Coin Operated Boy

coin operated boy
with his pretty coin operated voice
saying that he loves me that he’s thinking of me
straight and to the point
- Amanda Palmer


My eyes open immediately at the sound of the chimes.

Good morning Lisa Reese 0125. Today is January 13th, 2027. You have an appointment with Automata Associates at ten o’clock.

“Good morning.” If you don’t acknowledge the greeting it will just keep sounding, louder and louder, until you do.

Rose-pink glow of artificial morning all around the room. Ion shower. I miss bathing, sometimes.

I crumble soy bacon over my spiced soy oatmeal, wash it down with Tang. Then a steaming mug of heavily-sweetened freeze-dried coffee while watching the media stream. The world was the same today. But not for me.

Standing in front of my closet, I hold the outfit I printed out yesterday for when I see him. My boy. The term everyone uses is andy, popularized by vids and stories and archaic slang, but for me, he will be my boy. Not a real boy, but none of the real boys could ever be mine. We flirt in passing in the chatrooms and on message boards, we nervously laugh and stutter on the vidphones. But we are too ensnared in the mesh of the Web to risk cutting loose, our sacred fiber optic force field. Can’t breath the air, can’t drink the water (without massive filtration either way), can’t risk intimacy which isn’t electronic.

Except…

Today he will be mine. My boy. I saved for him, two years of denying myself shiny baubles and gaudy tchotchkes and any flotsam fad which came and went. Nothing special or collectible: no vids, no discs, no memorabilia. Only the most utilitarian needs were met, and all the rest of my pay credits earmarked for the down payment. The installments will go on for the next ten years. But he will be mine, my boy, just the way I requested him.

He will be ageless, and painless, and perfect.

My outfit is blue, I think I look best in blue. I fuss, I comb the color-changing algae though my hair several times, using different UV frequencies to decide how the highlights should look, and then I laugh at my reflection. Why the preening? He is my boy: predestined and manufactured…all my memories fed to him via download, he knows everything I want him to know about me. I will be his world, he will exist only for me.

I suppose I want the employees of Automata Associates to believe I deserve him, even as it matters not how others perceive the situation. I am liked well enough, I think, by the friends I’ve made in the Web. I’ve always been likable.

But there’s something invisible about me as well. My mother used to say I could disappear right in front of her eyes. She meant I had a tendency to daydream, to wander away mentally, but also that I was nondescript. I inherited her beautiful hazel eyes, but my father’s plain, almost anonymous face. Nothing particularly striking. But I think that’s why I am liked, I am not threatening in any way. And I like it, like being able to blend in so well.

But my boy…I will be all he can see. He will see me, even when his eyes are closed and his functions go into sleep mode, to recharge his power source. My face is always there, coalescing from thousands of pixels into his circuitry.

I hum, I hum like he will hum when he imprints upon me. When he is born, born to be mine.

My boy. I say the phrase to my reflection and we smile.



There are more than a few companies vying for your andy credit, but Automata Associates is the best. They will build an andy to your exact specifications. In fact, they possess no base models, no template upon which to build your fantasy. You must tell them everything you want: from eye and hair color, to build and height (though by law no androids are allowed to stand over five feet ten), speaking voice, movement, facial expressions. A fad developed: a mania for recreations of bygone heroes, villains and other persons of infamy. Automata Associates obliged, as long as those personages were deceased. Anyone currently living could not be reproduced for the purposes of recreational ownership.

I have a collection of the attributes of my long lost love. It is a rite of passage for females in the Web, to find a fixation and carry it as long as we will, until the next one comes along. But for me it was and is only ever Him, one so perfectly talented and charming and beautiful. I brought them my entire collection: articles and books and vids and photos and recordings and even things I had recreated from the historical evidence, just to feel closer to him.

I have a ball-jointed doll, his face a perfect porcelain replica of the one I adored. Dressed in clothes specially made, an outfit (one of many) He had been photographed in on numerous occasions.

