Those Stepford Guys by Winifred Seery- written version
THOSE STEPFORD GUYS!
The day seemed flawless--the air pristine, the traffic well-regulated,
the store windows playfully decorated with cardboard witches and crepe paper
pumpkins. Rex Midas whistled as he strolled down Main Street on his way home
from the office. Two nights before the guys from the Men’s Association had
fixed him up with a perfect, living doll.
So absorbed was Rex in contemplating his recent gtood fortune that right
in front of the hardware store he smacked into one of the Association's
engineers.
"Are you okay?" Rex blurted. The man had landed on his bottom, missing
by an inch a line of new snowblowers set out on the sidewalk for a pre-winter
sale. Rex offered him a hand up. He owed much to the Association’s
middle-aged geniuses.
"Not to worry; it’ll take more than a little fall to damage this old
guy." The engineer brushed himself off. "By the way, how’s the new wife working
out? Custom job, wasn’t she?"
Rex grinned. "Like clockwork, pal." He made a circle with his thumb
and forefinger. "She’s incredible."
"That’s good to hear. Those cerebral cortex modifications can be darn
tricky." Looking at Rex, the engineer waxed sympathetic. "Every guy wants a
perfect wife, hmm? And you put up with the old one long enough, my friend."
Rex’s blue eyes hardened. "It *was* rough toward the end—-the beds
went unmade for a week, the mashed potatoes were lumpy--"
"You don’t have to spell it out; I understand, old buddy. We’re all
the same. But now you’ve got yourself the ideal woman. Thirty-six,
twenty-four, thirty-six, wasn’t she?"
Rex shook his head. "You’re off by a tad. Thirty-eight, twenty-four,
thirty-six."
"You’re sure?" The engineer pulled a notebook from his back pocket,
flipped pages till he found the one he wanted, and ran his scraggly fingernail
over a column of numbers.
"Must have confused her with one of the others," he mumbled as he
snapped his notebook shut. "Main thing is you’re happy now, right? Immaculate
house, gourmet meals, a sex kitten who worships you and demands zilch? You could
buy yourself that little sports car you’ve been itching for. It’s the real
thing, isn’t it, Rex boy?"
"You bet," Rex agreed heartily. "There’s only one problem--I hate to
sound picky--but she keeps calling me ‘sir.’"
"Oh, you didn’t want that?"
"*I* don’t mind really. It’s just that she confuses the kids."
The engineer folded his arms over his chest. "Most of the fellows think
it sets a good example for them."
"Well, yeah, but--there's my image to consider too. Suppose she starts
talking like that in a restaurant outside of Stepford? I’d look stuffy. Feel
embarrassed. Know what I mean?"
The technician gave some thought to the problem as he scratched the top
of his head. "Okay, Rex. She’s *your* wife." He jotted a few words in the
front of the notebook and replaced it in his back pocket. "Bring her to the
Association meeting tonight and I’ll modify her conversation tape."
"Sounds good. Oh, wait--I can’t manage it this evening. The boss is
coming to dinner. How about tomorrow night?"
The other man frowned. He seemed to find Rex’s words difficult to
digest. "You mean you won’t be there at all?"
Rex felt miffed. Cheez! What did they want from him? He attended all
the semiweekly meetings, participated in a heck of a lot of kidnappings, and
he always paid his dues on time.
"Come on, Werner. I don’t have to prove my loyalty to the Men’s
Association. But job security has gotta be my bottom line, especially these days.
You know that."
The engineer smiled. "You want me to back off, huh?"
"I’ll bring 'er in tomorrow night."
"Sure' that'll be fine." Patting Rex’s arm. "Meantime, make a note if
anything else goes wrong. She’s still under warranty."
The Midases’ suburban home with the green shutters and matching lawn
seemed quieter than usual. Even Rusty, their Irish setter, had been restrained
somewhere. As Rex closed the front door, the smell of air fresheners greeted
him. But the kitchen was empty, the table unset.
"What is the meaning of this?" he wanted to shout. His chest
constricted as visions of the old days crowded his brain. "Barbie?"
