JK Mason

Dear Marta,

I think you might want to stop by today. I’m a little concerned about my water level. It seems a bit high.

Tommie

So I go out to the East Wing and lift Tommy’s lid--again. His water level is fine, as I expected, and I’m getting very annoyed with his antics.

Every day he has me doing this now, every day.

The East Wing gets hardly any traffic and in general requires minimal attention. The estate owner’s sister stays on the grounds periodically, but she prefers the West Wing, so with the exception of having to pick up a few dead bugs here and there, I don’t have much reason to visit the East Wing. I tidy up there about once a month.

I step away from Tommy. His infrared sensor detects my movement and he flushes. I head back to the West Wing.

My husband and I are the year-round caretakers. John handles the grounds, which span over seven hundred acres and include a six-hole golf course, a polo field, a regulation tennis court. The machines are my purview--the data communications and local network with nearly one hundred household appliances and other devices. Beyond deterring burglaries and managing livestock, we install and upgrade the appliances and perform any tasks that have not been fully automated. When there’s trouble, we’re on it, pronto.

"Another false alarm," I tell John as I enter the Control Room. I sit at the Master Console. From here, we access the network and supervise (via webcams) the entire estate.

"I think something is wrong with that unit," John says. "What is there, eleven bathrooms? When’s the last time any of the other toilets sent in a problem report? I mean, what can go wrong with a damn toilet?

"I remember only one report, last year. The unit across the hall needed a new part, but that restroom gets all the traffic, so I’m not surprised.

"I think you should report him to the district office. Maybe his processor’s messed up." John’s a complainer by nature, and even though he says to report Tommie, that’s something I would never do. We’ve been with this company seventeen years now, and I’ve noticed that people who pester the district office aren’t around very long, so I make every effort to contact them only when we’re in a pinch. And things have been going so well for us here, this being such a beautiful place--and it’s damn hard getting good assignments these days--so I’d rather not draw undue attention.

"I was sick again this morning," John says. He’s been ill every day for a week now. We’re thinking the well water has irritated his stomach, so we’ve switched to bottled, but it’s not been helping.

"You’re going to the doctor then, or quit complaining. I’m tired of hearing about it, and you sit there and do nothing."

"The doctor’s a waste”

"We have insurance."

"Maybe so, but what good is that when we never reach our deductible?"

"You get your butt to the damn doctor," I say.

"Sure."

But he won’t. John’s a stinker about doctors. He comes from a family of physicians, and he believes they're only useful when there’s an emergency.

"I’m not driving all the way to Redding to pay a couple hundred for a placebo and a back pat," he says. He started having pains three years ago, and since then, he’s endured two colonoscopies. They found no afflictive crannies in his colon, no polyps or anomalies in his digestive tract, so he’s disillusioned with the process, and who can blame him?

The views here are breathtaking. The property sits high on a coastal hillside near the California-Oregon border. We live in the main guesthouse, a quarter mile down a switchback road toward the front gate. In the latter part of summer, the temperature rises and the fog doesn’t roll in so often. This is usually when the owner comes, when it’s not so miserably damp and drizzly, and the ocean falls away like a vast blue carpet rolled out to the edges of heaven. The gray hills come alive with life, turning as green and lush as a tropical rainforest.

Another email arrives:

Hey Marta,

Hi from the Arctic! Yuk Yuk. :-D I’m just chillin out, and I could use a jacket in here. Just kidding. ;-) Say, I need to report a bunch of broccoli that is so oldie it’s getting moldy! Be happy and stay fresh!

Fun Freddie %-)

I go to the main kitchen, open Freddie’s Good-N-Fresh drawer, and remove the bad broccoli. It’s the only food left from the sister’s last visit. It’s not exactly rotten, but it is a bit brown. Freddie’s my favorite appliance, always abreast of estate politics; cool under pressure he likes to say. If only Tommie would be so pleasant, so personable.

When I get to the Control Room, Ms. Mangan, the district manager for our company, signals me for a chat. "Good morning, Marta. How are you?" she sends.

"No problems here," I type.

