RoboNomics

Chapter 6 - 2016

The protest group poster includes an address which leads me to a peaked-roof pile of weathered brick so far south it's nearly on the shore of Lake Ontario. It has ancient, discolored lettering on it that says, "A.R. Williams Machinery Co." 

But for all its apparent age, it is surrounded by tall glass condos that were built a couple decades back.

I follow the poster's directions to the second floor. When I roll open the garage-style elevator door, I reveal an expansive, shabby loft.

There are half a dozen people sitting here and there at mismatched desks. Wood tables with peeling veneers and metal school desks painted mint have been pushed together in groups of four. 

I don't see a single FlexPhone. Instead, everyone is scrawling on paper. It's the second time I've seen paper in twenty years. 

The corners of the room are stuffed with rusting metal machinery. Some pieces I recognize from period dramas: pinball machines, microfilm readers and pieces of clockwork. 

There are other hulking machines with exposed gears. I don't know what they do.

On the back wall of exposed brick is a massive sign. It rests between a long counter and a white fridge with red spots of rust. 

It's the other Honest Ed's sign. Most of its unlit incandescent bulbs have been smashed. I wonder how it got here.

A portly fellow with a black beard walks by and raises his bushy eyebrows at me. 

"Yeah, I saw a poster about this...group and I just wanted to ask about it," I say to him.

"Just sit there for a second," he points to a high stool that stands beside a derelict wood desk. "We'll be with you in a minute." 

He bustles away towards a set of nearly vertical metal steps that lead to an over-hanging attic.

I sit abruptly and fold my pink trench coat in my lap. Beside me sits a young girl in a gold and royal blue striped hijab. 

She's writing something on bits of paper. Before I can ask her why she's not using her FlexPhone, there's a loud bang followed by a grinding noise that comes from the elevator shaft. 

Everyone else in the room starts to bustle around. Some pick up pieces of paper and read them. 

Other go to the machines along the walls and bring them to life. The smell of burning dust fills the space.

"Hey, do you know what's going on here?" I lean over to ask the girl who sits next to me.

"Yeah, Chris is here," she says.

"Who's that?" 

She points to the elevator in response. A group of four people step off it. They look like construction workers. 

The man with the black beard hurries down the steps and up to one of them. He starts gesticulating as he speaks. 

The other man is about my height. He is dressed in grubby, beige coveralls and a flannel shirt. Dirty blond hair sticks out from under a shabby ball cap. 

His eyes crease into a smile. Even from a distance, I can see the dirt in the cracks of his hands as he signs a paper held out to him by the bearded man.

"He's the one who started the group," the girl says.

"You're kidding!" I swing my head around to look at her.

"Nah. He doesn't look like much but he works like crazy. He's almost never here. Except to sleep." She indicates the half-floor loft that hangs above us. "Some people told me when I first got here that he owns the place."