No answer.
Only one payment and already--. He marched into the den where the twins
were watching their late-afternoon TV cartoon show.
"Gene! Jean!" he barked.
Two halibuts would have manifested greater response. He strode to the
TV set and placed himself in front of it, blocking their view. "Where is your
mother?"
They blinked. "Our real mother or our play mother?"
"Your new mother!"
"Oh--her," Gene said. "She got stuck in the broom closet as she was
putting away the vacuum cleaner."
"She just stopped moving, Dad," Jean whined.
"And didn’t you even try to help her?" Rex started down the hall, the
children at his heels.
The door to the broom closet was open. True enough, Barbie stood
pulsing in the space next to the Upright, her back to the hallway.
Rex looked down at the twins and frowned. "I expected greater
cooperation from you two," he growled.
The children defended themselves:
"We tried our darndest to pull her out--honest."
"But she was too heavy."
"And we couldn’t get her feet to work."
"Yeah, all we could hear was a whirring noise."
Rex turned away. Dropping to his haunches, he attempted to move
Barbie’s right leg, then her left, to no avail.
"We did that," Jean said from behind him.
"Okay!" He stood up, knuckles on hips, scowling. "Did you try to rock
her from side to side and bump her out backwards?"
"We told you--she’s too heavy," Gene said. "Could we go back to our
cartoon show now?"
"Hold on. Did she say what she was planning for dinner?"
"She has something stuffed in the refrigerator," Jean answered. "A huge
roast, I think. She took all the bottles off the top shelf and put them in
the door to make room for it."
The children edged toward the TV room.
"Stuffed--eh!" Suddenly optimistic, Rex gathered himself together,
wrested his new wife from her closet prison, whirled her around to face him, and
discovered that despite her ordeal Barbie hadn’t lost her toothpaste smile.
Perhaps her malfunction could be remedied with simple measures. Like--um--oil.
He steadied her against the wall, went to the garage, and got a can of W-D-40
off the shelf. He lubricated her joints.
No reaction.
Maybe the battery? He checked it out. Barbie still didn’t budge. The
perfect wife--bah! What a time for a breakdown! In a fit of pique he brought
his knee up under her seat and let her have it. A second later something
started up inside. Her feet began to move and she turned to greet him. She was
still smiling.
"Rex--sir. You’re home."
"Don’t call me ‘sir,’ Barbie. What happened?"
"It was so-o-o dark in there," she said dreamily. "Did I fall asleep?"
She *was* lovely. Despite his frustration, resentment, and the
suspicion that he'd been sold a lemon, Rex still couldn’t help marveling at what the
engineers had achieved: her shining, baby blue eyes--just like his; her blonde
hair--the same shade; an identical roguish tilt to her nose. What he’d felt
for her the night he'd brought her home from the Men’s Association clicked
into place again.
"Barbie," he breathed, "you don’t have to kneel."
He helped her to her feet, led her into the living room, and sat her
down on the sofa. Then he sank into his recliner. Unwrapping a cigar from the
box on the end table, he cast a fond eye on his beautiful robot. Hands folded,
she returned his glance with a look of puppylike expectation.
"Are we all set for dinner then?" he asked.
"We couldn’t be more readier, sir."
Rex lit the cigar. Tomorrow evening he’d talk with the programmers abo
ut Barbie’s choice of adverbs.
Unaware, of course, of any defects in her system, Barbie went on to
boast of her domestic achievements. "This morning I baked bread and mowed the
lawn," she said in her bell-tone voice. "Then I cleaned the gasket around the
dishwasher door."
"You actually cleaned the gasket?" What a woman!
"Oh sure, it was simple. You wrap a table knife in a wet rag and push
it along inside the ridges. I read about how to do it in *Kitchen
Cleanliness*."
"Barbie," Rex said sternly, "you’ve been--reading?"
She smoothed her dress. "Yes, dear. *Kitchen Cleanliness* is a
magazine we all subscribe to."
