My Robot Neighbour

This is a piece of creative writing I finished in June of 2021. It was inspired by my self-reflection and research into mental disability I was doing at the time.

Retro is the name I have given my neighbour. I don’t know their real name, but Retro fits. Retro is like a robot constructed from a mismatch of old machines and gadgets. Now, before you get any ideas, they don’t look like a robot, no. No, Retro looks like a human through and through, with soft skin and watery green eyes. They wear floral patterns and loose fabric with many bracelets, rings and necklaces. Their hair is long and a little messy. To everyone, Retro looks like a person, but I know the truth.

Every morning at 10:04, Retro leaves through their front door and walks between their hydrangeas, out of view from my bed by the window. This is my first proof that Retro is a robot. They have clocks in their feet. Old ones. The ones with brass ringers on top that all the kids in dad’s old movies knock off their bedside table before getting up. I have a digital clock by my bed with a beeping alarm. I don’t use the alarm though, I never leave my bed, so there’s no point. Retro’s clocks are old and out of sync, which is why the alarms go off at such weird times. The other clock goes off at 11:24 in the night, when Retro stands on the porch in the moonlight, head hung. I believe this is because they have a solar panel on the back of their head, but for the moon. A lunar panel? Yeah. The lunar panel charges their lawn mower brain for the next day before they go back inside to pretend to sleep like a human would.

Their lawn mower brain is particularly interesting to me. I see from my window their house lights go on and off when Retro moves through their morning routine. It takes them a long time to get anything done at first because it takes a few tugs at the cord to get the lawn mower running. With a single tug, the blades whir and the motor growls as they begin to move forward, only to die after a few steps. They always manage to get themselves up and running in time to leave though.

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A man in a grey suit has parked his grey car on the street and is walking in his grey shoes to Retro’s door. In his hand is a grey folder filled with crisp papers. It is 2:18 in the afternoon. Retro opens the door and speaks to the man. A beautiful machine speaking to an artificial human. I suspect the grey man is a mechanic, come to do some maintenance on Retro. Or maybe he is a scientist or government agent and Retro has been found out as an AI! I haven’t told anyone my theories (not that I can tell anyone in the first place), so I don’t think it’s my fault they’ve been caught. I hope the man doesn’t take Retro away to study them or any of the other sciency stuff they do in mum’s old sci-fi books. She piled them just within arm’s reach of my pillow for my twelfth birthday. Right now, Retro seems to be having some difficulty. Grey is gesturing to the garden with a stiff arm as he gives Retro a smile, one that is all teeth and no eyes. Retro is stuttering in response to whatever Grey has just said. If he was a mechanic, it would be to fix Retro’s malfunctioning speech. I don’t see many other people with Retro, but when there are, the other person always looks uncomfortable or irritated. Retro speaks to their shoes in short sentences, or maybe long ones with lots of pauses. I don’t know.

I’ve always wanted to speak to Retro. I feel like we would get along well. I don’t like when people look at me while talking, because it’s always with pity or wariness, as if I’m still contagious with the flu after nine or so years. They also speak to me as if I’m a quarter my age; it’s always simple questions and asking if there’s “anything you need, poor thing?” Ugh. “Do you want me to prop you up on your pillow?” I can do that myself, thank you very much. I know Retro wouldn’t do that. They speak to everyone the exact same way, and an awkward conversation would be better than a condescending one.

What is even worse than the visitors that treat me like a baby are the ones that don’t believe me. They come in suggesting I should go outside and get some fresh air. That I’ve been sleeping all day and that isn’t healthy. Yeah, I know it’s not healthy. I’m not healthy! You think I stay here because I want to? Inside these bland four walls, my favourite thing to do is look outside. I spend every day living through characters from stories and watching my neighbour, imagining what it would be like to live in their colourful world. Retro would understand. I can see the way they are suffocating under Grey’s presence, looking away to the garden, wishing to be anywhere but here. Or maybe it’s my imagination again.

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Retro and the Grey are inside now. I don’t like how Grey invited himself in, as if Retro was only the doorkeeper. Retro’s legs shuffle in behind, hidden under the ripples of colour on their skirt. One thing that foils my robot theory is how Retro walks. They move with such fluidity and purpose as they leave the house every day. Though, right now their legs move as if rusted and heavy. I don’t like thi-

“Hi…” Oh, great. It’s mum’s friend from the Homeowner’s Association. I know her name is Brianna, but I call her Pleated. She’s peeking her head through my bedroom door and giving me that pitiful smile I always see her with. She sighs and gingerly walks to my bed and sits on the corner. She is wearing beige wedge heels. “How are you, sweetie?” I don’t answer because I know she will answer on my behalf. “You’re doing well? Not too lonely? That’s good.” Told you so. “You know, I really admire you for being able to hang in there.” Oh gods, not this again. “You and your parents! Hahaha…” Oh how I hate that laugh. So strained and meaningless. I hate how it dies out into another condescending sigh. At least Pleated doesn’t suspect anything when I pretend to be exhausted from… existing I guess? It’s not exactly a lie. Either way, it means I can tune out of her praise of my parents for putting up with my chronic fatigue and look out the window again.

I can’t tell which room Retro and Grey are in. The windows are open, but mine never is, so I can’t hear anything. It’s also the middle of the day, so no lights are on. I hope Retro’s alright. I hope they’re having a better conversation than me. Pleated’s spiel is almost over so I look back at her and give her that classic oh-so-frail smile. It gets her every time. “Aww, poor thing.” she says as she smooths her brown dress. She looks out the window and says, “Not much to look at, hmm? Just that weirdo’s house. At least you have books and movies.” I’m sorry, weirdo? I instinctively frown at the word, but Pleated does not notice, she only continues talking. “You know, I actually came today with my husband. He’s over there now!” I look at her in shock, and rearrange my face to intrigue before she meets my gaze again. “We both volunteered to help the HOA today.” She flaps her hand at me and says, “No need to say anything dearie, we just wanted to give back to the community, you know?.” There’s that strained laugh again.

We both notice the door of Retro’s house open, and Grey strides out, followed by Retro. Grey’s folder is noticeably more empty. The missing papers are now clutched in Retro’s hands, pulled into their chest, as are their shoulders. Pleated gets their attention by knocking on the window and waving. Grey waves back, flashing a smile, but Retro looks at me. All of a sudden the window is a mirror. Mr Grey and Mrs Beige, perfect reflections of perfect perfectness, waving in unison, smiling but not too much. Respectable people. Then there’s Retro, the robot of spare parts and flowing fabric, and me, the… the one that doctors can’t fix. The one that doesn’t act normally, that can’t act normally. The malfunctioning. The… robot with defects that wishes the bed sheets they’ve been under for almost a decade would become a ball gown and their batteries would finally be recharged. And I think Retro notices this too. I’m starting to think that robot is the wrong word for this feeling. It feels so much less artificial than the careful creases and performative conformity of Mr Grey and Mrs Beige’s clothes and faces.

I don’t remember when Mrs Beige left, but I hear her and Mr Grey’s car purr away. Retro hurries inside with lots of quick footsteps, and a moment later I see them at the kitchen window, looking down. They are holding one of the papers Mr Grey gave them up to it. They have scribbled over the complaints and rules printed in a sans-serif font with elegant handwriting that reads, “Hi neighbour! My name is Robin. What’s yours?” I smile and find my own pen and paper, and show my sign which reads, “Wren. It’s nice to finally meet you.”