My Robot Hands

[originally written & published some time in 1997]

I have this delusion that whenever things go bad, my android hands will take over. Like, we'll get to the Super Bowl, and I'll realize I forgot the tickets on the kitchen table. I'll step in and say, "Don't worry my android hands will take over," and boom-no problem.

I remember the seventh grade dance and how my android hands saved me. Whether it was putting in the corsage or doing the jitterbug, they came through.

Now, I have always wanted to be a pilot. I always wanted to soar in the air, in the stratosphere, like Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I'd be a friendly pilot too. I'd bring all the little kids in and let them sit in the cockpit. I'd teach them about all the levers, the clouds would be beautiful and puffy, and they'd act like a soft floor where the plane's belly would rest, ever so gently, while it's silver nose kissed the sun. Yet, when an engine goes out and the plane starts to nose-dive, I will take the controls. The little kids will cry and the stewardesses will try their best to mask their horror while keeping order in the cabin. Then I will valiantly sit back in the cockpit and calmly let my android hands take over.

Yet, to my grief, my android hands, for once in my worthless life will not suffice. I'm not gonna lie to you, at this point I'll start to panic, but I'll remember the automatic pilot-and I'll turn it on, but it won't work. At 20,000 feet the plane will be plummeting towards the Earth, when suddenly; the automatic pilot's android hands will take over, ease the plane back into place, and save the day. And then, just like always, all the stewardesses will want to score with the automatic pilot and have his clanky hands caress their beautiful, proportioned bodies. And the automatic pilot will want their soft, gentle hands play with his noisy, rusty, and oily android ribs.