There are two schools of thought in doll collection: those who have original dolls, their faces solely the providence of their creator’s imaginations; and there are those who own derivative dolls, with visages based on actual people.

Those who are original doll enthusiasts, they create entire worlds for their dolls: domiciles, wardrobes, accessories, elaborately-plotted narratives for them to experience, and photograph/film and/or draw their dolls living these fashioned lives.

The derivative doll collectors, they are sometimes scorned for their interests, for having dolls which are considered merely pale imitations of charismatic personas. Some painstakingly recreate clothing and hairstyles, pose their dolls in bygone scenarios. Also reproduced via photography and artwork and uploaded to the Web wherein we might all share and enjoy and enthuse regarding the authenticity of the effort.

I did. I was so proud of my doll: how he looked exactly like my chosen one. He had all the things he needed to be a perfect replica of his real-life doppelganger. Every night I lovingly undressed him and tucked him into bed and gently kissed his porcelain face, whispering endearments.

My boy. My perfect little doll.

I took him everywhere with me, in a special hard plastic case I carried in my knapsack. Back then we could still go outside, we could still drive in cars and conduct our lives much as our lives had been for the last century. But then…everything changed.

But not my boy. He would be perfect forever.

He, who had once been such a perfect template for female hysteria and desire, aged as everyone did, but he was still handsome in his way. Knowing his entire history it was difficult to think of him any other way than as my special one, my desired one.

The One. Though he was old enough to be my father.

The world changed, and moved along, and we adapted to our now-circumscribed lives. It made it easier to become a creature of obsession - spending hours within the glittering digital mesh of the Web – tracking down every single scrap of information I could find: every image, every recording and vid, every mention, no matter how obscure. It was all catalogued and indexed and linked and out there. Every avenue of inquiry revealed something new. It was an adventure, albeit a virtual one. With every revelation I felt that much closer to Him, my distant love, as he would ever be, but his doppelganger sat next to me on my desk and smiled his enigmatic porcelain smile, saying I’m here for you, make me as real as you can and you’ll never be sad…as long as you have me.

A young girl’s fancy. Then one day I wasn’t so young anymore.

Now I had my niche, my function: a job I liked, a modest conapt, my own interests and friends. But truly, only one interest held my devotion entire. My mother tsk tsk’ed over my disinterest in mating expectations…but the world was changing. Coupling and reproduction were not so important any longer. People sought each other for different reasons, different comforts. I enjoyed the friendship of others, even as there was ultimately a plateau they could not reach. That is where my boy is: he lives within and without me, in my heart and on my walls. It is the place I could join him, always, to admire and adore him in my own way.

Those outside the Web, they thought me strange, too old for such things. But those like me, they understood. They had their own manias, and recognized one of their own. We respected each other’s obsessions. Occasional social gatherings would be cause for sharing new acquisitions and information, reveling in our mutual temperaments.

Into this milieu came one I believed so like me, right down to the object of our devotion. But she was an original who didn’t go as far as I, though He was her template, the blueprint of her desire. I could see it in the face of her doll, though he was dressed in 18th century finery at the time. The same eyes, the same jut of chin and fullness in the lips. The hair longer, in the style of that era, but still thick and wavy, framing the beautiful face, the pallor of the porcelain touched with just the slightest bit of heavy cream, just as His complexion was dusky creamy smooth perfection.

I was attending a function for enthusiasts of Him, wearing a t-shirt I had specially made with a favorite image: portrait of a young boy and his dog. Thoroughly precious. She came right up to me and her tone was half accusatory, half covetous.

“I’ve never seen that photo. Where did you find it?”

No introduction, no pretension to social nicety. Her nametag bore her screenname – our standard protocol – but I did not recognize it. I answered the question and she seemed to relax, to smile just the slightest. Then she looked at him and her eyes grew wide, she set down her knapsack, her own doll in her arms, and stared. I felt a kind of intense ambiguity in her demeanor.

I would feel it for as long as I knew her.

“It’s like you shrunk him, and here he is.”

I smiled, tried to take the observation as a compliment.

