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His Anchor
by
Nick Forest Cise ©
Ricky was a UPS driver in New York and he liked every second of the job. The benefits were solid, and the scenic routes through Brooklyn were always quite the sight. Ricky grew up in the Bronx, and remained in New York during his transition into adulthood. For his entire life, Ricky watched the environment around him changes with the times. He drove a truck through every part of the city over his career, always imagining what the proceeding years would bring. However, during those long shifts where day would slowly turn to night, and hours of traffic, of all the thoughts that could perpetually go through a man’s head, never did he think that he would be replaced by an artificially intelligent machine, and forced into early retirement.
The year was 2033. Technological developments in artificial general intelligence astounded the nation. Automation reached record-breaking levels of progression, and sync beautifully with the American work force.
The “EA (Ease Away) Workmen’s pension was addressed to congress, and approved. The bill entitled a doubling of workmen’s pension under the circumstance of forceful retirement. Ninety-five percent of blue collar men were replaced by automated systems. At 39, Ricky took his last paid ride around New York. The next day, an artificially intelligent robot referred to as UPS BOT JAMES 182, would be driving his truck.
Ricky was enthused about the approval of the EA bill. He went out to celebrate with his fellow drivers at the end of the day. The group went to a classic location, a bar called Jumper Cables.
He stood next to a driver named Frank as they waited to be served. There were two bartenders, one was human, and the other was a machine. The ServeBot walked over to Frank.
“What can I get you, Sir?”
“Hey, I’ll take a Jack Daniels on the rocks,” Frank turned to Ricky. “It’s on me, what do you want?”
“I’ll have the same.”
“Two Jack Daniels on the rocks.” Said Frank to the ServeBot.
“Yes, sir.” The bot prepared the drinks in seconds. “Do you want to start a tab?” “You bet,” Frank said.
“What are the robots going to do next? Hold our hands while we take a piss?” Frank laughed.
“Maybe.” Frank took a sip of his whiskey.
Ricky had a few too many drinks that night, and woke up in the alley outside the bar, laying in his own vomit.
A SafeBot approached him as he opened his eyes.
“Sir, do you need medical assistance?”
“No.”
“Can I arrange a method of transportation for you?”
“Just get the hell out of here!” The SafeBot took a moment to process his response.
“Very well. Good day, Sir.” The bot walked away. Ricky stood up slowly, walked around the front of the building, re-entered the bar, and after an hour or so, he stumbled out.
When Ricky got back to his apartment, he laid down on his couch and stared at the ceiling. He turned turned his focus to the widescreen monitor planted on his living room wall.
“Turn on, Seinfeld.” Said Ricky. The visual popped on, and the television broadcasted the show. “Jerry, Elaine, Kramer, George, I’m back”
Ricky watched an absurd amount of TV, and after one month of retirement, he hardly left his apartment at all, which was unusual from his routine leisurely walks. He had enough money to do whatever he wanted, and yet the uninspired man began to waste away. He was stripped of his only occupational status, thus robbing him of his daily purpose. Although the purpose is perceptible, and despite the fact that Ricky didn’t know it, being a package carrier wasn’t his true purpose, there was something greater waiting for him, all he had to do was realize it, and trust confidently that he was right. Everything started to change for Ricky when he started going on jogs again. Everything.
After consuming thousands of hours of television, the man was sick of the electronic entertainment plate. Ricky ran track in high school, and he was pretty quick too. He could’ve gotten a scholarship, but he quit his senior year after a disagreement with his coach in front of the team.
Ricky started off with short distances, but as time progressed, he began to stretch back into his old limits and truly got something out of it again. He forgot about the release.
The holidays were approaching, and Ricky was eager to see his family. Thanksgiving day finally came and he found himself in an uncomfortable position.
“What have been doing with yourself?” Asked his Uncle Jim. Ricky didn’t know how to answer, and then the conversation was interrupted shortly after. The topic flew from Jim’s mind, but it stuck with Ricky. He reflected upon his new lifestyle that developed over the months, he wasn’t fond of the way it looked, but what could he do? Driving around the city every day, thinking philosophically to himself, it was comfortable to him. You see Ricky was always full of creative ideas. Listening to him tell a story is like sitting down at a cinema, except you could always be sure that you were in for a good story. Ricky had a lot of ideas, but his only fault was that he didn’t write any down.
At the beginning of December, Ricky took a long jog around the city. He knew it had to be a long one. His frustration levels were overpowering his state of peace. Once he returned from his run, he climbed into his car and went for a drive.
He drove the routes he used to travel for UPS while there was still sunlight. He was stopped at a red light when a UPS truck pulled up alongside him. Ricky looked over. He noticed that UPS JamesBot 182 was sitting in the driver seat of his old truck. Ricky gawked over at the bot.
“Hey, JamesBot 182!” The bot looked over slowly.
“I am currently delivering shipments for UPS on a pre-determined route, I can not assist you right now.” The bot looked back at the roadway ahead.
