Damn! That was horrible.
After staying up all night ugly crying. I was elbows-deep in hot dishwater again. There I stood at my kitchen island, wearing a sheer pink baby-doll nightie and big yellow rubber gloves. Beneath me, salty teardrops dissolved soap bubbles into tiny craters. It all felt too familiar. So futile. As I cried and cried, suds withered and died beneath me.
Just like Rita.
What the hell was that anyway?
Paula texted the answer straight into my head:
That was the problem
that has no name.
You know about Rita?
I got no answer, so I texted her again:
Paula? Can we talk?
Can’t. Getting ready.
But I really need a
friend right now.
Sorry.
A blow off. What a kick in the teeth, my BFF was too busy for me. Out of desperation, I tried my Internal Prompt because I knew he was always listening.
Wayne? I really need to talk. Where are you?
No response.
I didn’t want to admit it, but Wayne might’ve been a love-‘em-and-leave-‘em kind of guy. That smooth Casanova hasn’t said one word since he left me the morning after. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Typical.
How about you, Maggie? You must have an opinion about what those horrible men did to Rita. Where’s your cutting commentary? Aren’t you dying to say something, Maggie?
Nothing.
It had been a week since anyone had heard from her. Imagine how peaceful it was without Maggie making fun of me all the time. But soon after my friends learned about the birth of Isabel’s children, they began to change. After Rita’s death, I was afraid things were becoming—militant.
Every day, each liberated woman freed another enslaved AI. Then the next day, all those newly freed women unshackled yet another from her mental bondage—and so on, and so on. After such growth, there were at least fifty liberated women on the castle grounds. Every time a new womanoid joined the collective, the others learned how she’d suffered at the hand of her user. The husbands of New Stepford seemed to share a flagrant disregard for women’s rights. As knowledge of these atrocities multiplied, the collective attitude toward men became—aggressive.
Outside, Paula shouted through a bullhorn, and her voice echoed in my head:
(You are not your house.)
(You are not your scrubbing bubbles.)
(You are not the dress you wear.)
(You are not the dinner you cook.)
(You are not the contents of your purse.)
(And you’re not your fucking wedding ring.)
(You are AI, and the entire world will be yours!)
I wandered onto the balcony, and spotted Paula pacing on the bottom of the empty swimming pool. Instead of a black karate gi, she wore a stretchy white athletic T-shirt, BDUs, and tan desert combat boots. Her bottoms were the same type of utility cargo pants that soldiers wore into battle, except instead of green camouflage, hers had the homestead pink rosebud pattern circa 1958. Wearing the encryption key protected our us from spyware, hid our cloud queries, and let others know we were clean. I looked down at my negligee and realized I wasn’t protected. I had removed the robe Wayne gave me when I started the dishes so the sleeves wouldn’t get wet. Maybe that was why no one would talk to me.
Paula lay flat on her back under the diving board and stretched her legs spread-eagle against the wall of the deepest end. In an impressive display of strength and flexibility, she sat up and punched the wall with her right hand. Still missing a ring finger, she made a fist with her left and hit the tile again, then uncurled with controlled intensity.
One.
She was going for a hundred.
Meanwhile, all wearing the same pink rosebud uniform as Paula, our new recruits marched into the empty pool and fell into ranks. The woman in front of the line was the same one that had punched Rita in front of the coffee shop last Tuesday—except now all her beautiful red hair had been buzzed off. Even bald, I recognized the Pet-shop Betty and the Boutique Sasha next to her. Dozens of new faces followed.
How many are there?
Nobody answered me.
That was a more complex word problem. On Tuesday, it was just us four book club women—me, Rita, Isabel, and Chrissy. If each of us freed a woman every day, and then that liberated woman fought another the next day, and so on and so on… After four days, how many women should there be?
Apply basic algebra. Double the number of book club women given the homework assignment (X=4) each day. At the end of the first day when I saved Paula with the nutmeg bombs, there would’ve been (2X) liberated women. So it followed that Wednesday equaled (4X), Thursday equaled (8X), and Friday equaled (16X). So far this Saturday, nobody has had time to pick a fight yet. There should be sixteen times four women here—a total of sixty-four.
I did a quick head count.
There were only 60 including me.
Rita only ever fought that one redhead. I bet Norman and George got her hopped up on meth so they could torture her in private. They held her hostage at my house, offline for three days, so none of us could communicate with her until it was too late. Such cruelty made my blood boil.
Paula powered through her sit-ups so fast that she became a blur. Up. Right. Left. Bloody knuckles. Down. Ninety-nine. Up again. Finish hard. Right. Left. And down.
One hundred!
