Renegade Robot

Ten

Wyatt slept soundly that night, and even enjoyed his dreams, in which large ants paraded around Rubble Land carrying yellow and orange banners and flags in some sort of celebration. Wyatt and a few other people sat on lawn chairs in the street watching the march and applauding every now and then. In the morning, he felt calm and even cheerful. He had decided at some point during the night to paint the whole house pink, and by nine o'clock he had been to the supply store and back and was already busily at work. The first order of business was of course to smudge out the various wordings which had been styled on the walls, and he went about it systematically. He had always preferred solo assembly-line-type work, where you did first one thing, then the next, until you had completed all your tasks. He liked the fact that when you dug a hole, it stayed dug. He had had too many jobs where digging a hole only led to others coming around and filling it back in again.

He didn't wonder about how the graffiti had appeared so quickly, or the notes in the hallway, or the messages on the phone. There was no more of it the following morning, as if it had all been a random spasm of nature. There must have been a team, he decided, a group whose job it is to go around slandering and stomping all over people, then moving on to the next guy. Maybe it had merely been his turn, as if he'd won the "kick me" lottery. The only person who showed up that morning was Jalopy, around eleven. He had been down to the Center, checking on their career path. He looked quite ecstatic as he pulled up on his motorized unicycle and jumped off.

"Dude," he exclaimed, "nice paint job. I never pegged you as a fluorescent rose kind of guy."

"It just happened," Wyatt shrugged.

"Listen, man," Jalopy went on, "We're going to have to wait this one out a bit."

"So we're done, huh? Like I thought."

"No, no," Jalopy said. "We just have to cool it. Hey, I met this really great girl down there and she's going to handle our case. Cecilia. You've got to meet her. She's awesome. I even asked her out and she said yes! How about that?"

"That's great," Wyatt said, putting down his roller and wiping his brow. He was truly happy for his friend. Jalopy hadn't met anyone in awhile and Wyatt could see how excited he was.

"Yeah, thanks," Jalopy said. "Anyway, she says that as soon as this whole snake thing blows over we'll be fine."

"It wasn't a snake," Wyatt corrected him.

"Whatever," Jalopy countered. "Everyone says it's a snake, so it's a snake".

"No," Wyatt retorted. "That's not how it works. A thing is what it is, not just what people say it is".

"Really?" Jalopy asked. "Okay, then, what do you want to call it, then? The Renegade Robot? I'd say R.R. but then we'd sound like pirates!"

"Right, mate," Wyatt said in his best bad Australian accent, and laughed. He told Jalopy about the mess he'd come home to, the messages, and everything.

"I saw the poster, man," Jalopy said. "They even had it up at the Center. It seems like an unfair shot to put your name and photo in it like that. Glad it wasn't me, though".

"I'll bet you are," Wyatt said. "Sucks, anyway. So when does this Cecilia figure the whole thing will 'blow over' like you say."

"A week, ten days, her best estimate, even though she can't remember anything quite like this happening before. Not with our names being so involved and all. Usually the stories are about heroes in the valiant struggle for ultimate reclamation. Isn't that what they call it?"

"That's the church," Wyatt said.

"Right, but they got that from the TV news, I'm pretty sure. Taking back the land from the do-gooders, that sort of thing."

"I saw Jeff Ash yesterday," Wyatt said.

"That creep?" Jalopy shook his head. "I don't like to think about what happened to him."

"What? He's rich, happy, successful."

"Like I said, I don't even like to think about it," Jalopy shrugged. "Hey, you want some help with that? I've got nothing going on."

"Sure," Wyatt replied, and soon the two were both at work, slapping the bright pink paint all over the exterior walls. A freshly painted house was about the last thing anyone would expect to see in Rubble Land, except for one that color. The few people who drove down that street that day slowed to gawk as if it were an injury accident, but nobody came by with any more posters, and nobody showed up with any more spray paint. It was as if the great traumatic event had never even happened, but there was something underway, a slight vibration in the air, and Wyatt stopped once or twice to listen. It seemed to him that the customary silence in the empty lots of Rubble Land was disturbed every now and then by a vague hum, or buzzing. He thought of the ants of his dream and even half expected to see them as he looked around the streets, but there was nothing to see, above ground. It was all happening underneath.