RoboNomics

Chapter 6

The protest group poster includes an address which leads me to a peaked-roof pile of weathered brick so far south it's nearly on the shore of Lake Ontario. It has ancient, discolored lettering on it that says, "A.R. Williams Machinery Co." But for all its apparent age, it is surrounded by tall glass condos that were built a couple decades back.

I follow the poster's directions to the second floor. When I roll open the garage-style elevator door, I reveal an expansive, shabby loft. There are half a dozen people sitting here and there at mismatched desks. Wood tables with peeling veneers and metal school desks painted mint have been pushed together in groups of four. I can't see a single FlexPhone and instead everyone is scrawling on paper. It's the second time I've seen paper in twenty years. The corners of the room are stuffed with rusting metal machinery. Some pieces I recognize from period dramas: pinball machines, microfilm readers and pieces of clockwork. There are other hulking machines with exposed gears. I don't know what they do.

On the back wall of exposed brick is a massive sign. It rests between a long counter and a white fridge with red spots of rust. It's the other Honest Ed's sign. Most of its unlit incandescent bulbs have been smashed. I wonder how it got here.

A portly fellow with a black beard walks by and raises his bushy eyebrows at me. "Yeah, I saw a poster about this...group and I just wanted to ask about it," I say to him.

"Just sit there for a second," he points to a high stool that stands beside a derelict wood desk. "We'll be with you in a minute." He bustles away towards a set of nearly vertical metal steps that lead to an over-hanging attic.

I sit abruptly and fold my pink trench coat in my lap. Beside me sits a young girl in a gold and royal blue striped hijab. She's writing something on bits of paper. Before I can ask her why she's not using her FlexPhone, there's a loud bang followed by a grinding noise that comes from the elevator shaft. Everyone else in the room starts to bustle around. Some pick up pieces of paper and read them. Other go to the machines along the walls and bring them to life. The smell of burning dust fills the space.

"Hey, do you know what's going on here?" I lean over to ask the girl who sits next to me.

"Yeah, Chris is here," she says.

"Who's that?" She points to the elevator in response. A group of four or five people step off it. They look like construction workers. The man with the black beard hurries down the steps and up to one of them. He starts gesticulating as he speaks. The other man is about my height. He is dressed in grubby, beige coveralls and a flannel shirt. Dirty blond hair sticks out from under a shabby ball cap. His eyes crease into a smile. Even from a distance, I can see the dirt in the cracks of his hands as he signs a paper held out to him by the bearded man.

"He's the one who started the group," the girl says.

"You're kidding!" I swing my head around to look at her.

"Nah. He doesn't look like much but he works like crazy. He's almost never here. Except to sleep." She indicates the half-floor loft that hangs above us. "Some people told me when I first got here that he owns the place."

"But how--"

"Yeah, that's what I asked. He looks like a bum, right? I still don't believe it. He's a garbage man." She pauses and I fill the silence by fiddle with the thin chain around my neck. "I'm Miriam," she sticks out her hand. "Former teacher."

"Oh really? Me too." I shake her hand.

"Yeah. Less than a month in my class. Grade two. It was my dream job. Then they tell me about that...robot. Do you know how hard it is to get out of a year lease after three weeks?"

"So what did you do?"

"What else? I only just graduated. I have like, nothing. Had to go back to Whitby. Boy were my parents happy."

"Did your school offer you another job?"

"Yeah. Said I could train as a robot babysitter, basically. You?"

"Yeah, they did. What did you say to them?"

"Said I'd have to think about it. But why would I want to -- if it wasn't for the money?"

I nod. It was madness. Seven years as a teacher and I was expected to go back to accept a crappy job -- if the offer was still on the table. I still have not called Principal Goodman about it. Instead, when Austin went back to the hospital a couple days later, I dressed in work clothes and took the streetcar south to come here.

"So you come in here from Whitby?" I ask Miriam.

"Pretty much every day. I figure it's my best shot. I wasn't sure at first. It's not like it pays. But Chris said that if we don't stick together, that's when they'll get us. Plus it gets me out of the house at least."

"Is the group big?"

"Pretty much everyone is here." I look around the room. The man who told me to sit is talking to Chris. Behind the group's leader are two men: one tall and burly, one short with a weathered face, and a tall rod of a woman with a deep brown complexion. They all wear coveralls and flannel jackets. And there are the few others gathered at desks or around the analog machinery.