"Oh, I see. It’s like a manual, eh? Then that would be all right. Go
on."
"I scrubbed the plastic cushions on the kitchen chairs with mild
detergent, being careful not to wet the threads, of course." She began to talk
faster. "Thirty minutes in the backyard making mud pies with Jean but she grew
tired of that--" The syllables started to rush together, higher and faster, till
her speech became nothing but a high-pitched whine. Still her face retained
its calm smile.
Rex stubbed out the cigar and flew to the sofa, where he shook her till
her teeth rattled. "Barbie! Come back!" It was an entreaty, not an order.
The voice decelerated. "Then I took--the dirty dishes out of the
dishwasher."
"You what?"
"I cleaned--each window --with cold cream."
"No!"
Her smile was fading and her voice was barely audible. "I scrubbed the
bathroom floors--with soy sauce." The glimmer of a smile appeared once more,
then disappeared. "After that--I stuffed--the dog--for dinner."
Rex screamed. Alarmed, the twins ran from the den. "What’s wrong?"
they said in unison.
He put it to them gently. "I believe your mother has completely broken
down, children."
"Into the ashcan with her." Gene moved determinedly in Barbie’s
direction.
"Gene! That’s not nice! It’s not even economical!" Rex ran a hand
over the threatening pain in his right eye. "Go back to the TV," he said
weakly. "I’ve gotta make a call."
His friend, the engineer, hadn’t arrived at the Club yet; and the repair
man who answered the phone didn't sound terribly sympathetic.
"Is your model wife a pre-fab?" he asked in a bored voice.
"Custom."
"Are you sure her switch is turned on?"
"Of course!"
"Are the smile batteries facing in the right direction?"
"They must be. She’s had no trouble with that. But her voice keeps
speeding up and slowing down, and she’s mixed up the housework at an
inappropriate time."
"Mm. Sounds like a glitch in the tape reader. She may need a complete
overhaul. I’m all out of loaners right now. You’ll have to make do for a
few days."
"Well, that’s just great. I might as well have kept the old one. At
least she used to keep going when she got mad enough. Maybe I should try to get
this one ticked off. Think it would work?"
"Lemme see." A pause. "Nope. She wasn’t programmed for anger. In
fact, no negative emotions whatsoever."
"Well, I’m riled enough for the two of us. The boss and his wife are
coming to dinner and I’m not prepared."
"Look, bring her in; and as soon as I get a minute I’ll check her
out--batteries, microprocessors, tapes, everything. Ask for Lou."
Just as the repairman hung up the doorbell rang. Rex looked at his
watch. Too early for the boss and his wife to arrive. He opened the door. The
woman standing on the porch had brown hair and brown eyes and her measurements
looked to be about thirty-two, twenty-six, thirty-six.
"What is it?" Rex said gruffly.
"Hi! I know it’s a bad time to be calling. You must be sitting down to
dinner. I’m from the Welcome Wagon. I’ll only take a few minutes--."
No wedding ring. An insidious temptation entered Rex’s brain. The
Welcome Wagon woman probably ate alone most evenings. Bet she could cook up a
storm if she were sufficiently motivated. He grinned boyishly at her.
"You haven’t interrupted anything at all. Won’t you come in?"
"I thought your wife--" the woman began as she stepped through the door.
"Ah, there she is!" She took a step forward.
Barbie sat motionless on the sofa. Plaid, shirtwaist dress; hair
exquisitely coiffed; hands still raised in elation over having successfully stuffed
the family pet.
The Welcome Wagon woman stopped in her tracks. "Oh, I see; it’s one of
them. Having a bad day, is she?" She gave Rex the once-over. "I have to get
home to dinner myself," she said hurriedly. But I’ll leave you some gifts
and materials--"
"That’s awfully nice of you. Do you have to run off?" He tried to look
real. "No sense in your eating alone. I’ve got some things in the
refrigerator--"
The Welcome Wagon woman gave him a canny look.
"Uh-uh. If I do get involved, it won’t be with a Stepford man. Look,
why don’t you work things out with your so-called ‘spouse’ over there? After
all, you signed a contract, didn’t you?"
