Author: David C. Nutt

I splashed cold water on my face, took a deep breath and made my way downstairs to the kitchen. I was not looking forward to the conversation I knew was coming. I entered the kitchen and all my appliances sung out with a cheerful “good morning Carl!”
I rolled my eyes and said nothing. Experience taught me that none of my appliances understood sarcasm. I made my way over to the refrigerator. It was my “oldest” appliance and has known me the longest, its patented “comfort care” program along with its upgrades has been with me, transferred to each new refrigerator, since college. Some folk actually loved the interaction and lived their life as if they were the main characters in an ancient cartoon where all inanimate objects had faces and personalities. Oh, you could buy that kind of life and several of my former friends had that in their entire house including appliances that snored in sleep mode. That’s why they are former friends.
I walked over to the fridge. “Hey sleepy head!” It said. “Looks like you had a rough night. Want to talk about it?” The pitch, timbre and accent made my fridge, (Marcy was her name,) sound like a cross between Betty Boop and a therapist. It was designed to catch me off guard so I could vent my frustrations, have them archived and examined by a more powerful psychotherapist program and then get back to me with therapeutic advice or maybe a health and wellness check from the local mobile psychologist and (of course) police.
“No Marcy, I don’t want to talk about it. I just want some quiet.”
Marcy sighed “OK Mr. Grumpy pants! You be as quiet as you like and I’ll run through your daily affirmations.”
I wanted to say ‘somebody please shoot me’ but I knew that would get me a quick trick to the therapist couch or 24 hr. stay in the local psych ward. Instead, I went to my happy place, a junk drawer where I hid an actual print on paper tri-fold brochure. A brochure that offered off-off grid community living. A place where “appliances were just that and no back talk.” I opened up my vintage laptop, a sweet HP from 2037, the last model with no holographic display and checked my email. I smiled. My application had been accepted. I looked at my antique analogue watch. My ride would be here in 20 minutes. The instructions were quite clear: one duffle, clothes and toiletries, no phone, no computer. If I had been truly alone I would have shouted for joy and done a jig, but given my household appliance monitoring that would surely get me committed. I kept it way cool.
By now all my appliances were chattering at me. I drank the coffee the brew pot offered, grabbed a sandwich from the deli center. I turned around and said out loud “Hey guys, I’m just going outside and get some fresh air.” I went outside and barely sat down when my ride pulled up. A nondescript guy in a 1959 Convertible (electric conversion of course.) He honked the horn. I threw my duffle in the back and got in. As we pulled away from the curb I heard my fridge through the external door cam speaker. “Carl? Carlton? Where are you going? I don’t see anything on your schedule. Carl?”
I just smiled and waived.