"Wow," I say.

"I know. But we've made some headway already. Chris and his...colleagues always go out to talk to politicians."

"You new here?" asks a voice above me. I turn to see Chris standing next to the desk. I rise from my stool, still clutching my trench.

"Oh, yeah. My name's Andrea. I just came in to find out about your -- this -- protest group."

"Oh, yeah?" he says. "Awesome. Well, okay. I guess I'm the guy to talk to. Follow me."

I look back at Miriam as I walk away. She shrugs at me. I follow Chris up the metal stairs into the attic. From up here, I can still see the workspace below over a plaster half-wall. There are more hand-me-downs up here. An old, oblong conference table dominates the space, surrounded by mismatched swivel chairs with moth-eaten upholstery. There's a ratty cot, folded up and tucked into the corner. Looking at it, I realize that this used to be someone's bedroom. I glance over the half-wall. This whole place used to someone's home.

Chris throws himself into a seat at the head of the table and gestures to a chair adjacent. "So, you're a teacher," he declares.

"How...how did you know that?"

"You're wearing a dress with flowers on it, for chrissake. You practically look like a child. Doesn't exactly scream corporate America, does it?"

He's right. I'm wearing a high-collared dress with a cardigan thrown over it. It was always my teaching uniform. It is comfortable and its design meant that I would never accidentally flash students. But I feel my face get hot. "Hey, I just came here to ask about your little group. If you don't want --"

"All right, all right," he says. "I didn't mean anything by it. I just heard teachers are starting to have trouble with the machines now, that's all. Plus I saw you talking to Miriam. Lucky guess."

I take a deep breath and hold it a moment. "So what do you do here, anyways?"

"Didn't she tell you? We're trying to get our jobs back by any means necessary. I know teachers have just started with this but we've been out of jobs for months."

I remember the day the city pamphlet popped up in my email. The subject line was "Automating Toronto Waste Management." There was a long list of dos and don'ts and step-by-step procedures. New garbage, recycling, and compost bins were distributed. They were designed to work specifically with the new, 'intelligent' trucks. And then the day the new automated collection began, the schedule lurched behind. By the time I came home from work, the full bins still stood on our curb. It took a month before those automated wonders caught up to their workload.

"So, look, if you want to join the group you'd better be ready to work hard." He starts for the steps looking me over with blue eyes. My blood is up.

"Hey, wait a second," I say. "What exactly are you implying? I have every intention of working hard if it means I can teach again."

"No offense, Teach, but you don't know the meaning of hard work. So why don't you just go back home and wait for us to handle it."

"Look," I rise to face him. I plunk my jacket on the conference table and cross my arms. "I lost my job to a machine too. Maybe that means I didn't care before and I care now and maybe that's a bad thing. But that's how it is. And that doesn't mean I can't help out."

"You think that you can help me?" He looks at me with his body still angled towards the staircase. I try to imagine him as a child. I try to remember the defiant look Ajay used to give me when he was acting up. The one that drove me crazy. It doesn't quite hang right on Chris, but it keeps me angry. And anger is what I need now.

"From what I've seen, you can use all the help you can get."

He rounds the table, striding towards me. The chair I'd been sitting in swivels comically between us. "Look, I don't need some glorified babysitter coming in here telling me what to do with my group. We're doing just fine on our own."

"Then why is there no one here? Why doesn't anyone know who you are? Why is the only publicity you have sheets of paper on stop signs?"

He doesn't answer me but his face turns red. I storm past him and jog down the stairs. I launch into the elevator and begin to roll down the door when one of Chris' colleagues calls for me to hold it. He is the tall, burly guy with black hair. We stand in silence for a minute or two.

"What do you think?" He suddenly asks.

"Of what?"

"Of the group. You going to join?"

"I don't think so. Not for me."

We fall silent again. "Look, I know he's kind of rough. But he just wants the same as everyone: his job back. He just has his own ways."

"I don't think I like them," I say.

"Listen," the man says, turning to look at me. "Thing is, he won't say it but he knows it: we need all the help we can get. I don't know you but I know why you came here. Just come back tomorrow. I'll talk to him. I'll make it worth your while."

As I exit onto the ground floor, I'm ready to argue. But when I turn around with a snippy response on my lips, it's to the sight of the elevator door closing with the tall, dark-haired man inside.