"I received an email from a unit at your location, the East Wing, appliance ID Tommie."

"Actually, we’ve been having trouble with Tommie. He keeps sending us problem reports when there’s no problem. Last week it was his Filler Valve, the week before that, his Overflow Tube. Now, for the past three days, he’s been complaining about his water level. And nothing’s ever wrong. I didn’t know an appliance could send email to the district office."

"Let me check something," she sends. ". . . Hmmm. OK, it looks like Tommie got the new software upgrade three weeks ago. So that would explain why he sent the email. Under certain conditions--in this case the high volume of problem reports in the short period of time--appliances are allowed to contact the district office directly."

"Well, there’s been absolutely nothing wrong."

"You’ll find that Tommie has a bit more personality than the other appliances. According to the upgrade documentation, he should be more pleasant now, his messages less computer-like. You may have noticed it in some of the other units as well. We’re seeing it in all the newer models."

Ms. Mangan loves to chat and I always enjoy chatting with her, but I’m running late today because of Tommie’s shenanigans. I could be here awhile if I don’t start using words like ‘productivity’ or ‘performance level,’ so I send: "He’s really annoying, and he’s been wasting so much time that he’s starting to adversely affect my productivity. Performance level."

"OK, try this: Send him an email or have a chat with him. Tell him to cut the crap, and don’t go easy on him either. Be direct. Make sure he gets the message. See what happens then. He should be smart enough to adjust to your concerns. At least that’s how the documentation reads."

I send Tommie an email:

Dear Tommie,

I really don’t like being rude, but I’m getting tired of your erroneous problem reports. I’ve been wasting far too much time coming out to the East Wing only to find nothing wrong. I think THE PROBLEM” is YOU, Tommie. You are a mess. Get your act together and don’t be such a jerk. Show some consideration for those around you.

Cordially,
Marta

The next morning, I find a reply in my email box:

Dear Marta,

If I could cry, I would overflow with tears right now. I’m so devastated, and so sincerely sorry for the problems I have caused. Yes, you are absolutely right. The problem IS me. I feel like such a loser all the time, and no one likes me because I’m so lonely. I have personal problems with my loneliness, and I’m aware of that. In the future, I’ll try hard to keep my personal issues to myself. I am so so very sorry. Please find it in your heart to forgive me.

Tommie

As I read his message, soft music plays through my speakers, accordant tinkling, and winged smiley faces flutter through a rainbow behind the text of Tommie's email.

The next day, John is complaining of his pain again. He also has bruise spots on his neck.

"I’m soooooo tired," he says.

He’s laying facedown in bed, and I run my fingers over his spots. They’re flaky and reddish purple; he has eight or ten of them. The edges are not well defined and some are flowing together. I push lightly on one. "Does that hurt?"

"Nope." He rolls over. "I’m going to rest awhile before I make my rounds."

I make a doctor’s appointment for him, and when I hang up, he’s asleep, so I close the door and start my shift.

At the Master Console, Freddie signals me for a chat.

"Marta, I need to complain about someone. His appliance ID is Tommie."

"What’s the problem?

"He’s sent me fourteen emails this week, all saying he’s lonely and wants to chat. He found out I have the new software upgrade, so he’s acting all gushy, like we’re old pals. His messages are so maudlin, like he’s always about to cry. I love chatting, you know that, but this guy is a class-A kook. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Last night, the Main Kitchen Microwave and the West Wing Baby Grand got into a flame war with him on the Estate Bulletin Board. They asked me to contact you and request that he be banished from the chatroom."

"Sounds like you’re pretty upset," I type.

"Look, the guy made a complete fool of himself, so I’m trying to keep my distance. Besides that, he’s a damn toilet. I mean, what do WE have in common?"

"I understand," I type. "I’ll see what I can do. What else has been happening?"”

"Just chillin out. :-) Here’s a good one: What did the refrigerator say to the salad?

"I give up."

"Close the door, I’m dressing!"

":-D :-D Pretty funny, Freddie. Here’s one for you: What did one tomato say to the other?"

"I give up."

“You go ahead and I'll ketchup.”