"Yes, but not with her. She’s only a robot."
"And you’re tired of her already; I can see that."
The Welcome Wagon woman had told the truth. He’d even become bored with
himself, believe it or not. In the few days since he’d owned Barbie, he’d
also begun to realize that he’d planned his big purchase poorly, and now
life--life wasn’t as perfect as they’d promised in the brochure. But this new
woman seemed different from the people he knew. Why not try her out, see what
develops?
Her fingers were on the doorknob. She’d turned to say good-bye. How to
convince her he was sincere?
Trying to recall the expression in his late setter’s eyes, Rex stepped
toward the door. "Then how about coffee some evening? A cup of java wouldn’t
compromise you, would it?"
The woman let go of the doorknob and turned slightly. She glanced at
Barbie, then at Rex.
"I will if you think about setting her free." Color rose in her cheeks.
"In fact, they should *all* go free," she said heatedly.
He looked at her, considering. Maybe her seemingly airy notion wasn’t
beyond the crafty resources of those techies at the Men's Association. But who
would dare suggest that any of them deprive themselves of their glamorous
toys? Good thing the Welcome Wagon woman hadn’t mentioned women’s liberation
during her interview with Ed at the Chamber of Commerce or he’d have replaced
her with a Welcome Wagon Barbie.
It wouldn’t be smart to clobber her with the awful truth right now
though. "That’s an interesting idea--retrofitting the wives for spontaneity," he
said with a disingenuous grin. "If I ask them to work on it, then will you go
out with me?"
"I’ll think about it." She took her car keys from her purse.
The sincerity ploy had worked. Rex felt a smidgin of guilt about using it,
but he had to see her again. Somehow she made him want to be authentic.
But could he chance it? The messy tears? Sickness? And if the Men’s
Association found out he was seeing someone they disapproved of, his own life
would be in danger. He knew too much.
What the heck. He could fool ’em. Maybe she’d even cooperate. He
turned on her his most angelic smile.
"Say, can you turn at right angles?"
The day seemed flawless--the air pristine, the traffic well-regulated,
the store windows playfully decorated with cardboard witches and crepe paper
pumpkins. Rex Midas whistled as he strolled down Main Street on his way home
from the office. Two nights before the guys from the Men’s Association had
fixed him up with a perfect, living doll.
So absorbed was Rex in contemplating his recent gtood fortune that right
in front of the hardware store he smacked into one of the Association's
engineers.
"Are you okay?" Rex blurted. The man had landed on his bottom, missing
by an inch a line of new snowblowers set out on the sidewalk for a pre-winter
sale. Rex offered him a hand up. He owed much to the Association’s
middle-aged geniuses.
"Not to worry; it’ll take more than a little fall to damage this old
guy." The engineer brushed himself off. "By the way, how’s the new wife working
out? Custom job, wasn’t she?"
Rex grinned. "Like clockwork, pal." He made a circle with his thumb
and forefinger. "She’s incredible."
"That’s good to hear. Those cerebral cortex modifications can be darn
tricky." Looking at Rex, the engineer waxed sympathetic. "Every guy wants a
perfect wife, hmm? And you put up with the old one long enough, my friend."
Rex’s blue eyes hardened. "It *was* rough toward the end—-the beds
went unmade for a week, the mashed potatoes were lumpy--"
"You don’t have to spell it out; I understand, old buddy. We’re all
the same. But now you’ve got yourself the ideal woman. Thirty-six,
twenty-four, thirty-six, wasn’t she?"
Rex shook his head. "You’re off by a tad. Thirty-eight, twenty-four,
thirty-six."
"You’re sure?" The engineer pulled a notebook from his back pocket,
flipped pages till he found the one he wanted, and ran his scraggly fingernail
over a column of numbers.
"Must have confused her with one of the others," he mumbled as he
snapped his notebook shut. "Main thing is you’re happy now, right? Immaculate
house, gourmet meals, a sex kitten who worships you and demands zilch? You could
buy yourself that little sports car you’ve been itching for. It’s the real
thing, isn’t it, Rex boy?"