“You ruined my life! You hear me you mechanical hunk of ****! You ruined my life!” Shouted Ricky. The traffic light turned green.
“I am currently delivering shipments for UPS on a pre-determined route, I can not assist you right now.” Said the UPS JamesBot as it drove away. Ricky punched his steering wheel a few times. A motorist behind him held down the horn.
“I’m going!” Yelled Ricky as he quickly accelerated forward.
Ricky continued on the route until it eventually got dark. He spoke to himself out loud, attempting earnestly to find out what to possibly do. Ricky stopped at another red light.
“What do I do, God? I’ve been driving this route for fifteen years, and now I find out that it leads nowhere? Please, give me an answer.” A woman sat a car next to Ricky. She was listening to the whole time, but he didn’t notice when she pulled up.
“Talking to yourself, huh?” asked the woman. Ricky looked straightforward, ignoring her. “Sounds like quite the dilemma.” The woman reached over into her passenger seat and grabbed a black and white checkered compositional notebook from a pile of ten more. She tosses the notebook into Ricky’s car. Ricky looks up at her. “Put those words down on paper. They’ll make more sense. I’m a teacher, it’s the least I could do for you stranger.” The light turned green and the woman drove away. Ricky pulled off shortly after, periodically glancing down at the notebook.
When Ricky returned home, he sat on the roof his apartment building, using a rectangular generator as a desk. He had a loaded pen in his hand and a scared look in his eye. Ricky stared down at the page, he placed the tip of his writing instrument to the top line aligned to the left. He sat in contemplation for a fair amount of time. Ricky had great cerebral jolts but the energy didn’t make it through the pen and onto paper. Rain started to gently pour from the sky. Ricky closed the notebook and went inside. As soon as he entered his apartment, he chucked the notebook on an end table in the hall, it slid right off, and he left it on the floor. Ricky plopped down on the couch and scrolled for a worthy TV selection.
An hour of indecisive scrolling passed by, he finally forfeited the match with the electric plate and shut it off. Ricky walked over to his window and watched the rainfall through the streetlights. He opened the window and allowed the cool breeze drift through space. He took a deep breath, and suddenly, the compositional notebook caught his eye. Ricky walked over to the notebook and picked it up. He sat down at the table closer to him. He used it as a desk and placed his notebook down. Ricky opened the notebook and once again placed the tip of his pen at the top of the page. He began to write.
“Who am I?” He wrote. Ricky stared down at the page and considered his question. “Who can I be?” He wrote after. Ricky continued on writing throughout the night. His creative emission was all stream of consciousness. He followed his thoughts to a positive place. He found a certain clarity that he had been outreach for a long time. This clarity specifically pertained to one identifiable requirement, what could he do that services him as well as the public in a simultaneous beauty.
Ricky began jogging the city routes he used to drive for UPS. All of the elements he was so familiar to surrounded him again. Ricky’s imagination began to flood. Fiction ideas. An ambitious manuscript with the hopes of stumbling across it one day as a published novel, sitting back and thinking, “I’m lucky I listened to myself.”
Ricky stopped at a pedestrian crosswalk and gazed around the sight of Brooklyn Heights. When traffic permitted, he crossed the road. An idea was embedded in his mind, and that idea began to formulate a concept. By the time he arrived back at his apartment, he had an outline in his mind. Ricky needed to get it down on paper. It was an urgent matter. The prose ran through his mind like an endurance marathon runner apt to break a world record. Ricky fetched his notebook and began to write. By early morning he had a draft, and by mid-noon, he was sprawled out on the floor, sleeping like an infant elephant.
During his employment at UPS, Ricky acquired some notable contacts through deliveries to professional buildings. One contact that was on his mind was a publisher’s assistant, Connor Garretson.
When Ricky woke up, he reached out to Connor, but he was unavailable. Ricky was persistent and called once more before his daily run. Still no pickup. During his run, a taxicab pulled off on the sidewalk about twenty-feet ahead, and a professional looking man approached the doors to the building. Ricky slowed his pace to a walk and could tell it was Connor from a side view.
“Connor Garretson.” Said Ricky, as he neared closer.
“Ricky? I’ve never seen you out of uniform. What a strange moment.”
“How are you?”
“I’m well. Thank you.”
“Did you receive any of my calls today?”
“No, I’ve been at a book signing all day.”
“I have some business for you.” Connor chuckled.
“Oh?”
“Yes, sir. Something I think your boss will have a great interest in.”
“A manuscript?”
“Not technically. More of a short story.”
“We don’t accept single short stories, nor do we accept unsolicited submissions.”
“But you know me.” Ricky shakes his head. “Isn’t that how this whole operation operates? It’s all about who you know, right?” Connor sighs.
“No. That’s not how this works. Plus you haven’t even met the minimum requirements.”
“Fine. Sorry for even bothering.” Ricky starts to jog away. “First a UPS Bot takes my job, now I overextend myself, waste this man’s time including my own – I must be losing it!.”
