Gage awoke before the yellow orb of the sun reached above the horizon. The light appeared cool and distant dispersed through ice crystals in the sky. The NetCast meteorologist reminded everyone it had not yet snowed since the previous winter though the chance for flurries over the next few days was up around 35 percent. Gage opened shop despite the holiday. He went about his business no matter what. He descended the stairs one at a time while gripping the wooden railing. He unlocked the shop and scoped out his wares. Every scrap was in proper order. He nodded in approval and sat behind the cash register counter.
An hour passed. Two. Gage reminisced the days where he sipped coffee and read an actual newspaper printed on pulped gray paper to pass the time. He missed the way the cheap ink would smudge and stain his fingers. The acidic smell that wafted from its plastic sleeve when he slid it out and unrolled it. It was a simpler time, though less convenient and environmentally unstable. Gage despised most of the NetCasts but the sound kept him company so he launched his clunky tablet. It was just about all the tech he could handle.
The idea of NetComs and Hologlasses and ocular implants were enough to make him vomit. Nothing made up of wires or silicon was ever entering his body. He even refused a fully bionic replica knee from his veteran benefits. He would rather hobble the rest of his life than endure losing one bit of his nondigital and entirely biological humanity.
No one used the term cyborg anymore. That gem of vocabulary was reserved for the annals of science fiction. The popular term was M-Bo, short for Modified Biological Organism, and M-Bos were everywhere. A modified joint or bone, something concealed under layers of flesh or clothing was fine with Gage but he despised suffering the presence of an exposed bionic limb, or worse, facial reconstruction.
Gage unlocked the fireproof safe under the register and removed his dingy hanky. He set the pair of silver chalices on the counter and fetched some soft cotton rags and a tube of toothpaste. He smeared the sparkling blue paste over the tarnish and wiped it off with the cloth. After four or five passes the chalices gleamed and Gage saw his craggy smile reflected back at him.
At 7:00, Gage locked the doors and went upstairs for dinner. He decided to read a book before bed, a real one, not a digital one. He coveted a small collection of actual books that he kept wrapped tightly in a leather sack at the back of his closet. He opened them rarely, afraid the pages would crumble or the binding loosen. His paperback copy of Frankenstein was unrecognizable. The cover art smudged down to flimsy white cardboard. The pages yellowed and dog-eared.
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YOU ARE READING
The Man with the Robot Wife
Bilim KurguGage Barman, a hermit and neighborhood curiosity, owns a junk shop in a crumbling building. In an era where electronics are inexpensive enough to use and repurchase months later and Modified Biological Organisms are commonplace, customers are a ra...