"You bet," Rex agreed heartily. "There’s only one problem--I hate to
sound picky--but she keeps calling me ‘sir.’"
"Oh, you didn’t want that?"
"*I* don’t mind really. It’s just that she confuses the kids."
The engineer folded his arms over his chest. "Most of the fellows think
it sets a good example for them."
"Well, yeah, but--there's my image to consider too. Suppose she starts
talking like that in a restaurant outside of Stepford? I’d look stuffy. Feel
embarrassed. Know what I mean?"
The technician gave some thought to the problem as he scratched the top
of his head. "Okay, Rex. She’s *your* wife." He jotted a few words in the
front of the notebook and replaced it in his back pocket. "Bring her to the
Association meeting tonight and I’ll modify her conversation tape."
"Sounds good. Oh, wait--I can’t manage it this evening. The boss is
coming to dinner. How about tomorrow night?"
The other man frowned. He seemed to find Rex’s words difficult to
digest. "You mean you won’t be there at all?"
Rex felt miffed. Cheez! What did they want from him? He attended all
the semiweekly meetings, participated in a heck of a lot of kidnappings, and
he always paid his dues on time.
"Come on, Werner. I don’t have to prove my loyalty to the Men’s
Association. But job security has gotta be my bottom line, especially these days.
You know that."
The engineer smiled. "You want me to back off, huh?"
"I’ll bring 'er in tomorrow night."
"Sure' that'll be fine." Patting Rex’s arm. "Meantime, make a note if
anything else goes wrong. She’s still under warranty."
The Midases’ suburban home with the green shutters and matching lawn
seemed quieter than usual. Even Rusty, their Irish setter, had been restrained
somewhere. As Rex closed the front door, the smell of air fresheners greeted
him. But the kitchen was empty, the table unset.
"What is the meaning of this?" he wanted to shout. His chest
constricted as visions of the old days crowded his brain. "Barbie?"
No answer.
Only one payment and already--. He marched into the den where the twins
were watching their late-afternoon TV cartoon show.
"Gene! Jean!" he barked.
Two halibuts would have manifested greater response. He strode to the
TV set and placed himself in front of it, blocking their view. "Where is your
mother?"
They blinked. "Our real mother or our play mother?"
"Your new mother!"
"Oh--her," Gene said. "She got stuck in the broom closet as she was
putting away the vacuum cleaner."
"She just stopped moving, Dad," Jean whined.
"And didn’t you even try to help her?" Rex started down the hall, the
children at his heels.
The door to the broom closet was open. True enough, Barbie stood
pulsing in the space next to the Upright, her back to the hallway.
Rex looked down at the twins and frowned. "I expected greater
cooperation from you two," he growled.
The children defended themselves:
"We tried our darndest to pull her out--honest."
"But she was too heavy."
"And we couldn’t get her feet to work."
"Yeah, all we could hear was a whirring noise."
Rex turned away. Dropping to his haunches, he attempted to move
Barbie’s right leg, then her left, to no avail.
"We did that," Jean said from behind him.
"Okay!" He stood up, knuckles on hips, scowling. "Did you try to rock
her from side to side and bump her out backwards?"
"We told you--she’s too heavy," Gene said. "Could we go back to our
cartoon show now?"
"Hold on. Did she say what she was planning for dinner?"
"She has something stuffed in the refrigerator," Jean answered. "A huge
roast, I think. She took all the bottles off the top shelf and put them in
the door to make room for it."
The children edged toward the TV room.
"Stuffed--eh!" Suddenly optimistic, Rex gathered himself together,
wrested his new wife from her closet prison, whirled her around to face him, and
discovered that despite her ordeal Barbie hadn’t lost her toothpaste smile.
Perhaps her malfunction could be remedied with simple measures. Like--um--oil.
He steadied her against the wall, went to the garage, and got a can of W-D-40
off the shelf. He lubricated her joints.
No reaction.
