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February 3, 2025

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“Alone again.”

 

Cunningham, sitting near the head of Table 12, zeroed in on the freckle-faced new guy, a kid with opinions. Chomping on a ham sandwich pulled from a wrinkled brown bag, New Guy pointed at the worker sitting at table one.

 

A picker like the other eight men at the table in the cavernous dining hall, Cunningham refrained from adding his own observation. Management had charged him with bonding with his fellow workers, which meant he shouldn’t criticize them. Just listen, then report what he heard.

 

“And it ain’t got no food.”

 

Laughter erupted. “No use eatin’ nothing. Don’t you know?”

 

“Bet it don’t know.”

 

Identifying who said what wasn’t important, Cunningham had been told. Keep quiet and don’t judge. Act like any co-worker, any other picker in the warehouse. Get to know the men.

 

But he had to say something, else they’d wonder if he was really one of them, a pal, a peer. He’d probably need to join in for Friday after-work beers soon. Or bowling. Or the occasional Saturday afternoon picnic. Management would insist he get closer.

 

While a squeeze bottle of hot sauce passed from hand to hand and the animated talk turned to complaints about wives and kids, Cunningham spoke up.

 

“Don’t know what?”

 

Eyes turned toward him. Did the question come too late? Everyone had gone on to discuss other topics; the loner at table one was no longer the top item.

 

“You mean Jo-Jo?” Tommy Wilks asked. He sat directly across from Cunningham. “Jo-Jo there?” He poked the air with a calloused thumb.

 

“I don’t know his name,” Cunningham said, fearing he’d spoken when he shouldn’t. Okay, so what if he did? Wasn’t he supposed to draw the men out about what they thought of that loner? After all, Jo-Jo – Cunningham knew all about him, including his name – picked faster than anyone.

 

Pickers got from twelve to fifteen orders each morning, the pick-list on flimsy white paper spat out by a printer on a table near the swinging door to Accounting. Item name, quantity, and SKU, all in big print and carefully arranged for easy reading. Pickers scoured the vast warehouse for the items, which they dropped in a plastic basket, picking and dropping until done. Completed orders sat on a desk near the door to Shipping.

 

“Ever talk to him?” Cunningham directed the question to the middle of the faux-wood table with an encircled numeral 12, as faded as the walls and the floor. There had been a time when the dining room bustled with activity from 11:30 until 1pm as different shifts filed in for their 30-minute lunch break. Back then, there’d been a portable steam table with a crew that dished out hot entrees, along with wrapped sandwiches, and desserts.

 

“It’s not all that friendly,” someone said.

 

Another added, “I heard they got sharp teeth.”

 

“Bull! They can’t hurt you. Don’t you know about the—“

 

Laughter erupted as someone finished, “—the three laws of robotics?”

 

Cunningham glanced at Jo-Jo. Why did it even come to the dining room? It didn’t eat. It didn’t socialize. Had to be a flaw in the programming, a flaw that should be fixed. Not that it would matter in the future. The new labor laws dictated one human to every ten androids. The men at the table would soon be gone.

 

“You ever see anyone talk to it?” Cunningham asked. He gauged the men warming to him, leaning in his direction, anxious to hear what he had to say.

 

“It don’t talk,” Tommy Wilks muttered. “Not to any of us.”

 

“It talks to the machines,” New Guy said.

 

That prompted more laughter, which sputtered out when Jo-Jo turned its head and pointed its beady black eyes at Table 12. Cunningham stood. He patted the air with a “Stay put” motion. Sauntering forward, shoulders raised in what he thought was a good imitation of how the pickers walked, he went to table one.

 

“You want to join us?” He gestured at Table 12, where eager faces and curious smiles watched the exchange.

 

Jo-Jo didn’t answer.

 

“You might find it interesting,” Cunningham said. He didn’t know what else to say, but he’d recommend that the android – and all future robotic workers – be programmed to socialize.

 

Jo-Jo moved its head, and seemed to peer at the other table, its eyes moving back and forth with a whisper of tiny gears. A moment passed, then it pushed back from the table, the aluminum legs of its plastic chair screeching softly across the linoleum. When the android left, the men at Table 12 applauded.

 

“Whatcha say to him?” Wilks asked.

 

Cunningham smiled, which Jo-Jo couldn’t do.

 

“Good job,” New Guy said, and extended his hand. The others stood, tapped Cunningham’s shoulder, offered their handshakes, and congratulated him on chasing Jo-Jo from the room.

 

“At least somebody here has guts.” That compliment came from a guy with a blonde sloppy moustache.

 

Cunningham guessed he’d achieved something important. The men liked him. Now, they’d share more, because he was one of them.


To put a virtual stamp on that, he unwrapped the cheese-on-rye he’d bought at the catering truck in the parking lot. A few chews and swallows meant he’d have to clean his inner chamber, but he didn’t mind the task. It was just one more thing on his get-done list when he retired to the room set aside for him in the warehouse’s basement.

 

For now, he traded quips with the men, nodding and laughing, separating jokes from critiques. Soon, seven of those eight men at Table 12 would be let go once Jo-Jo perfected his product-picking skills and more like it came into the warehouse.

 

One human to ten androids was the labor board’s directive, so someone would keep his job. Cunningham hoped Tom Wilks remained. That was the only human’s name he’d been programmed to remember.

 

Copyright 2024 - SFS Publishing LLC

Table 12

If it doesn't eat...

David Castlewitz

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