conversion

Conversion

I'd been seeing Pol for only a few days at that point. He had just departed for the bathroom, and I was turning on the television to watch the news. I've since been told the election was something of a sham, which is comforting, but I find myself even now compelled to believe it was instead the sign which led to my revelation.
I always knew I was different. I'm not easily taken in by appearances, but I also struggled with school. Whether it was boring, or I simply couldn't settle down to the work, I had the mind of an A student but the grades of a slacker.
I took a sip from the soda. It was a hot day, hotter than the same day last year, as had become the new norm, so the odd flavor, somewhat uncharacteristic, I chalked up to either sweat or merely feeling out of sorts. "If our senses lie to us, why, how can we ourselves be anything but liars," some wise man once said in a book.
Sherry, an attractive blond news anchor, had been going on about the Olympics. A cyclist for the American team had split his head open in a bad crash, and was in critical condition. She threw to Frye for the robot news. I couldn't recall this ever having happened before.
The studio lights shone off Frye's boxy head pleasantly. I was momentarily captivated, lulled into almost a doze until he shifted slightly in his seat, reducing the glare.
"Healthcare costs for the elderly have increased 300% this week due to the closure of Hewlett-Packard's last vacuum tube manufacturing plant. Senator Y-10 is under pressure from special interest groups to nationalize vacuum tube production."
The visual cut to a press conference. 'Sen. Y-10, A-OR,' said before the gathered press, "The alternative is 'capitalism with a conscience,' not a single-payer scheme for our transistors and eye-cees, but an appropriate balance of fiscal and personal responsibility. The market demands transistors, and transistors will be produced to meet the demand."
I desperately wished I could ask Pol what he thought of this, but he wasn't in the room even now, a fact which bothered me a little. Perhaps this moment was only for me, and nobody else, but then what good could it do me? It could have been a joke of some sort, but that was rather unprecedented; our local news was award-winning and boring stuff.
The robot anchor droned on mellifluously:
"A human slavery ring in Malaysia was dismantled today; with their liberation, productivity doubled. Spokespersons for Matchbox couldn't be reached for comment at this time."
I became suddenly glad Pol wasn't here. I was having a bad flesh day. The chrome and metal of my skull had accidentally come unhooked, causing my skin to slide off. It would be difficult to explain, and embarrassing as well; surely I looked like I'd had a stroke. I clutched my hand to my temple and looked for somewhere to lean that would look natural. I suppose it must happen to the best of us.
My attention was once more wrested back to the television. Pol had been in the bathroom quite a while, as far as I could guess, since the programming had moved on from the news. There was some strange show on now, starring silvery people, and one guy like me, living together in an apartment. Same old, really, but the chrome on the actors was a fresh twist.
	'Whatcha doin', Skinny?'
	'I'm doing philately,' said the pink guy.
	'That sounds dirty.' A laugh track.
	'Uh, it means stamp collecting.'
	'I know what it means, that's why it sounds dirty. Why, what were you thinking?' Laugh track again. Could have been a live audience; it sounded canned regardless.
The theme song sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite figure it out.
"Zero one one zero one zero, zero one one! Zero one one! Zero one zero zero one one!" Zebutron and Friends, it said. I was a captive to the show, the remote just out of reach, and my face kept in place only by pressing it against the side of the chair opposite the coffee table.
	'Zeb, you've been on the computer all day. Shouldn't you be looking for a job?'
	'No, this is better, turns out the landlord has a backdoor.'
	'Why doesn't our apartment have one?'
	'We're on the third floor.' Laugh track again. 'I mean a real backdoor. He's old, man, super old. I've been playing solitaire while he's sleeping.'
	'Wait, you are in the landlord's head? Move over, I want to see his logs.'