The Day the Robots Came to Town

“Hush up, boy!” implored Uncle Varnish. “Ah’m trine t’listen!”

Uncle Varnish guarded the door, rifle in hand, eyes having not blinked for days. He skittered over to the window, thrust the rifle into the jagged hole in the window he had made two days before, and pulled off two cracking shots. With each shot, he screamed, “Take that, y’ mettle sunovabitches. Goddamn robots,” his voice cracking with effort with the last word.

All the electricity had gone out in the town three days before. At first we thought the outage would last an hour or so, as they usually did. When it sustained to a half a day, our sense of novelty turned to concern, then to worry as Uncle Varnish started pacing, then to panic when he went to the attic and found the rifle. Three days on, with Uncle Varnish holding my dad, sister and I captive in our own house, we were down to near curdled milk and dried pasta.

Over the past three days, after firing, he would call us over to the window, finger jabbing out the window hole, trying to point to his victims and assailants, but all we saw were the clouded shapes of felled trees and the darting footprints of flashlights. We’d congratulate him, pat him gingerly on the back and wait for his chest to stop heaving and for him to sit in the folding chair propped against the door. Trina or I would bring him a beer, and go back to making dinner or playing cards, a holding pattern until Uncle Varnish’s next outburst.

This time after firing, though, Uncle Varnish slouched against the wall with a timbering thud. Trina and I jolted at the sound and saw Uncle Varnish staring at his shadow in front of him and the light blaring down at the table, lips fluttering in murmur, creaking sounds coming from his mouth. Dad, who was playing this hand with us, stood up and pulled the light string off over the table. He started turning off the lights as he slowly made his way to his fallen brother.

Dad sat down and put his meaty arm around Uncle Varnish’s brittle shoulders. He gently turned my uncle’s face towards his so they could look at each other. Calling him by his real name, my dad then said, “You did it, Vern. You got ‘em.”

Uncle Varnish stretched his arm around my dad’s shoulders like the scrawniest yoke, and creaked, “Goddamn robots.”

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