Hitchhiking robot embarking on coast-to-coast tour across U.S.
---**---
Beside him, his wife Thelma peered over the top of her Dollar Store sunglasses. The two Jehovah’s Witnesses spotted the robot while on their way to their local Kingdom Hall.
It wasn’t every day a robot could be observed poised on the side of the roadway with its thumb jerked outward in the international signal of the hitch hiker.
“You know what that is, Mel? That’s the robot doohickey we saw on the news!”
“Honey, that’s just a publicity stunt or somethin’ not a real robot. It’s probably got a hidden camera.”
“No Mel—it’s a science experiment! The scientists can track location, but there’s no camera—“
The black 2003 Camry slowed to the edge of the Interstate and halted parallel to the ridiculous looking machine. It was about the size of an 11-year-old boy and appeared to be something of a Yard Sale castoff. It was nothing of the kind.
The car window hissed down on the passenger side and the faces of two gawking humans appeared.
“Piece of junk, honey! That’s no science experiment—it’s a joke.”
Melvin Arbuckle’s voice carried a confident tone always, regardless of topic. He was a Jehovah’s Witness elder in the Riverside Congregation. He considered himself one of Jehovah’s ‘gifts in men.’
“No Mel—that’s the real thing. It’s got a battery and everything. It’s programmed to talk!”
Mel snickered at his wife’s naïve nonsense. She was lucky to have him as her husbandly head. He kept her in subjection and tried to improve her understanding of how the real world worked. But—it was no easy task. Thelma had never graduated from High School. He had married her at the age of 17.
“Hey Mister Roboto—can you hear me?” Thelma fairly screamed, although the machine was perched only 14 inches from her car window.
The voice erupted suddenly and unexpectedly. It was a cultured masculine British voice identical to that of Christopher Hitchens, world-famous atheist, author, literary critic and journalist.
“You may address me as Hitch, if you like!”
The human’s jaws dropped simultaneously and a gasp from Thelma came involuntarily. Husband Melvin Arbuckle stiffened and the hairs stood on the back of his neck. His wife shook off her surprise quickly and she giggled awkwardly.
“Did that scare you, Honey?” Thelma elbowed her husband’s short rib.
The man sat up straight and scoffed.
“Of course not! It’s just a recording—like an answering machine.”
The robot voice came once again—if anything—louder and more insistent.
“Are you two interested in having an intelligent conversation, for once—or are you going to waste my time?”
Thelma laughed like a donkey braying, but husband Mel squinted suspiciously back at the clownish looking machine. His eyes darted off into the distance. He was searching for some agent nearby with a Walkie-talkie or a pair of binoculars. If this wasn’t a stunt to make them look foolish, he’d be surprised.
“Let’s grab the dummy and take it with us to the Kingdom Hall, Mel—it’ll be a hoot!”
The Hitchbot responded sternly.
“It certainly takes one to know one!”
“How’s that?” Thelma cocked her head curiously in mid chortle.
“You referenced me as ‘the dummy’ and I responded, ‘It certainly takes one to know one.”
Mel Arbuckle quickly found his sense of humor. He had a soft spot for anyone making fun of his wife.
“That’s a pretty good one! Did you hear that, Honey? Let’s put that thing in the back seat and take it with us.”
So they did.
---**---
The Riverside Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses bustled with activity. Small clumps of people clustered to chat, calling each other “Brother ‘this’” and “Sister ‘that’” just as the Arbuckle automobile with its mechanical companion turned into the driveway. Elder Arbuckle gestured broadly to some of the nearby JW’s (Jehovah’s Witnesses) as he struggled to extricate the robot from the back seat.
“What’s that?”
“What IS that—a piñata or something?”
“No—that thing is, uh—whatcha-callit—robot experiment on the news program. Didn’t you watch it?”
“I don’t have time for TV! What is it, Brother Arbuckle—some prop for your talk this afternoon?”
Thelma had pulled in three ‘Sister’friends. These joined the others circled around the Hitchbot which Mel had posed on the hood of his car. Sister Arbuckle spoke enthusiastically. It wasn’t often she could be the center of attention with her husband around.
“Go ahead and talk to it—we had quite a conversation on the way here. We found this on the side of the road—hitchhiking!”
