We got Richie on my tenth birthday. I knew about him ahead of time—you don't just buy your kid a twenty-thousand-dollar piece of equipment without making sure he really wants one—and expected he would come in a box, like our refrigerator or dryer. Instead, at about eleven o'clock that morning, the doorbell rang.
"I think you should get that," my dad said to me.
It was Richie. He was standing there in a casual suit, curly black hair, and brilliant blue eyes, looking like an average mid-twenties guy. He must've seen my picture before hand, or had my face programmed into him, because he looked down at me and said, "Hey there, Glenn."
I named him Richie; my dad had to go inside his head somehow—he wouldn't let me watch, even though I really wanted to—and twist a few things around, but the android soon answered only to Richie, or familiar epithets obviously aimed in his direction: "buddy," "pal," "loser," etc. He learned just like a person would.
Dad had explained it all to me before we got Richie. "They're designed to be as human as possible. They look real, they feel real, they act real; they're as diverse as real people, and you can get them with any skin tone, speech patterns, anything like. They even show fake emotions—they have pre-programmed reactions to stimuli. They've taught you about stimuli in school, haven't they?"
Richie wasn't just a machine; I learned that right away. I'd seen other androids, heard from my friends how great they were; I thought Richie would be a toy, a giant lapdog that would do my bidding. But he was so much more than that; within a week he was one of my best friends. Perhaps that wouldn't have happened, if he'd been more mechanical; if he hadn't had facial expressions, hadn't shown emotions, hadn't laughed at all my jokes or worried when I skinned my knee. But he acted like a friendly big brother, taking care of me and hanging out with me, but only when I wanted him to. I still saw my other friends, albeit mostly just to brag about how great Richie was.
They were less than impressed, but I didn't care. Richie had only cost twenty-thousand dollars; my friend Taylor's android had cost more than twice that, and was designed to last three times longer than Richie. I didn't see the big deal about that, though—Richie was designed for ten-year service as was, and he could be upgraded to last longer. Supposedly, the more expensive the android, the more loyal, the more human. But Richie was human enough for me; I couldn't imagine a better friend.
He had favorites. His favorite color was yellow; he said he remembered a yellow light from the factory, while he was being processed. He made me promise not to tell, because androids weren't supposed to remember anything before being officially activated. His favorite game was hide-and-seek; he had a natural curiosity, an inquisitive attitude about life that pushed me out of the little shell I'd built for myself. I'd never been an introverted child, but I suddenly found myself taking risks, having more fun. I told the girl I liked that she was pretty; we held hands after school that day, with Richie smiling at us. He slipped me a wink when she wasn't looking.
He never got angry. Never. My parents got frustrated with him, at times, because he had a tendency to just appear out of nowhere, but he always smiled at them and apologized, and there was such sincerity in his voice that they had no choice but to forgive him.
The only real problem with having an android was the upkeep. Androids do not eat or drink, but they require charging; depending on how active Richie was, these could range from a weekly basis to almost daily. I kept him pretty active, most of the time; whenever his battery was running down, he began to stutter, his movements became groggier.
We kept the charger in the basement; I would hook Richie up by using the plug on the bottom of his foot. My friends made fun of this, too—higher-order models of androids were charged wirelessly, which required the same amount of power but could be done in any room of the house.
It took Richie a few hours to recharge; I usually charged him overnight or while I was at school. Quite often my mother wound up alone in the house with him, and I heard her confessing to my father how much Richie creeped her out, hunched against the basement wall, one foot bare. My dad laughed, and I did too later, as did Richie when I told him. He had a great sense of humor.
A year after we got Richie, I noticed things beginning to change. Dad was working longer hours, and when he came home he wasn't as upbeat as he'd once been. He was never violent, or awkward, or anything like I saw in the movies; but he was distant, and so was my mother. She began to put less effort into our meals; it was a couple weeks before I realized that we weren't eating the same foods as we used to, that our meals were cheaper, often pre-packaged.
And then one day, about a month after Dad started working late, he stopped going in at all. He told me that afternoon, when he finally came out of his room, that he'd been laid off. "This economy has gone to pot, Glenn. The firm lost half its staff. I've been working my ass off, trying to get ahead there, but it didn't do any good."
Richie lasted another month. I guess he knew what was going on—his whole design system was based on logic—but he never mentioned it to me. I'm sure he knew, even before my parents did, that he would be leaving us.
My parents told me together. We couldn't afford to charge him, they said. There was no way around it. They let me say my goodbyes, and I cried, but they were firm, and the morning after they told me, they took Richie and his charger back to the factory. They got a five percent refund. Used androids make great gifts for families who can't afford a new one.
The economy eventually recovered, as it always does. Dad got another job; he wasn't making as much as he used to, but he was making decent enough money. He never offered to buy another android though; he knew how close Richie and I had been, and I'm fairly sure we couldn't have afforded an android even with his new job. Some of my friends lost their androids as well, but they eventually got new ones. I wasn't impressed; I wanted Richie, and only Richie. I wanted my friend.
Shortly after my dad got a new job, we went into the city proper to celebrate. It was something we'd rarely done; my parents hated the city, preferring to live and operate in the suburbs. But there were restaurants in the city that weren't in the suburbs, and stores, and zoos. I was particularly excited about the latter; Richie and I had shared a love for animals, and even though I knew his interest had been programmed into him, it was genuine enough to keep us up late at night, looking through magazines and copies of National Geographic.
We went on a warm day; summer was just setting in, and all the animals at the zoo were outside, lazing around. I was watching the zebras, boring animals though they are, when I heard my mother gasp, and my father's hand clenched my shoulder.
"Glenn," my father said, and I looked up at him.
"Watch the animals," my mother said, but I had already turned around.
The zoo was crowded; families laughed and cheered, and a few even had androids with them.
There was a family approaching us, a couple and their son. I don't remember anything about them. All I remember is their android, walking beside them, smiling at the boy and pointing out the animals.
"Richie," I said.
My voice was loud enough for him to hear, but he didn't look at me. I shouted the name, running forward and tugging on his arm.
"Richie," I said. "Richie."
He glanced at me, smiled, and gently pushed me away. The family said something, and my parents grabbed me and said something else as they dragged me away.
I heard the word "reprogrammed." My father's voice was upset, embarrassed. Richie watched me, smiling, and I hoped he would wink at me, but instead he kept smiling, then turned back to the other kid and pointed out how boring the zebras are in the summertime.