The Trouble With
Marjorie
by J. Jones
Looking back,
I’m sorry I ran into Marjorie in Sears. She
was smart and attractive, but emotionally
unavailable, which is a common default position
for many high functioning types. To be fair, we
did have a short, amicable relationship.
I was naïve
when I assumed that I would plug her in to my way
of life—so to speak—and in time, she
would be humming along in her new home. As time
passed, however, I saw that she was barely up to
performing basic, domestic choirs, and no amount
of burnishing her fading attractiveness could
restore her sterling appearance. Living outdoors,
she became overrun with black widows, ticks, rats
—seemingly everything man has tried to rid
from the civilized world. Marjorie, however,
reigned supreme in one area: will—or as I
like to call it— mechanical, single
mindedness.
One day after
accidentally banging into her, I went into the
kitchen and the lights went out. When I stared
back at her through the kitchen window, I had the
distinct feeling that she had switched off the
power. Armed with only a flashlight, I entered
the shed to get my kerosene lantern. As I shined
my flashlight around the shed, spiders fled
angrily from the light and something furry
scurried into a dark corner. Then, inexplicably,
the door slammed shut. I pulled on the handle,
but it wouldn’t open. “Marjorie, open
the door!” I shouted. A moment later,
a compartment above me opened and brown recluses
and black widows rained down on me.
Now, I knew
with absolute certainty that Marjorie, my metal
shed with smart technology, was out to get me.
After forcing
open the shed door, I clambered about in my dark
house. When I paused to think of a new strategy,
I heard Marjorie’s circuits clicking. Was
she planning a new trap?
No fledgling
now to her dangers, I re-entered the shed, this
time with a glowing flare. Wielding it as a sword,
I incinerated spiders and ignited those balls of
spidery silk. I shouted, “I have become
Shiva, God of Destruction….” Midway
through my ecstatic chant, I spotted a few
smoking cans of oil. Oil and gas—that’ll
send her to a fiery grave. Then suddenly, a flame
rose from an oilcan. Fearing another slip down
the evolutionary ladder (I didn’t want to be
hoisted by my own petard), I hurried from the
shed.
Just then,
something inside of the shed exploded and flames
leaped through the roof. God, no! —the
flames were touching my favorite oak’s
branches. Helplessly, I watched as Marjorie‘s
immolation engulfed my oak.
The next
morning I went outside. The shed was was a
scorched shell, and behind it my oak bore
the fatal battle scars from last night. My war
with Marjorie was over, but I now face a new
battle with other inanimate structures. My
digitally enhanced carport eyes me warily and
casts a long, ominous shadow over my favorite
roses that now struggle for light.
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