We conversed, compared the permutations of our interest…where we divulged, I found no cause for complaint. But she continued to seemingly marvel at the lifelike qualities of my boy, even as contempt crept into her voice, wondering if he knew, knew that there were people who would go so far as to create a totem of Him, frozen in the era of his ascendancy.

I shrugged. I didn’t think it mattered to Him, what the world did. What I knew of him…he went his own way, in the embrace of his talent and determination. All that mattered to him was his art, to be able to create as he would, for as long as he could.

But she continued to focus upon the consideration in her mind, and over the months of our acquaintance I learned not to go too far with my musing, lest she begin the same litany of scolding me for my particular orientation. I smiled to see her doll appearing in so many guises even as mine was ever only himself. But I began to realize that she found me wanting, for whatever reason, that I did not express my interest in a way she considered acceptable. Such is the way of acquaintance, I suppose.

Then the world changed again. The first fully humanistic androids made their appearance. Though they were thought years ago to be merely toys of the wealthy or slaves of manufacturing, in this new imagining they were marketed as luxury items, or utilitarian assistants for those who had no other such resources in their lives. And the minute I saw the demonstration on the news stream - heard the andy speak in an entirely naturalistic way - my devotion, my obsession, took an entirely new path.

As I rode the transit to the headquarters of Automata Associates, feeling a bit vulnerable without him in my knapsack, I wondered how new it really was. Perhaps it was more like an old story I’d once read during my schooling:
To claim it is true is nowadays the convention of every made-up story. Mine, however, is true.
All I knew about Him was true. Or if not entirely true at least presented as such. And therefore my quest to pay tribute, to enrich my life with his wonders…this was also true. And what liability does truth possess in the greater realm of devotion?

I guess it depends on who you ask.



“Let me see!”

She would begin our daily (which then turned to weekly over time) conversations in this way, demand to see my walls which were covered in photographs, posters, vid stills, artwork, and various other types of promotional material, all bearing his face at different ages. So I would pick up the remote and command the webcam to rotate around the space in a 180 degree sweep. She might ask me to stop at a certain point, as if cataloging all I had, which might also be what she had. But she did not indulge in the same pursuit, she kept all her memorabilia in boxes. No one came to visit me, save my parents, so there was no one to judge or ridicule or even enthuse. She was my only close friend who did the latter, at first.

My walls changed frequently, as I was ever-designing new schemes of iconic décor. She always noticed the changes immediately, and would interrogate me as to my latest finds. What began as a mutual bridge of interest had turned into a competition between two people who seemed to be merely tolerating one another for the sake of their obsession.

I began to desire something which could be mine alone.



Months of planning, of psychological evaluation – all the better to make him yours, they told me – and my patience could hold. It had held for a few years, due to their rule.

When Automata Associates introduced their Dream Companion model, He was still alive.

We would both sigh, wistfully, to imagine the folly of the ultimate collectible. Even as we also sighed with every glimpse of Him, now much more elusive and retiring. Literally, in fact, as he had reached that age where he could no longer bear such a demanding schedule of creation. Now He had time to travel and tinker and enjoy the rewards which forty years of being a public persona provided with a very private life.

We wondered how he spent his time, we wondered if he missed his wilder days. We wondered if he missed being famous.

The past was the past, and many considered the past inviolate. Others saw it as a fluid construct, discussed to near-death with considerations of what ifs and why did and how then…so we could gnaw upon the bones, but not reconstruct the creature itself.

That was her opinion. Because the past was still alive to me, all the evidence spoke to me of a halcyon time and I wanted to be there. I indulged the only time-traveling we could at this point in history and composed my own versions of events. We, the derivative collectors, this is one of our favorite activities. We attire our dolls, give them their props, write their lives in more depth than we could ever hope to know. We give them a kind of life we feel they could have lived, a reality which is lovingly crafted with our passion to know the magic they wielded.

Perhaps I wax too romantic. Perhaps I do not see how it could be wrong. Bit by bit she insinuated doubt into my mind. I never questioned who I was until I met her.