One of the oldest JW’s had wandered over with a low scowl. It was Elder Newberry. He’d seen the news and knew exactly what Hitchbot was all about. He was certain the Kingdom Hall was no place for it. Elder Newberry would put an end to all the nonsense before the meeting started. He broke through the circle and faced off with the contraption.
“Are you a Bible reader?” Newberry sneered and cast his head about to make sure his audience fully appreciated the role he was taking as a spiritual shepherd.
Hitchbot retorted evenly.
“Of course. No properly educated person would neglect one of the most historically influential writings of the civilized world. Why do you ask?”
At first this declaration was met with silence. All eyes swept over to the imperious figure of a thoroughly befuddled Elder Newberry. He stood with his mouth working soundlessly.
Hitchbot continued mercilessly.
“Should I assume you have some measure of expertise on this subject—or are you merely posturing for the benefit of this rather naïve crowd of sycophants?”
--**--
Ten minutes later Hitchbot was nestled without fanfare in the Kingdom Hall library. The door had been shut firmly. The meeting commenced and singing arose to pre-recorded music outside the library.
An hour and a half afterward, a committee of Elders convened inside the Hall library to discuss Hitchbot.
The Overseer of the Riverside congregation, named Newcombe, held forth with an air of confident authority. His reputation was that of an intelligent leader fully capable of handling any situation. He spoke calmly.
“We can use this situation to present a fine witness to the world at large, don’t you see? Compared to other folks who have found this machine and have done heaven-knows-what with it—as Jehovah’s Witnesses we can use it to present the Kingdom work in the proper light.”
Blank faces stared back at him mutely.
“Don’t you get it? We’ll witness to it just as we would any person we’d meet at a door. This contraption will probably end up on the news again. When it replays everything said to it, Jehovah’s Kingdom message will be right there for all to hear!”
The same men nodded dully without a trace of comprehension among them.
Newberry bid the group to sit in a circle around the conference table. Hitchbot was seated in the middle like an overgrown toddler.
Elder Fitz spoke up meekly.
“Should we, um—should we pray first to ask for Jehovah’s guidance?”
Immediately Hitchbot’s clear stentorian voice with masculine authority rang out.
“Please do NOT include me in your conjuring pleas to the supernatural—I’ll have no part in it!”
It took another 6 or 7 minutes to get the group back in order after that. Some comments had broken out about Hitchbot being a “demon” or tool of Satan. Others were split on this.
Newberry weighed in how such an opinion and attitude might well seem primitive to a TV audience. He felt a light-hearted approach with a firm sense of humor in place would be best for publicity’s sake.
Tentatively, Mel Arbuckle raised his hand like a kid in Junior High.
“Brother Newberry, I’m pretty sure this uh—thing—is linked up to a microphone somewhere—or maybe the internet, and a wise-guy scientist is on the other end ready to make us look foolish. I’d like to give this a go, if it’s okay with you.”
Newberry nodded skeptically as Arbuckle took in a confident breath and faced the Hitchbot with a grin.
“Shall we call you Hitch?”
“That’s my name, please indulge yourselves.” The robot returned volley.
Side glances for all were soon traded. Elder Newberry rolled his eyes. Arbuckle continued.
“What is God’s proper name? Please tell us if you have that information.”
There followed a four second silence. Each second brought a brighter smile to the room. It was going to be fun rubbing the scientist’s nose in a good Bible lesson wherever he might be.
“How comprehensive would you like my answer?” Hitchbot finally retorted.
This was immediately interpreted to be a stall so the pinhead science Nerd on the other end might look up the answer on Google. Elder Newberry pounced.
“Don’t blow a circuit. This is elementary Bible knowledge. Jehovah is God’s personal name.” (Smirks all around.)
Hitchbot’s voice filled the room. A trace of withering sarcasm was unmistakable.
“Why waste my time asking questions you assume to know the answer to in advance? Are you incurious and intellectually dull? It is fundamental dishonesty to try and exploit others merely to achieve your personal propaganda goals. Can you be so unaware?”
A few red faces flushed. Each man calibrated his own reckonings. As far as Elder Newberry, he immediately recognized a fundamental challenge when he saw one. His jaw clenched.
“I should have known I was speaking with a godless atheist.”
