. He verbally requested, "lights," and the piles, bins, and shelves full of scraps were flooded in sterile brilliance. He nestled his hanky-wrapped treasure in the fireproof safe beneath the antique cash register and locked it. He shoveled the rest of his haul out of the flatbed and began sorting.

The bell above the shop door rang that evening but it was not the usual courageous child dared by his peers to enter. It was a police officer clothed in full dress uniform; light blue collared shirt, black slacks, polished black boots, starched hat, and heavy black winter coat with gleaming gold buttons. The officer removed the hat from his dirty blond cropped hair. He unbuttoned his coat revealing the holstered revolver, bulletproof vest, and radio clipped at his shoulder. The shiny metal tag above his left breast pocket was engraved with his name: E. LONNAM. He glanced at Gage for a second and paced to the counter, scanning the store as he walked.

He had a soft face for a man of the law, the duties of which typically rearranged smiles into grimaces. His eyes were deep cocoa brown but carried a softness that lightened them to a warm chestnut shade. His smile was thin and his cheeks plump enough to make up for it. His eyebrows were sparse and his nose pointy. He was tall with a thin build and carried himself with the stature of an authority figure.

"Something wrong," Gage asked.

"No sir, I'm off duty," the officer said. Gage cocked his head. After a pregnant pause, the officer added, "just checking out your stock."

Gage grunted and ran a wrinkled hand through his tufts of gray hair. After a methodical browse, the officer picked out small bits of copper sheeting and spools of electrical wiring. Gage looked up at him with a crooked eye, punched a few keys on the register, and said, "$109.50." The officer launched the credit application of his NetCom but before he held it up for scanning Gage added, "cash only."

"Cash?" the officer asked.

"You've heard of it, yes? Dollars. Green paper with pictures of dead guys on it?"

The officer looked around, his brow furrowed. "Would you mind holding these items for a minute?" He pushed the spools of wire along the counter toward Gage.

The old man narrowed his gaze and the creases around his milky eyes deepened. "Shop's closed at 7:00. Not one minute later."

When the officer returned, he grinned at the old man and passed him two crisp hundred-dollar bills. Gage bagged his items and handed them over along with his change. He cleared his throat with the enthusiasm of a roaring lion and spat into the small garbage can behind him.

The officer cringed, checked his NetCom, pocketed it, and pulled it out to peek at the glass screen a second time.

"I better get going. The wife will wonder about me," he said. "It was a pleasure doing business with you. My name is Ely, by the way. Ely Lonnam." He peeled off his glove and extended a hand to Gage.

Gage reflexively stuck out his own hand for a shake but pulled back when he saw the bones and joints of Ely's fingers and palm were black polycarbonate visible through a grayish skin-like gel.

"M-Bo," Gage yelled. Freaks, all of you. Get outta my shop!"

Ely raised an eyebrow at the outburst, slipped his glove on, and picked up his purchase. He took one step out and turned back as the brass bell rang.

"Happy New Year to you," he said.

Gage did not respond.

At the stroke of 7:00, Gage locked up the shop and began the long climb to the upstairs flat he called home. He fixed a meal, O-shaped pasta and imitation red sauce from a can, and ate in the quiet. He did not wash the dishes. He dressed in a ripped sweatshirt and stained jogging pants. He did not shower.

The NetCasts were laden with New Year festivities that he promptly shut off. By 10:00, Gage dragged himself underneath his flat down comforter and attempted to fall asleep. After a few deep breathing techniques and visualizations a therapist taught him long ago, Gage's consciousness succumbed to the blackness.

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