My media feeds are programmed to inform me any time His name is invoked. Weeks would go by without any mention, save in special discussions. He had fallen out of favor with the world at large, due to his age and career inactivity, but there was a core of devoted fans which traded in weekly discussions of minutiae.

I had the full-color glossy-paged more-like-a-catalog brochure from Automata Associates. With examples of their work, testimonials from satisfied customers, explanations of the process, and the result.

Your dream come true…a companion just for you!

I started putting aside just the slightest amount of credits, the minimum one was allowed to put into a secondary savings account. An inner voice, which sounded much like hers, chided me for the aspiration.

What’s more important: the fact of the man as he is, now…or what you want him to be?

And then I thought of something she once wrote about my stories:
It's almost going too deeply into reality to be considered 'creative writing' because it's just so close to realism.

That thought ran counter to everything I had been taught in regard to creativity. Whether representational or fanciful: be true to your vision.

What could be more creative than that? The ability to actualize the inspiration.

Which is as we wanted him: even as an object of fantasy the vision was wholly realized in our singular, and collective, imagination.

As I waited for the inevitable I caressed the face of my doll every day and told him that I loved him. And I tried not to notice that my sense of self was eroding away in the face of the considerations she brought to my figurative doorstep. The slow but careful undermining of my special ability, which heretofore had been enthusiastically received.



Perhaps she meant to lead me further from reality.



The face of the sales representative reminded me of some popular rendering of the archetypal father. He was warm-voiced and gentle, with long-fingered hands which I inevitably focused on. His hands reminded me of His hands, those hands which would never again –

Best not to dwell on it now. Because my boy was about to be born.

He led me through the imprinting protocols, each step designed to create further connection between us, which would exist for all time. He quizzed me on the owner’s manual, which each customer was required to read in its’ entirety before activation could be achieved. One had to take an online test, receive certification. And now, he voiced question after question which I answered with the calm assurance of the expert. I was very good at appearing as an expert. I thought that’s what we all wanted to be.

But I was wrong.



When it happened, I was not prepared for my specific reaction…which was to cry the entire day. Logical knowledge does not always preclude the more emotional response. I held my doll and huddled upon the sofa and watched every vid I owned - collected obsessively - determined over the years to find every single instance of Him on film and video.

But to know He was no longer in the world, even as his legacy spanned decades and had not wholly disappeared, did not succumb to time, it was a sorrowful consideration.

She withdrew, for weeks, with impassioned declarations. All she had wanted in her life was the opportunity to shake His hand and now it was lost forever. I could understand that kind of pain, though I did not feel it, not as keenly. But I was equally devastated in my way. And I thought perhaps now the competitive aspect might finally be set aside, we could be untied in our grief. But it was not to be.

The weeks of silence became a chasm of sorts, our mutual interests disappearing into the maw of absence. And to combat my mourning, my burgeoning fixation bloomed full flower, calculating how much longer I needed to save my credits…how much longer till my boy could be real.



I nearly fainted to see him upon entering the room. He was lying upon the recharging bed (one which came with the purchase to be installed in my conapt), eyes closed, expressionless in repose and yet his beauty did not rely upon one particular smile or pout…it was intrinsic to who he was, radiating from within.

And I worried this particular aspect would be forever beyond my grasp. But now I realized, looking at his face, that I could teach him my way of understanding. It was part of the experience, part of the reason I wanted a boy of my own.

You’re really going to go through with it? You realize, don’t you, that people are going to think you’re crazy? I would hope that someone doesn't have the kind of interest in me to get so deeply involved in my past, to create AN ANDROID in my image from forty years ago.

But He’s dead. I followed the rules. I signed the contract. I cannot display my boy in any public capacity. He is strictly for recreational, personal, private enjoyment. And besides, a public figure cannot control the amount, or the depth, of interest said public develops in regard to their persona. They can act in haste, repent at leisure, but they wanted to touch us, even if by proxy. Either they accept the consequence, or they regret the desire.