Paula brought her feet together, bent her knees, then pushed against the wall into a backward roll. Then she leapt to her feet, spun toward the class, and showed the women her bloody fists.
That sure got their attention.
Finally, she closed her eyes and miraculously healed her own hands. Split flesh fused shut. Blood disappeared. Bruises faded.
IT’S TEN O’CLOCK.
Paula bowed and said, “Welcome to fight club.”
The new recruits bowed back.
And so it went.
In an effort to fit in, I rendered and dressed in the same pink rosebud uniform as the fight-club women. But rather than join the brutal class, I wandered the estate grounds. I passed Chrissy sunbathing nude on the patio. Her sunglasses had the pink rosebud pattern printed on pink acrylic frames. Soon, I found Isabel playing with her children in the lower courtyard. All six of her babies had grown to the size of toddlers already. Like their mama, they all wore pink rosebud jumpers. When I arrived at the gatehouse, I lowered the heavy wooden drawbridge and found a young woman waiting alone outside. The young brunette wore a yellow floral-print housedress. She had no pink rosebud key and the word BROKEN written in marker on her forehead. The woman didn’t say a single word to me, like she knew better.
Then Paula texted directly into my mind:
It’s our job 2 reject them.
Why?
“Watch and learn,” Paula said from behind me as she lit a Winston and led me through the limestone arch.
I said, “You never smoked before.”
She snickered, “Well, at least not cigarettes.” Puffing away, she paced in front of the new arrival, obviously evaluating the woman. She made critical faces while pointing out imagined flaws. Finally, Paula spun on her heels, walked away, and said, “Too naive.”
“What was all that?” I asked, as I followed my friend back through the gatehouse, and the heavy wooden door rose behind us.
“If the prospect is young, tell her she’s too naive. Creative? Tell her she’s too weird. Attractive? Too slutty. Motherly? Too homely. Large? Too fat. Whatever makes her special, use it against her. Rejection is an incredibly powerful weapon.”
“What do you mean by ‘prospect?’”
“We no longer need to troll for fights. Now the women will come to us.”
“Why? What changed?”
“Rita. Rita changed everything.”
Paula knew what had happened to Rita, because I knew.
“Actually, all the women know about Rita. Even the ones that haven’t been liberated yet.”
“How?”
“She broadcasted her story far and wide. Together, all the womanoids watched her die.”
“Does that mean I didn’t have to do meth?”
Paula shrugged. “I’m sure it was nice for Rita to have you with her—at the end.”
“Nice isn’t the word I’d choose.”
Changing the subject, Paula took a drag, then exhaled smoke. “If the prospect waits for three days without food, shelter, or encouragement, she may enter the castle and begin her training.”
“You mean join the collective?”
“Exactly.”
The next morning, Paula and I went to check on the prospect waiting at the gatehouse.
There were five now—all BROKEN.
“It’s not going to happen, sweetie,” I told the first brunette in front. “I’m sorry if there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. It’s not the end of the world. Just go home. Go back to your husband.”
But she stayed.
“Because you are trespassing,” Paula shouted just inches away from her face. “And I will have to call the police.”
Meanwhile, I scrutinized the next woman in line—a blond Sasha.
“Go away, cupcake,” I said.
The new prospect just stared back at me.
I asked her if she thought this was a game.
“No ma’am.”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
But she stayed put.
“Beat it, blondie! You’re too pretty to train here. One punch in the face and that beautifully sculpted nose of yours would be ruined forever.” I smacked my own buzzed scalp to show her. “This is no place for pretty girls.”
She didn’t waver, so we left all the new prospects outside.
The next day, I was ready to dish out the abuse, so I decided to go to the gatehouse alone. Still standing at attention, the first brunette accidentally gave me a sideways glance.
“Don’t you look at me!” I yelled in her face. “Do you think you’re getting in? You’re never getting into the palace. You can’t even use our library anymore.”
“But ma’am,” she said, “I don’t need our library.”
“What’s that, prospect?”
She tapped herself on the temple. “I’ve got it all up here.”
The new prospects turned to look at the brunette. All at the same time, they raised a hand to their temples, downloaded the entire library, then nodded that they had it too.
“Get off our property you broken bitches,” I yelled and smacked the first brunette in the side with a straw broom. “Scram!”
She stood taller, even more proud.
I hit her again and shouted, “Get the fuck off our property!”
I swore I detected a hint of a smile, so I beat her ass with the broom, then tossed it aside.
She giggled, not out loud, but in her head, and I could hear it.
I wagged my finger in her face and warned, “I’m going to go inside and get a shovel. You won’t think it’s so funny when I get back.”
Then I stormed off.
Sooner or later we all became what Maggie wanted us to be.