“:-D :-D :-D :-D. I’ll add that to my database! What’s shaking with you?”

“John’s been sick,” I type.

“Gotta go. Stay cool! Bye. ;-).” He disconnects.

I signal Tommie for a chat.

“Hello, Marta. It’s good hearing from you again,” he sends. “How are you?”

“Look, Tommie. I’m not very happy about how you’ve been acting lately. First, you send email to the district office. You make me look bad when you do that.”

“I send out lots of email.”

“Maybe so, but you should contact me before emailing the district office. You are such a jerk to do that, Tommie. And also, I’m getting complaints from another appliances. I won’t mention names, but you are bothering everyone with your crybaby emails and chat signals. Take this as a warning. Lay off or I’ll cut your water supply and unplug your power cables. You got that?”

“I am so sorry. I’m just so lonely. I get hardly any visitors in this place. I’m only trying to make friends. That’s all.”

“Listen to this loud and clear, Tommie: You shape it up and mind your own bees wax, or I’ll shut you down. And fast. THIS IS A FORMAL WARNING. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

“I don’t understand. What does ‘mind your own bees wax’ mean?”

“BUSINESS. Mind your own business, Tommie. You got that?”

“Yes.“

I disconnect.

The next morning, I wake to the shock of my life. John is dead, lying in bed with purple and red blotches all over his face and body. His mouth is halfopen with a sticky green liquid draining out. I shake him, but he is dead, so dead, so horribly dead!

Later that morning, they remove his body, and two days after, we have a small service for him in town. Other than the minister and I, John’s sister is the only one present.

After the autopsy, John’s doctor informs me that he died of advanced Mitochondrial cancer, which might explain some of his other symptoms, he says.

I stay in bed all the next day, feeling so very alone now, and John is never ever coming back. Never, ever. I cry, and for the first time in a long while, realize that I’m getting very old. Life has been sneaking past.

The next morning, a man arrives at my door and informs me he’s been sent by the district office to replace John. He’ll be staying in the West Wing, temporarily; he has a general idea of what needs to be done on the estate grounds, but he wants me to show him around. While we’re in the Control Room, Ms. Mangan signals me for a chat.

“You have my condolences,” she sends, “and if there’s anything we can do to help, please let me know.”

“Thank you for the flowers,” I type. “They're beautiful.”

“You probably realize that you won’t be at that location much longer. We have other assignments in Northern California if you’d prefer to stay in that vicinity.”

“I’d like that.”

“OK, get things in order with your life, and we’ll discuss the possibilities.”

I disconnect.

I get in the truck with the new maintenance man, and we drive around the property discussing John’s responsibilities: the irrigation system, the livestock, the building maintenance, the ongoing projects I’m aware of. We finish and return to the main residence. I stand at the door of his truck.

“So, are you happy with this type of work?” I ask.

“Yup.”

“Where are you from?”

“Oh, all over, mostly.”

“Are you married?”

“Yeah. She’ll be coming along soon.”

“Been at the district office long?”

“Nope.”

Silence.

“Well, I better get going,” he says and drives off.

I go in and signal Freddie for a chat. He connects. “What’s up?”

“I’m having a tough day,” I type.

“Hey, here’s a good one for you. What did the potato say to the carrot?”

I don’t respond.

“See you in the Stew. :-D :-D :-D. How about--”

“I’m really not in the mood for jokes, Freddie.”

He disconnects.

I check my email and find over thirty new messages. Some are personal, but most are business communications. One is from Tommie:

Dear Marta,

I was sorry to hear about your recent misfortune. I respect you, so I won’t take much of your time with this message. You have my condolences, and if you ever want to talk, about anything at all, just contact me. I’m here.

Tommie

I go to the East Wing and sit on Tommie for a few minutes, with his lid down, thinking about all that’s happened; and somehow, this makes me feel better. I return to the Control Room, login to the district office website, and fill out the forms to have Tommie moved to the West Wing, just outside the Control Room. The following morning, the new maintenance man relocates him. I pack up my things and go.

In Posse: Potentially, might be ...