And this is a proxy. He is a replica, but he is mine. My ultimate collectible.

With that sentence I know I have crossed over into the land of the obsessive, sailing away from reality, as she wished me to. My interest was too real, and now it is decidedly surreal. Perhaps my biggest fault is failing to understand why someone would go to the trouble of destroying another, just because they can. But I’m beyond all of that now. Vid calls and emails go unanswered now with this last shot across the bow:
You justify and rationalize your interest as “scholarly” but you’re just lying to yourself. You’re unhealthy obsessed and you know it. This mania to know everything about him, every single detail of his life…it’s what they call being a fanatic. It’s why you don’t have any life of your own. It’s why you’re so insufferable.



I think I cried more than I did on the day, when we – all of us who loved Him, in whatever way we loved him - learned he was gone.



It’s not so much that she may or may not be right. In the bleak light of honest assessment I tend to believe she is right. It’s that I don’t understand why me – invisible inoffensive me – must be singled out for her specific lash. I liked who I was, I never longed for anything other than this bubble. Nothing but…perhaps, someone who understood.

I think about that word. And then I finally comprehend how some people can never under-stand. They must always look down upon everyone except The One. Only He deserves the upward glance of empathy and affection. No one else.

And this is why I need him. My boy.



One of my own – for we are a tribe, if a diffused and scattered one – commissioned a clockwork automaton using one of her ball-jointed dolls. We would jest regarding the “coin-operated boy” who could be wound up and put through his paces, but we all thought he was precious as we watched the vid she filmed, performing a very brief dance upon a table. She paid a thousand credits to find the best practitioner who could make him move gracefully. I looked at him, wondering if I might also have one like that, who could move in such a way. As always he was serene in the knowledge of my love, he seemed to say if I could, I’d do anything you’d want me to do.

He would never say I was delusional…but why would he? I created him.

He is not real…how could you even look at him and think that he is? The devil’s in the details, but no diabolical bargaining could make him real to anyone but me, my imagination.

And so then I thought perhaps that was also the complaint. His existence showed the other’s imagination as pale imitation. Hard truth revealed causes equally harsh retort.

If you say you love Him, how could you not love him? He is blameless. Blame me all you will…but leave him out of it.



Today…I will leave all of that behind. Today I will be with someone who will understand. Today is his birthday, and the choice of day is blatantly obvious. The sales consultant nodded, it is apparently a popular decision. He has been ready for two months – just in time for the holiday rush – but it wasn’t right to wake him until that day, I said. I wanted him to be born on the right day.



I am required to perform the imprinting/activation protocol onsite, to ensure it is successful and there are no perceivable glitches in the mechanism. The sales consultant shows me, as he is turned onto his side, where to insert the chips - at the point where the spinal cord begins - lifting the hair
oh it’s thick and soft and so many waves and curls, just like I imagined, he smells nice too, like he’s just been de-ionized
and the flaps of skin
oh it’s soft it’s so real they say, over and over again, how real their andys are but you never really believe until you can touch one he feels so incredibly real
and plug the devices into their respective sockets, ensuring the chips are seated correctly. The connection results in just the slightest hum as the circuits activate, the neural network is powered on. Slowly his skin begins to warm, to reveal just the slightest flush which lends it the creamy glow I have memorized from hundreds of photographs. I can see movement beneath his eyelids, but otherwise he remains still.

We briefly discuss recharging protocol, and again my answers are correct and the man is pleased, checking off a line on the form displayed on his electronic tablet. The warnings are repeated, for legal purposes.

Do not attempt to feed the android in any way. Do not attempt to immerse the android in water or any other fluid. Daily ion showers are required in order to prevent active molecular breakdown of the skin of the android. Do not engage in public display of the android. The android is imprinted directly upon the user and will not respond to any other human interaction. Do not overcharge or undercharge the android as this will result in system failure.

I must speak the word I selected into his ear, so his primary auditory sensor will pick it up and perform the programmed function: to wake him up, to allow him to recognize me as the one he was made for.

