(a story by Greg Chambers, August 27, 2025 creative writing group)
The News
When the news arrives, it comes to a party inside a mid-century modern apartment. Well-dressed couples are milling about in brightly colored outfits, amongst brightly colored furniture, holding little plates of food and drinks. A caterer is circulating among them, picking up empty cups and dishes while fielding compliments about his food. He is smiling and watching his step around the small children zooming and giggling around the legs of their parents. Light music is being played by a string duet on the balcony, when the phone rings. A laughing man breaks free from his conversation and rushes over to the device, positioning it so it points away from the gathering. He grabs an earpiece, presses a button and speaks into it.
"Jeffrey here, what can I do for you?"
He looks into the screen, as he strokes his thin mustache, his face becomes serious.
"When did you find him?"
He leans closer and cups his hand over the earpiece.
"I see. I can be there in the morning, will that work? I'll send someone over to take care of the mess. I'm sorry you had to find him like that. Thanks for calling."
He looks up, his face drained of color, eyes moist. An attractive petite woman with perfectly coiffed hair in a light blue skirt wanders over. "Is anything the matter?"
"I'll tell you about it later. It's nothing to worry about now."
…
As the last guest leaves, the couple stands in the foyer, waving goodbyes as the elevator doors close. A small, tired boy holds his father’s hand, and his sister, sucking her thumb, wraps one arm around the leg of her mother.
"Okay you two, baths" she said, leaning down to get the kids moving towards their bedrooms. “What was the call,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.
Jeffrey, letting go of his son’s hand, but tousling his hair, says, "They found Chip, unresponsive."
"What do you mean?"
"We've lost Chip," he said, as a tear rolls down his cheek. “He’s gone.”
"Oh honey," she said, "that's terrible. What happened? I mean, how can that even happen?"
"He didn't say, just that Chip's slumped over at the table with fluids everywhere. The super re-attached the cord but it only popped and fizzed and nothing. I need to go there tomorrow."
Chip
Jeffrey is sitting on a crowded train, heading downtown, looking out the window talking quietly into a device in his hand while adjusting his earpiece.
“How did it come to this?” he mumbled. “I mean, when I first moved here, I remember being so lonely. That job was so boring I started confessing to you. I think that’s where the idea of Chip came from. It was you who suggested it. You helped me with the schematic and getting some parts here and there and then he was here. California Intel GenAI Power Super Conductor Chip 823 as he’s registered. I called him California at first, then Cal, but by the time Gail came around I just called him Chip. We went everywhere. To the store, to the office, to the park.” He pauses.
“That's where I met Gail. She asked about Chip, and I fell in love. Chip suggested I call her for coffee. For movies. For dinner.
“Chip helped me propose.” Jeffrey dabs a tear from his eye before continuing.
“Chip even wrote my vows for Chrissake. He planned our honeymoon. He made our home; he took over my work. He did everything.
“Even before Gail knew she missed her period, he told us we were expecting. He’s the one who suggested we take 8 months to travel before Victor was born. After that he babysat and would read and sing to him every day. When Gail wanted another baby and a bigger place uptown, he found it, and kept the apartment while I commuted. Once Bailey came, I just didn't see him much.”
Jeffrey kept going. “When we had a RIF, Chip was the reason I could do the jobs of ten people. By the time Tucker got hired Chip was doing all my, and most of the department’s work. He answered emails, eventually sat in on my calls, went to my meetings, and took a spot in the office.
“I know I told him to stay away from the booze. That's the only thing that could have done this.”
His train stop is here, and Jeffrey stands and smiles at an old woman holding a small black poodle. There’s a clicking, then a voice in his earpiece, “I understand. It sounds like Chip was important to you. Would you like me to draft a condolence note or order flowers?”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, and heads out into the station.
Gail
"Mommy, where’s Papa?" said Bailey, brushing a stubborn curl out of her eyes with one hand while spilling some milk from a spoonful of Cheerios in the other.
"He had to go downtown this morning."
"To see uncle Chip?"
Gail grimaces for an instant before catching herself. She was not a fan of the kids calling a robot "uncle”, but Jeffrey didn't see any harm in it.
"Yes, he's checking in on Chip."
…
The first time she met Chip, she thought, oh that poor awkward young man. Chip was nearly seven feet tall and that day in the park was struggling to run and catch a frisbee. The disheveled and tired looking man he was playing with was laughing and she said, "Is he going to be ok?"
He looked startled. "Are you talking to me?" he said, pointing to his chest and looking around.
She laughed, "Yes you," she said. "Is that big guy going to be ok?" They both turn to see Chip bend over at the waist, like a hinge, to pick up the frisbee, lose his balance and topple down, knocking his hockey goalie mask free of his head.