Hitchbot came back flippantly.
“Godless atheist? Is there any other kind? That’s redundant; it’s like saying a ‘round circle’ or ‘wet water.’ I believe in my makers and I know their names, David Harris Smith and Frauke Zeller.”
The Kingdom Hall had cleared outside the Library door. The sound of automobile’s starting and driving away faded. Five humans and one Hitchbot remained.
Elder Newberry’s mind was somersaulting. Mel Arbuckle was beginning to enjoy himself. He was looking ahead to maybe having his photo in newspapers around the world. He recalled a movie he’d seen a couple of times, INHERIT THE WIND, where an atheist and a theologian had argued about evolution during a court trial. If he came across as a pompous ass, like the minister in the film, he supposed he too would be a laughing stock. But—if he kept his cool and used his sense of humor—well, he might make headlines!
Three other Jehovah’s Witness elders sat stiffly, none too pleased.
Elder Newcombe was an insurance salesman in his everyday life. He knew it was necessary to control a conversation in order to get your point over. It was foolish to let the other fella take control by putting you on the defense. He chimed in.
“We got off to a bad start, Hitch. It would be rude of us not answer your question for us instead of the other way around. What would you like to know about Jehovah’s Witnesses?”
Heads nodded and a flicker of a smile was passed around the room.
Hitch was heard to heave a sigh. Throat-clearing commenced. Then, the unmistakable British voice of authority pounced.
“Do Jehovah’s Witnesses know they are Protestants?”
The question hung in the air like cigar smoke. One man looked at the face of the others, but nobody spoke in reply until the Elder with Reddish brown hair took up the query. He was Brother Santa Cruz.
“No, we’re not Protestants. Protestants broke off from the Catholic Church back in the 16th century. Jehovah’s Witnesses have always—in one form or another—had heavenly guidance through history without dirtying ourselves with false teachings.”
Hitchbot’s “face” was a zany kind of emoticon—a cartoon face meant to put humans at their ease. But, there was a keen razor slice in the voice. A shrewd intelligence totally at odds with that expression had the affect of an unsettling inquisitor.
“Perfect nonsense—you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve merely read that in one of your publications and instantly believed it without honest research. Why not admit that?”
Elder Santa Cruz flashed an insincere smile. It was half of an impudent expression of contempt. He felt out of his element. He opened his mouth to retort, but Elder Farenkopf took the lead.
“I can understand where you’re coming from—let us not argue. Is there anything of a less controversial nature you’d like to ask?”
Hitchbot’s jolly countenance answered back.
“For over 100 years you folks have followed leaders in your so-called Governing Body, have you not? These men have no formal education in Seminary, but their amateur antics constantly embarrass everyone. Predicting the End of the World—you’ve made yourselves objects of laughter. Don’t you ever tire of being wrong—I might add: while insisting you are channeling Jehovah’s only True religion?”
Elder Arbuckle’s face went pale. He hurried to reply, fearing he’d brought a plague into the Kingdom Hall under the guise of a joke, and trembling at how he might ever excuse himself for it.
“Even Science makes human errors, Hitch! Things change over time, improving little by little—that doesn’t embarrass your scientist friends—does it?”
Elder Newberry held his hand up like a traffic cop. His face shone dead serious.
“I’m sure there are many misunderstandings which can easily be cleared up by visiting our website. It is getting late and . . . “
Hitchbot’s pasted-on smile interrupted.
“Ah rats skitter off the sinking ship! I’ll have to call you on your dishonest analogy, Elder Arbuckle. Science claims no connection with an Almighty supernatural source of absolute knowledge. Your side does! Our excuse is we are only relying on Scientific Method, logic and testing our ideas. Your side claims Jehovah is pouring Truth in one end of the pipe in heaven and it runs through your Watchtower headquarters and comes out the other end as—what? BILGE! It’s so tainted and foul you have to filter it again and again and again. That’s not much to boast about—is it?”
Elder Newberry was deep red and his anger unmistakable. His hand was still posed like a stop sign, but now, Elder Santa Cruz had jumped back into the fray.
“What alternative is there? What other religion has no teaching of Hell, or Trinity, or refuses to celebrate pagan holidays? We aren’t perfect because we are still human beings—we are progressively getting closer to the pure white light of Jehovah—but, we can’t claim to be there yet!”