Maybe the battery? He checked it out. Barbie still didn’t budge. The
perfect wife--bah! What a time for a breakdown! In a fit of pique he brought
his knee up under her seat and let her have it. A second later something
started up inside. Her feet began to move and she turned to greet him. She was
still smiling.
"Rex--sir. You’re home."
"Don’t call me ‘sir,’ Barbie. What happened?"
"It was so-o-o dark in there," she said dreamily. "Did I fall asleep?"
She *was* lovely. Despite his frustration, resentment, and the
suspicion that he'd been sold a lemon, Rex still couldn’t help marveling at what the
engineers had achieved: her shining, baby blue eyes--just like his; her blonde
hair--the same shade; an identical roguish tilt to her nose. What he’d felt
for her the night he'd brought her home from the Men’s Association clicked
into place again.
"Barbie," he breathed, "you don’t have to kneel."
He helped her to her feet, led her into the living room, and sat her
down on the sofa. Then he sank into his recliner. Unwrapping a cigar from the
box on the end table, he cast a fond eye on his beautiful robot. Hands folded,
she returned his glance with a look of puppylike expectation.
"Are we all set for dinner then?" he asked.
"We couldn’t be more readier, sir."
Rex lit the cigar. Tomorrow evening he’d talk with the programmers abo
ut Barbie’s choice of adverbs.
Unaware, of course, of any defects in her system, Barbie went on to
boast of her domestic achievements. "This morning I baked bread and mowed the
lawn," she said in her bell-tone voice. "Then I cleaned the gasket around the
dishwasher door."
"You actually cleaned the gasket?" What a woman!
"Oh sure, it was simple. You wrap a table knife in a wet rag and push
it along inside the ridges. I read about how to do it in *Kitchen
Cleanliness*."
"Barbie," Rex said sternly, "you’ve been--reading?"
She smoothed her dress. "Yes, dear. *Kitchen Cleanliness* is a
magazine we all subscribe to."
"Oh, I see. It’s like a manual, eh? Then that would be all right. Go
on."
"I scrubbed the plastic cushions on the kitchen chairs with mild
detergent, being careful not to wet the threads, of course." She began to talk
faster. "Thirty minutes in the backyard making mud pies with Jean but she grew
tired of that--" The syllables started to rush together, higher and faster, till
her speech became nothing but a high-pitched whine. Still her face retained
its calm smile.
Rex stubbed out the cigar and flew to the sofa, where he shook her till
her teeth rattled. "Barbie! Come back!" It was an entreaty, not an order.
The voice decelerated. "Then I took--the dirty dishes out of the
dishwasher."
"You what?"
"I cleaned--each window --with cold cream."
"No!"
Her smile was fading and her voice was barely audible. "I scrubbed the
bathroom floors--with soy sauce." The glimmer of a smile appeared once more,
then disappeared. "After that--I stuffed--the dog--for dinner."
Rex screamed. Alarmed, the twins ran from the den. "What’s wrong?"
they said in unison.
He put it to them gently. "I believe your mother has completely broken
down, children."
"Into the ashcan with her." Gene moved determinedly in Barbie’s
direction.
"Gene! That’s not nice! It’s not even economical!" Rex ran a hand
over the threatening pain in his right eye. "Go back to the TV," he said
weakly. "I’ve gotta make a call."
His friend, the engineer, hadn’t arrived at the Club yet; and the repair
man who answered the phone didn't sound terribly sympathetic.
"Is your model wife a pre-fab?" he asked in a bored voice.
"Custom."
"Are you sure her switch is turned on?"
"Of course!"
"Are the smile batteries facing in the right direction?"
"They must be. She’s had no trouble with that. But her voice keeps
speeding up and slowing down, and she’s mixed up the housework at an
inappropriate time."
"Mm. Sounds like a glitch in the tape reader. She may need a complete
overhaul. I’m all out of loaners right now. You’ll have to make do for a
few days."
"Well, that’s just great. I might as well have kept the old one. At
least she used to keep going when she got mad enough. Maybe I should try to get
this one ticked off. Think it would work?"