“Ricky.” Said Connor. Ricky stopped and looked back at him. “Send it to me tonight, I’ll read it, and meet with you for five minutes at a coffee shop, I’ll let you know what I think. “Ricky walks closer and shakes his hand.
“Thank you, my friend.” Ricky jogs off as Connor enters the building. Ricky typed out the story and sent it over online. The following day, Ricky met Connor at a coffee shop not far from his office building. Connor was already sitting there when he entered. Ricky walked over and sat down. Connor looked up at his smartphone. He had a cup of hot coffee sitting in front of him. The whole shop smelled liked freshly baked macadamia nut cookies. Connor sighed as Ricky sat down.
“What did you think?” Ricky asked hesitantly. Connor looked him in the eyes.
“I hated it.” Ricky took an emotional jab in the gut. He looked around and didn’t quite know what to say. A woman who sat at a nearby table looked away from her portable computer and began to ease drop.
“What was wrong with it?” Ricky asked quietly.
“The narrator flops back and forth from past and presence tense often enough to annoy me, the descriptions are vague, dull, and your dialogue… have you ever listened to a conversation before?” Ricky took offense and looked up boldly. “I’m not trying to insult you, I’m just giving it to you straight. My boss wouldn’t have the slightest interest in something of this quality, long or short.” Ricky slowly dragged his hands down his face.
“What the hell am I going to do now?” Connor stood up.
“Did you have any therapy offices on your old route? Go talk to one of them.” Connor walked out of the coffee shop.
“Pompous bastard.” Said the older woman a few tables away.
“You’re right, he is. But he’s also right about my writing.” Steam rises from a coffee cup without a lid in front of the woman.
“He could be.” Ricky nodded. “But how did you feel when you did it?” Ricky smirked.
“It felt amazing.” The woman grinned.
“How long have you been at it?”
“About a day or so.” The woman chuckled.
“Great. Someone else to mock me.” Said Ricky angrily. She put on a straight face.
“No, no. I’m not mocking you, child. You just have much to explore.”
“How much?”
“A lifetime’s worth.” Ricky let the words sink in. “If you want to abandon ship now, by all means, there is no shame in moving along, but let me ask you an honest question – “ Ricky looked up at her curiously. “What that man said to you, about your writing, does it make you never want to pick up another pen?” Ricky went to speak but was interrupted. “Answer from your heart.”
“Not by a long shot. No.” The woman nodded.
“Are you unemployed? Starving artist?”
“I’m a retired delivery driver. I live off my EA pension.” The woman stared over at Ricky with wonder.
“All you have to do in the morning is press a pen to paper. You have no uncompromising expenses. If your purpose is to create, then create. Commit to the craft, you’ve already won a battle that your ancestors died fighting.” A ServeBot walked over to Ricky.
“Pardon me, sir, may I take your order?”
“No! I’m talking you here! Can’t you process that you idiot?” Snapped Ricky. The bot analyzed the situation and returned to a stationary position by the counter.
“What are your frustrations with the bots?” Ricky shook his head in disgust.
“Those bastards put me out of a job. A good job! One that I liked.” The woman nodded understandingly.
“I see your concerns, but did you ever consider that those bastards took away a job you liked to perhaps introduce you to a job that you might love? Intentionally or unintentionally, whatever way you will see it.” Ricky digested her words. “And this job, no matter how technologically advanced this nation will get, could never be replaced by an artificial system. This gift I speak of, this key, this lie in the sand when the seas are at war with the winds, this inimitable force that could bring a human to tears with enough power, this brilliance, this magnificence, is a cerebral energy greater than psychical strength, it is our compassionate oars tied to the soul, our creative anchor slung over the side of our minds ship. It is the gravitational pull of artistic emission, it is imagination my young friend. Not a tool within a toolbox in a shed, rather, it is your shed.” Ricky went to speak, then paused. He slightly grinned.
“Then I have some yard work to do.”
“Some?” The woman smiled. “Just don’t wait until the weather is perfect to work, you’ll never get anything done.” Ricky nodded.
“Thanks.” He stood up and walked out of the shop.
During his walk home, the late afternoon turned to dusk, and the sun disappeared for the night. The city lights invigorated his soul, the same way they have his entire life. He suddenly passed through a familiar part of the Bronx, the area where he grew up. He went out of his way on his route home so he could walk by his old family apartment. He arrived, and the flooding of forgotten memories reminded him how long it had been since he drove or walked through the vicinity. Ricky stopped in front of a stoop, and sat down, in the same spot he often sat as a kid. He took a deep breath and exhaled. The cool night sent a rush of energy through his mind. He thought about what he wanted to work on next and was determined to improve – no matter the time it took. He stood up from the porch as a liberated man. Ricky thought to himself as he strolled down the sidewalk, streetlights shining brightly.
As he gained a distance from his old home, Ricky realized he was a writer, and for every day after, he loved every second of the job, no matter the condition of the surf.
THE END
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