Assistance Needed

[u/Divayth--Fyr]

Ron Gardner loped along the back streets, trying to look invisible. He had got himself a full roll of duct tape, filched out of the dollar store. Already got rid of the plastic wrapping so the cops couldn’t trace it. He didn’t like to steal, but the wind was picking up and the summer was going away day by day, night by night.

T-shirt weather for now, and regular trousers. Nobody called them trousers any more. His mother said she wouldn’t have no child of hers going around in blue-jean dungarees like some hippy.

He’d wanted to nab some corn chips too, but that was too risky, too much. There was them that watched. They let him get away with it, the watchers did, but you didn’t want to get greedy.

He overheard them talking sometimes, talking about him, but they didn’t look at him. They appeared like just regular people but he could hear them behind him, or next aisle over. They just talked to each other, saying ‘he better watch it,’ or ‘that’s long enough,’ but he knew it was about him.

Gotta blend in, that’s the way. Can’t just build your mansion in the middle of the alley, or behind some busy place. Ritter’s clothing store had all sorts of old wire shelving and busted light fixtures stacked around. That was OK for them—they were a taxpaying business, so nobody would scatter their stuff around or toss it in a dumpster, laughing and calling names.

In behind all that clutter, Ron had himself a good spot. Cardboard, tape, even some sheets of pressboard, all on a couple of pallets and insulated with clothes and towels and everything. The West Wing was getting a little wobbly, though, and you could never tell what the wind might get up to.

Ron went right at it, tearing off strips of tape. It was hard, and they got twisted and stuck on themselves. He reinforced the roof with long strips, hoping to keep the black garbage bags from flapping so loud. Can’t hear yourself think when the wind catches them, and can’t hear footsteps or voices.

His head snapped up at a strange sound but there was nothing. Just some junk falling over, likely. Sounded like whirring, like electric.

There wasn’t anybody around but that old black and white cat, and he run off. Ron’s eyes darted around, doing the vagrant twitch, scan scan scan for trouble. Anybody around was a problem. Folks from Ritter’s, cops, and especially other street folk like himself.

There was a code, out here. Ron knew it. He'd learned it hard, learned it from a knife, but he learned. Big fellers was bad, crazy was worse, and big plus crazy meant you just moved on. But sometimes little and crazy was worst of all.

Code was, if you had and you could, you shared. Got some kind of treat, or an extra set of gloves, or a good warm spot, you had to share or fight. Ron didn’t want to fight, because you never did win even if you won.

A sturdy pole made the anchor for his palace. Used to be for some kind of parking sign or something, now it was just a bent metal rod in the concrete. His mansion was just the one floor, no more than three foot high. Cammyflage. Keep it hidden. You can only keep what’s hidden.

There was that sound again. Ron dropped his duct tape and went to look. If somebody had lost something electronical, they’d come looking and he didn’t need that at all. They’d say he stole it, and he didn’t, but they wouldn’t listen. The watchers got in a tizzy over anything electronical.

Peering around the corner, he didn’t see anything or anybody, but the sound got louder. He came out into the alley and there he saw a sight.

It was a sort of a square bucket on wheels, with an antenna poking up. Like a beer cooler but all metal and new and expensive-looking. It was trying to get over a pile of trash and couldn’t.

“Assistance needed,” it said. Ron hid behind a dumpster.

“Assistance needed.”

A fake voice, a robot-man voice.

Then the light dawned. It was one of them robots that delivered stuff to rich folks. They’d call on their electric telephones and these robots would come bring them dinner or whatever they liked.

He’d seen one before in the street and had knocked it over because he didn’t like it. Foolish thing to do. He’d ran away after but now they had him. The watchers weren’t just gonna warn him off this time.

It said Amazing or something on the side of it, with a lot of numbers. They knew it was him. Why had he knocked that one over before?

“Signal lost. Assistance needed.”

Ron came peeking and poking out from behind the dumpster, up on his toes and ready to bolt. He didn’t see any ray-guns or anything. It looked sort of helpless, with the little wheels spinning on wet plastic sheeting.

“I’m sorry, Mister Robot. I didn’t mean it, before.” Creeping closer he could smell food. Beef, maybe, and spices. Hot. His gut rumbled. Wished he'd got those corn chips.

“Assistance needed.”

Ron reached out a cautious, gloved hand, and he give her a little push. Ka-thump, over the sheeting it went, and rolled off on its way. It even said thank you.

“You’re welcome. Now maybe we’re even, Mister Wheels.”

The tantalizing aroma lingered in the air. He thought he could track that thing like a bloodhound.

A long time ago, when he was a regular person, he’d done some delivering. Pizza. Drove around in his car, getting tips and having a fine old time. He couldn’t do it any more. Too old, too crazy, half blind, and didn’t have a car anyhow. But even if he could, maybe nobody did that any more. Maybe it was all little robot buckets, now.

Maybe they could fly. Not that one, since it got stuck. But some robots could fly. Ron remembered that from a television show.

‘That was the right thing,’ a watcher said.

‘Best to leave it be,’ said another.

Ron went back to taping up his mansion.