Complicated and Annoying Little Robot

Um. It feels silly to admit this, but that little robot I bought was obnoxious. It was supposed to be fun. It’s a toy. A really, really advanced (and expensive) toy. But “fun” isn’t exactly the word that comes to mind when I think about the events that followed the purchase of that little robot.

First of all, he was way too commonsensical. And I don’t mean knowledgeable. The very first day, I was in the kitchen struggling with a jar of mayonnaise when from somewhere near the back of my knees I hear, in that monotone, condescending voice: “Why do you not break the vacuum seal with a knife around the rim.” I spun around to look at him. He looked up at me with unwavering confidence. Those little square red eyes. I wanted one with blue eyes, but they were out. No one wants little square red eyes. Why did they even make them like that?

“What?” I asked it.

“Did you not hear or did you not understand,” he said. He continued to stare.

I had heard, and I did understand. I reached into the drawer for a knife and slipped it under the rim and cracked the seal. The jar opened easily.

After a moment, I heard: “You are welcome.”

Second, when he wasn’t following me around the house being condescending, he was off fixing things. He tightened the screws on the banister so that it wouldn’t wobble anymore; he swept the foyer and vacuumed the bedroom; he reorganized the pots and pans in the cupboard. It was like my place wasn’t good enough for him. I didn’t ask him for any of that, and I had to thank him when he was clearly doing it for himself.

His anal-retentiveness came to a head while I was watching television and eating a sandwich. All of a sudden I felt it tapping my kneecap. I bent over, chewing, to see the little robot holding out a napkin.

“What the hell?” I said. “I thought you were reading!”

“I am finished. Here.”

“What, you think I’ll make a mess?”

“Will you not,” he asked without pitching his voice.

I was sure I’d get crumbs all over the place. “That’s not the point!” I hollered and stormed out of the room. In the doorway I turned around, sandwich in hand, to look at the little robot. He was still holding out the napkin but facing me. “You know who you remind me of?”

Then came the coup de grâce. That little robot lowered his little metal arm, dropped the napkin on the floor, and told me: “Make a mess. I do not care,” while zipping past me so fast I had to press myself against the jamb to avoid getting tripped.

This was followed by the little robot’s little martyrdom. He didn’t help out. He didn’t offer advice. He didn’t sweep or take out the garbage. He just knitted quietly all day long. When I asked him to help put groceries away, there was always a little pause before he placed down his needles and stitch holders. He helped, but he was mostly silent. Sometimes amid the shuffling of the paper bags I’d hear: “Do you want me to put the burger meat in the actual meat bin or do you want me to just throw it anywhere.”

“Throw it anywhere,” I’d tell him.

And I got it. I knew I had made him feel unappreciated. Trust me, his charade wasn’t subtle. So I did try, in my way, to make amends. It’s not like I wanted him to suffer. I just wanted him to chill out.

One night I knocked on his door, expecting to find him deep into a mock-cable stitch, and I didn’t hear a response. I knocked again and heard some scrambling, then: “Come in.”

I entered cautiously and looked around the room. He stood in front of a towering corner of patterns, his metal hands behind his back.

“Looks like you...