My parents recently purchased a Roomba. A Roomba is a small, electronic robot vacuum that resembles a Storm Trooper. He has one button on top; when you push it, he makes a very charming, pleased-with-himself noise, and scuttles around sucking up all the dog hair and debris that has accumulated on your disgusting floor. Then, when he's done, he makes another delightful noise announcing his success and goes back to his Roomba charging station. You're left with a clean floor, just like on tv!
I'd normally be happy with this development, as I live with my parents and, ipso facto, having a Roomba means less vacuuming for me. There is, however, one problem: Roomba is ruining my life.
I came home one day to find my parents watching Roomba. Their arms were skeptically folded, but warm half-smiles were pressed on their lips as they willed their new purchase to succeed. He adorably motored himself around the floor, bumping into things, but somehow via painstaking trial-and-error managed to troubleshoot each obstacle and keep on suckin'. I felt like the older sibling whose parents had just brought the "new baby" home from the hospital.
"What a good boy, Roombie!"
Roombie? What the hell?
I wasn't sure what to make of any of it, so I consulted my sister about this development. As usual, she was both admirably laconic and accurate:
"I don't know about that stupid thing, but they look happy. One of us probably needs to have a baby soon."
Christ! It's worse than I thought.
Things went on innocuously enough for a while, but I realized quickly that I was spending a lot of my day micromanaging Roomba. My meticulous supervision of him was time-consuming and maddening. He was always tangled around some cord, or stuck under a chair. Sometimes I think he just got lazy.
Even our household pets, while initially terrified of him, drifted into moderate curiosity, then blatant disregard. They'd move if he shuffled himself over to them, but it was very half-hearted and usually accompanied by what I assume would be an eye roll if they had the ocular muscular structure.
My normal Roomba assistance usually consisted of him making some pathetic "uh-oh" noise and me cursing him and his inability to troubleshoot. I'd get up, empty his disgusting dirt receptacle, or dislodge him from underneath the couch, and then send him back on his merry way. One day, however, in lieu of an "uh-oh" noise there was a British woman's voice politely directing me to, "Please remove Roomba's brushes and clean them."
After staring at where the voice came from for several seconds, I exclaimed furiously and to no one in particular (maybe the British lady), "WE MAY DO LESS VACUUMING, BUT WE MORE THAN MAKE UP FOR IT IN MAINTENANCE!"
It was in that sweaty, venomous moment as I held him over the trash and cleaned his still spinning brushes that I was overcome with murderous rage. I wanted to flood his circuit boards with gasoline and light a match. I wanted the British lady to beg for forgiveness. I wanted reflections of burning plastic to flicker in my maniacally smiling eyes. His final heap of melting moments would be my incendiary glory.
Luckily, my desire for a plastic bloodbath waned. My parents never knew, and I didn't have the heart to tell them. They came home to a clean floor, oblivious to the fact that Roomba antagonized me all day and on occasion pushed me to the brink of sanity. He was like one of those kids who is all peaches-and-cream while adults are in the room, but the second they turn their backs, he shoves you, steals your Celtics mini-basketball, and throws it in the trash. You can't go home without your pride and your ball, so the only solution is to rifle through the trash, reclaim it from the empty milk cartons and rotten eggs, go on about your business like nothing happened, and hope no one asks why you smell like garbage.
Note: It's not that I hate all robots. I am saddled with an inherent robot distrust which I attribute to the movies. The message is clear: put too much trust in inanimate robot objects, as adorable as they may be, and you will end up in a pod full of pink liquid goo with your head plugged into a computer program. I see my parents' beloved Roomba and wonder, will the fateful day come when he turns on us? Is he our future, or our demise?
My approach lately has been to ignore Roomba. Like an obnoxious co-worker, I deal with him only when I absolutely have to. I help him if necessary so it doesn't reflect poorly on me, but I'll never trust him. My parents remain enamored, and I remain an ambassador between humans and robot. I keep the peace. But I watch. And I wait. And I'll be ready.