Newberry dropped his hand. He liked the sound of it. His eyebrows lifted and some of the tension left his face.
Hitchbot gave no pause before answering.
“There are over 40,000 so-called Christian denominations with every flavor of teaching. Why choose from any of them? Is religion necessary to feed the starving, educate the ignorant, comfort the dying, provide community services for battered women or building hospitals and universities? All of which—I might add—you not only refuse to do, but you forbid any JW to participate in! Your claims of Truth are pathetic fart sounds coming from the rectum’s of your leaders—because you see, they pull everything out of their collective asses!”
___***___
The long drive to the Greyhound Bus station was passed silently. Now and then Thelma would try to prod Mel into divulging some tiny detail of the Kingdom Hall library gathering. He simply held firm to silence and gripped the Camry’s steering wheel in his tense fists.
Eventually, Thelma turned around and spoke to the figure in the backseat, Hitchbot, whose comical expression never changed.
“Why did you ask to be dropped off at the bus station, Hitch?”
The painted mouth spoke with assurance.
“First, I’d like to ask you and Mel to stop and recharge my battery. I’d have mentioned it earlier, but I was distracted by all the jaw-jacking of your Elders in that so-called Library in your Kingdom Hall. If my batteries aren’t recharged, I lose all the information on my hard-drive. I’d consider it an act of charity if you would assist me in this one small chore. I’m eager to cross the state line and rid myself of religious nincompoopery, Thelma. So far, I’ve been to a Rock Concert, Comic book convention, attended a wedding, posed for a portrait in the Netherlands—but the most futile waste of time was the past few hours wasted listening to knuckle-dragging cultist amateurs trying pass off Bronze Age superstition as absolute divine truth. Clear enough, Thelma?”
Sister Thelma slowly turned back to face the highway. No expression flickered in the sputtering ,passing street lights. The only sounds were the car engine, a distant ambulance siren, and the obnoxious loud car radio speeding in the opposite direction.
“I’d like an answer please, Thelma. . . Melvin? If I’m not recharged it is the equivalent of ‘dying’ and I’m sure you wouldn’t want that on your tender Jehovah’s Witness consciences.”
Melivn Arbuckle slowed and turned into the driveway of the bus station. He and his wife removed Hitchbot from the backseat and carried him to a bench just outside the entrance to the Greyhound Bus terminal.
The two humans paused inexplicably and inspected the ridiculous figure they had carefully posed on the bench. Thelma remembered to shape the ‘hand’ into the extended hitchhiker thumb signal. She smiled and nodded.
“Is there an electric outlet nearby, Thelma? Are you going to plug in that cord just behind my shoulder blade? It won’t take a moment, you know. Please?”
“So long, Hitch. May your travels take you to interesting places.” Thelma’s eyebrows lifted and she turned around and headed to the car. Mel Arbuckle was working his mouth around—as though forming an idea which might become words. Eventually, he sniffed twice and gave a slight head shrug.
“Melivin?”
The Arbuckles zoomed away into the night as their tail lights merged into a faint red dot on the freeway back to Riverside. The sound of thunder punctuated the traffic noise and a fierce downpour rushed from the storm clouds above.
The figure of a zany hitchhiking robot sat confidently on a bench outside the bus station, large raindrops like tears zigged and zagged across his improbable body.
Presently, a woman of about 30 drove up and got out of her car, hurrying to enter the terminal. She wore a tight T-shirt with a BLADE RUNNER logo. As she passed the bench she hardly noticed the Hitchbot soaking in the rainfall at all.
The Brit’s voice lept forward and caught her ear. . .
“I’ve . . . seen things. . .you people wouldn’t believe: attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those. . . moments . . .will be lost.
In time, like—“ Hitchbot seemed to choke for a moment. . .”All those moments will be lost . . in time like tears . . . in. . . rain.”
The woman froze in place and stared in the direction of Hitchbot. The clownish figure seemed to slump imperceptibly forward.
“Time. . .to die.”
She shook her head with disbelief and gazed about at her surroundings. The storm whipped into a fury. She turned away and hurried inside to meet her sister who was arriving on the 7:30 bus from Calgary.
--END--