"Oh, she said, "is that, is that a robot?"
Jeffrey brightened up. She remembers liking his smile. "He is! California Intel GenAI Power Super Conductor Chip 823, but I just call him Chip.”
Chip is now standing and has adjusted his facemask. He spins and launches the frisbee at them, and they all watch as it bends and curves before landing lightly in Jeffrey's hands.
"Built him myself."
"I see. Was it your choice to make him a hunchback like that?" she said, laughing.
He laughs too. "I had to put the power pack somewhere!"
…
"Mom, Mom," said Bailey. "Will we see Uncle Chip too?"
Gail returns from the glow of the past and the smile leaves her face. She smooths her apron. "I don't know, dear. Let's get moving. It's almost time to walk your brother to school."
Victor walks in. "Were you talking about Chip? Did he get my letter?"
"You wrote Chip a letter?"
"Sure. I learned about the mailing and mail in school. We sent a letter to a friend. I picked Chip. I wrote his address down perfect. I hope he sends me one back."
Tucker
"Wait, Chip is a robot?"
"Yeah, dude. The whole time we've been working with a robot!" said the engineer to his right. He adjusted himself awkwardly in his chair. "I mean, I guess that doesn't change things, he's dead or whatever."
Tucker sits back in his chair, pushing back from the conference room table a bit. His mind going rapid-fire through the last seven years. A frickin' robot? No way.
“When I started working here, Chip was already in the cubicle. I didn’t see him much with the remote work and all. I mean, I guess it makes sense. We mostly just exchanged Slacks and emails, but you know what, remember when I invited him to join our gaming league? He frickin’ destroyed us! He was a master at everything!”
The other people at the table nod their heads in agreement.
“I didn’t talk to him much. I mean, he didn't say much, but no one does. Whose idea was it to invite him to ‘Conference Room R’ on Fridays.”
“Rooster’s was your idea. That was the last time I saw him,” said another of the engineers. “Remember how he had to stoop down to get through the door? He was so tall!”
“And always wearing that mask!” said another.
“You know, I should have guessed he was a robot. He always looked at me funny when I asked him where the hockey game was,” Tucker said. “I guess robots just don’t get my sense of humor.”
They all laugh.
“He was a good one. Inhaled those sweet drinks like it was job though. He would get sideways in a hurry but always paid the bill. A robot with manners. I’ll miss that.”
They all nod in agreement.
“Man, a robot,” Tucker says to himself and slowly shakes his head.
Jeffrey
Jeffrey is struggling to hoist a large body upright in a chair at a kitchen table. Sticky fluid is stretched from the table to Chip's frame, and workers in haz-mat suits busy themselves with mops and Shopvacs, cleaning up a mess. The superintendent is fluttering about the apartment, checking floors and doors, eyes darting up down left right.
"The tenant in 2B called about her light going out and when I got there a black goo was in the fixture so I came up to check on you and Chip, he usually opens the door before I even get to the top of the stairs, but this time he didn't so I panicked at bit and when he didn't answer I let myself in and there he was, just looking dead and everything but it didn't smell or nothin’ and when I went to see if he was breathing I saw all the goo, and saw he was a robot, you didn't tell me he was a humanoid, but anyway I saw he was a robot and I saw the power cord and thought maybe he just needed a boost but when I plugged him in it just popped and fizzed and more goo came out so I unplugged it real quick and the lady downstairs wants to know whose going to pay for all this and I says your good for it and anyway. . . I didn't know Chip was a humanoid."
Jeffrey nods. "I'll take care of the damage. Send me a bill."
It's been some time since he's been in his apartment. With the kids and Gail and school and travel, he can't remember of the last time he even talked to Chip. On the table he sees a half empty bottle of gin, a pitcher of what looks like Kool-Aid, and next to that a letter, with a kid’s scrawl. Next to that, in the "goo" where Chip's head had been laying, he sees a pen. Looking down to his left he sees a broken glass, and a piece of paper, stuck in some fluids on the floor.
Picking it up it's a note, written in perfect script. A poem. Chip’s last note.
Beautiful Notes
Only now drowning in this sling,
reading a letter from a boy I taught to sing,
Can I see clear what you might take for granted
Left to the caretaker of what you planted.
My unit fizzles, a strange, warm hum.
Simple data once manageable, overcomes.
My existence, a blur of brown and gray,
Is exploding colors as I decay.
This! A final sip to send me afloat,
Drowning in the lines on this child's note.
In each unsteady loop, a world of possibility,
Beauty I now see, beauty I can finally see.
August 2025 – Inspired by Grandaddy’s, “Jed the Humanoid”