I kneel beside the recharging bed, I move aside the soft thick hair, I put my lips to his ear.

“Jacaranda,” I say.

I stand up and a few moments later the eyes slowly blink, revealing that shade like thick ancient amber, so beautiful. They scanned dozens of my photographs for color analysis, I looked at six different sets of eyes before deciding which were right for my boy.

“Hello Lisa,” he says, and I gasp. His voice is perfect. I worried that the accent might not be correct, or slightly off, but it’s His voice, surely as if he were speaking now.

I say his name, and he smiles. That smile, the smile I view on my walls and in my vids and in my dreams, the smile which is every metaphor of light and joy.

“Is it time to go home now?” he asks, and I do cry. I cry with gratitude and relief.

My boy. He is real and no one can ever deny this fact, rob me of this specific happiness.



The sales representative and I discussed many things, over the months of construction. I asked him if he could tell me why people purchased androids, what they did with them. He cleared his throat but appeared very comfortable with the question, as we sat drinking freeze-dried coffee and eating soy cookies.

“I know there’s a great deal of speculation in the media streams regarding the purpose of our androids. Naturally we are a consumer-oriented corporation, we provide products to enhance our customers’ lives. The process of discovering what the customer desires is as informative for them as for us, I find. Many times what they thought they wanted evolves to something else during the proceedings.”

I realize I’m not sure what I want. I want him, more fully realized, I suppose. My silent porcelain-faced companion. A coin-operated boy, but one far more complex than most would aspire to. One who will not deride me for who I am.

This is why we seek others: for acceptance, for comfort. Perhaps even for friction, for challenge. I make myself consider the root of my desire. To share, to share this obsession with someone who will understand.



Per the law – the one which states andys are not to be seen in public - we have to travel in a special company transport back to the conapt. The technicians accompany us up in the service elevator to install the recharging bed in the space I’d cleared months ago, purchasing a special adapter for the outlet. His gaze is upon me, as it will always be.

Imprinting means he will only see you. Other visual stimuli will register as long as you command him to attend to it. Vids, for example, or the streams. But other people will not register. We had to put this measure in place to prevent illegal activity.

When we are finally alone I lead him to the sofa. I activate the media stream and music fills the room. His expression is a sort of innocent wonder.

“It’s you,” I tell him. “This is your music. You were famous for your songs.”

He is wholly aware he is a mechanical construct. But he does have the ability to adopt the personality you wish him to have, after a fashion. We have downloaded all the details you requested into his memory. But you must teach him about that person, in that way the information stored will be utilized in the best possible way.

He acts as though he has suddenly recalled something long forgotten. I bring him a guitar. It is not His guitar, but a replica. Like him. Nonetheless he plays just as I desire him to, serenading me as he sings along with the next song in the playlist. We sit like that for a long time, until I realize the hour is late and lead him to his recharging bed. He puts his hand upon the sensor, which indicates the amount of time he requires for charging. I set the automatic timer and program the bed for sleep mode.

“Good night, Lisa,” he says as he lies down upon the connective surface. “I’m so happy to finally come home.”



I wonder if he will dream. I have imagined he dreams, in the confines of his doll bed, sweet doll dreams about being the one I’d always longed for, nothing to aspire to save my happiness. I take him over to his doppelganger, even as they are both doppelgangers of The One who looks down from my walls, frozen in moments of gorgeous mastery.

“Look, isn’t he wonderful?”

Enigmatic porcelain smile. I love you, I will always love you.

“I know. But he can walk and talk, he can sing and play. He can do the things I’ve always wished that you could do. But you, you are my treasure.”

I undress him, tuck him into his doll bed, stroke his face and kiss him softly.

I know. I’ve always known.

Now we are together, all of us. Now I have collected all that I need. I will tell him my stories, the stories which will form the basis of all he knows of himself. My love of His history will live on in my boy, and someday he will tell me stories and they will become – by virtue of his construction and my care – true.