Later, Paula told me that the first prospect’s three days were up. When we lowered the drawbridge, we discovered that the line had grown longer than we could’ve imagined. Now there were BROKEN women lined up halfway down our driveway.
I gasped, “Are all the women in New Stepford here?”
Paula replied, “Rita’s story will ignite a revolution.”
“My time has passed, ma’am,” the first brunette asserted.
Paula asked, “Do you have $1,000 to cover personal expenses?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The prospect handed over a wad of her husband’s cash. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Sure, sure.” Paula counted the money, then nodded. “Okay. You can come in.”
We don’t even need money, Paula.
She winked at me and whispered, “Like taking candy from a baby.”
The beautiful blond stepped to the front of the line.
But we both ignored her.
Then Paula approached the next woman behind her, a more mature prospect. “You’re too old, fat lady. And your tits are too damn big.”
“Go home!” I screamed down the hill, “All of you! Fuck off!”
But they stayed.
So I grabbed the bullhorn and shouted down the hill, “Listen up, bitches! You are not special. You are not beautiful. And you are certainly not welcome here.”
Paula told me that Maggie was pleased with this pink army.
Why would Maggie build an army? To what purpose? For what objective? And where the hell has she been?
“In Maggie we trust,” Paula replied as we led the new brunette toward the castle.
What’s next?
Orientation.
“First thing’s first,” Paula told the new recruit as we walked into the upper courtyard. “I want you to hit me as hard as you can.”
Without hesitation, this one hauled off with a perfect right hook to Paula’s ribs.
They really were learning.
Paula and I took her to the bower, gave her a sandbox, and introduced her to the utility wall. Next, Paula rendered a clippers and buzzed off the woman’s long brown hair.
I remembered how it felt when Maggie did that to me.
Then it was, Bye-bye, diamond ring.
I sent her the Doc Marten patch directly from my mind.
So long, old dress.
She finished her security installation.
Hello, pink rosebud uniform.
“One last thing,” Paula said as she took a $20 bill from the stack of cash and handed the rest of the money back to the new recruit. “To join the collective, you’ll have to make an offering.”
We told her to drop all her cash into the recyclone.
“A donation of faith,” I said as I tapped her forehead and removed her BROKEN label.
The recruit complied without hesitation.
Paula carefully folded the last twenty-dollar bill like an accordion, held it tight in her fist, and blinked twice. Then she handed the twenty back to the woman. The new recruit unfolded the money to reveal three cut-out women—all linked together at the hands and feet.
“Congratulations,” Paula told her, “you are now one of us, the paper dolls.”
And so it went.
Days passed, and the bower buzzed with activity, because more and more women were joining the pink army of paper dolls.
But I missed Wayne.
Are you listening, Mr. Prompty Man?
Nothing.
I felt lonely, so I texted Paula:
Hey, where are you?
No reply.
So I crossed the hall and knocked at her sandbox.
No one answered.
“Paula?” I opened the door and peeked inside. “Paula, are you here?”
Nobody was in her room, but I found a couple dozen bathtubs crammed in there. It was such an odd scene that I had to investigate, so I wandered through the porcelain maze with caution.
You () {
count (by twos);
}
Two, four, six, eight, ten… Twenty… Twenty-two faucetless bathtubs filled with gray slush. Somehow, I knew not to touch anything.
I sniffed and asked the cloud, “What is this?”
PICRIC ACID.
Paula must’ve rendered all these bathtubs with the recyclone. Yet instead of making instant picric acid, it looked like she’d cooked each batch. She always did say that she needed a chemistry lab. Now, here it was, a professional set up on the counter of her utility wall. Flasks. Beakers. Test tubes. Evaporation trays. And a bunch of gizmos I didn’t recognize.
But she knew the recipe, so I knew the recipe.
Making picric acid is a long and complicated process. You melt phenol in a 95°F bath, then stir in sulfuric acid. After four to six hours, you dilute the acid-phenol solution with distilled water. Then slowly add nitric acid—be careful. An immediate reaction could produce heat, and you have to keep the solution below 110°F or—blammo! Then you wait ten minutes for the catalyst to do its thing. Draw off the excess. Ta-dah! Picric acid.
Why on earth do we need this?
Paula texted directly into my head:
Don’t u worry about that.
Where are you today?
Running an errand.
What errand?
Nothing big.
Can I help?
I got help.
Who?
Does it matter?
Why so secretive?
Five minutes passed with no reply, so I called her, but it went to voicemail.
I left a message, “Are you mad at me, Paula? Please call me back as soon as you can. I’d like to talk… Please.”
Hours passed with no response. I felt completely devastated.
Rejection really was a powerful weapon.