"Lemme see." A pause. "Nope. She wasn’t programmed for anger. In
fact, no negative emotions whatsoever."
"Well, I’m riled enough for the two of us. The boss and his wife are
coming to dinner and I’m not prepared."
"Look, bring her in; and as soon as I get a minute I’ll check her
out--batteries, microprocessors, tapes, everything. Ask for Lou."
Just as the repairman hung up the doorbell rang. Rex looked at his
watch. Too early for the boss and his wife to arrive. He opened the door. The
woman standing on the porch had brown hair and brown eyes and her measurements
looked to be about thirty-two, twenty-six, thirty-six.
"What is it?" Rex said gruffly.
"Hi! I know it’s a bad time to be calling. You must be sitting down to
dinner. I’m from the Welcome Wagon. I’ll only take a few minutes--."
No wedding ring. An insidious temptation entered Rex’s brain. The
Welcome Wagon woman probably ate alone most evenings. Bet she could cook up a
storm if she were sufficiently motivated. He grinned boyishly at her.
"You haven’t interrupted anything at all. Won’t you come in?"
"I thought your wife--" the woman began as she stepped through the door.
"Ah, there she is!" She took a step forward.
Barbie sat motionless on the sofa. Plaid, shirtwaist dress; hair
exquisitely coiffed; hands still raised in elation over having successfully stuffed
the family pet.
The Welcome Wagon woman stopped in her tracks. "Oh, I see; it’s one of
them. Having a bad day, is she?" She gave Rex the once-over. "I have to get
home to dinner myself," she said hurriedly. But I’ll leave you some gifts
and materials--"
"That’s awfully nice of you. Do you have to run off?" He tried to look
real. "No sense in your eating alone. I’ve got some things in the
refrigerator--"
The Welcome Wagon woman gave him a canny look.
"Uh-uh. If I do get involved, it won’t be with a Stepford man. Look,
why don’t you work things out with your so-called ‘spouse’ over there? After
all, you signed a contract, didn’t you?"
"Yes, but not with her. She’s only a robot."
"And you’re tired of her already; I can see that."
The Welcome Wagon woman had told the truth. He’d even become bored with
himself, believe it or not. In the few days since he’d owned Barbie, he’d
also begun to realize that he’d planned his big purchase poorly, and now
life--life wasn’t as perfect as they’d promised in the brochure. But this new
woman seemed different from the people he knew. Why not try her out, see what
develops?
Her fingers were on the doorknob. She’d turned to say good-bye. How to
convince her he was sincere?
Trying to recall the expression in his late setter’s eyes, Rex stepped
toward the door. "Then how about coffee some evening? A cup of java wouldn’t
compromise you, would it?"
The woman let go of the doorknob and turned slightly. She glanced at
Barbie, then at Rex.
"I will if you think about setting her free." Color rose in her cheeks.
"In fact, they should *all* go free," she said heatedly.
He looked at her, considering. Maybe her seemingly airy notion wasn’t
beyond the crafty resources of those techies at the Men's Association. But who
would dare suggest that any of them deprive themselves of their glamorous
toys? Good thing the Welcome Wagon woman hadn’t mentioned women’s liberation
during her interview with Ed at the Chamber of Commerce or he’d have replaced
her with a Welcome Wagon Barbie.
It wouldn’t be smart to clobber her with the awful truth right now
though. "That’s an interesting idea--retrofitting the wives for spontaneity," he
said with a disingenuous grin. "If I ask them to work on it, then will you go
out with me?"
"I’ll think about it." She took her car keys from her purse.
The sincerity ploy had worked. Rex felt a smidgin of guilt about using it,
but he had to see her again. Somehow she made him want to be authentic.
But could he chance it? The messy tears? Sickness? And if the Men’s
Association found out he was seeing someone they disapproved of, his own life
would be in danger. He knew too much.
What the heck. He could fool ’em. Maybe she’d even cooperate. He
turned on her his most angelic smile.
"Say, can you turn at right angles?"
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