A Dream Numeric

45623.

The number kept pounding through my head.

45623.

45623.

What the hell!

What! What the hell is that? That damned number. That ridiculously insane repeating number. I can't even watch a simple television show without that damned number popping up somewhere.

45623

45623

... Oh my God!!

Ok now, enough is enough. I can't take it anymore. I need to distract myself.

What to do...I know, I'll turn some music on. Perhaps that will distract me from my COMPLETE NUMERIC insanity!!! Hmm, what to pick. Should I go with serene, or something more uplifting? Maybe some Rolling Stones? That sounds good. That ought to do the trick.

I walk to my finely polished walnut stereo cabinet next to my finely displayed Ammonite collection that I have lined up against the wall on marble podiums. I find the CD. Of course, it actually takes me several minutes to pull the CD from its case, ever so carefully as to not scratch or smudge it. I place the CD case back into the exact spot it came from, only slightly pulled forward so that I can replace the CD without having to suffer the whole search and memory process. I place the CD into the carousel and wait for it to take its appropriate slot in the player.

I press play.

Deep breath, slow deep breath, cleansing...

I can't get no...da na na, satis..

45623.

Holy cow! Holy cows with dysentery!!! I can't believe it! I just can't believe it! I am having a mental break down. I can't even sing a song!

That's ok. It's alright. I'll just turn it up, I'll just turn the damned volume up.

I CAN'T GET NO....DA NA NA, SATISFACTION, DA NA NA,,,OH I

45623.....

I want to smash the stereo. I want to smash it very badly, but the obsessive compulsive nature in me has instantaneously reconciled the fact that it would cause far too much damage and chaos for me to do so, and that it is not logical. So I just stand there, twitching. I painfully press the stop button. My eyes are flitting around the room searching, for something. It is now quiet, I mean dead quiet. I can't even hear myself think. I squint my eyes, almost as if I am waiting for that screaming bloody set of numbers to pound straight into the side of my head like a drill funneling it's way through the bowls of the earth. I cringe. My shoulders, feeling like they were attached to the strings of a marionette puppet, actually lift up ever so slightly to parallel the squinting motion of my eyes, and my cheeks crease, adding even more dimension to an already wrinkled complexion. I-am-going-insane.

45623.

45623.

45623.

There it is again. Only---for some reason, it seems quieter.

45623.

There, again, quieter.

Am I going deaf in my own head? Is that possible?

I slap myself on the side of my right cheek, because I am right-handed.

My eyes start that flitting thing again. Only this time they are not searching. This time, I just don't know how else to react. It is almost a physiological response to the chaos. I slap my hands to the sides of my head, and there it is again. 45623!!!!! Only now, the numbers are not spoken in my own head. The numbers are not in my own voice. They are someone else's! I am puzzled, and a little frightened. Am I that insane that I don't recognize the sound of my own voice anymore? There is no one else here. It must be my own voice. It must be.

45623.

45623.

Silence.

***

"45623."

"45623, can you hear me?"

"45623."

"I'm sorry sir, it's not responding to anything. It seems as though it has placed its neuroprocessor unit in some sort of, well, for lack of a better term, sleep mode. I can't seem to, wake it up."

"That's ridiculous Dr. Smith. It's just a machine, it's not programmed to do that. And please turn that music off, it's probably just causing an interference in his audio perception."

"Dr. Williams," she pauses and leans over 45623, "look at its eyes."

Dr. Williams leaned over the android and stared down at the lids that hovered closely over its eyes.

"My God." The aging robotics scientist stands there, jaw agape, his eyes and his body in disbelief. He has worked so many long years, so many long nights for just the simplest thing to emerge, just the simplest hope that a consciousness was possible.

He wanted to believe that 45623 was unique, that something had worked. He was afraid of the disappointment, the failure. Yet, hope reigned the look in his eyes.

The two doctors look at each other in aghast amazement. Tara Smith's head turned just slightly as she observed what looked to be like R.E.M. in 45623's eyelids. Her face changed from puzzlement to pure raw emotion. She exhaled a gasp, and became light-headed. Her hand drifted over her mouth, and a small tear formed in her right eye. "I...I don't know what this is? It...it doesn't seem possible."

45623's eyes slowly open. He looks--- soulfully at Dr. Smith. She is mesmerized by the new look; the unfamiliar look. Somehow the Droid has managed to overcome its programming, the flexible material surrounding the eyes is now able to move in the most subtle of ways, it almost appears...human. His eyes move to connect with Dr. Williams.

"Dr. Williams." spoke 45623.

Williams' eyes fill with emotion. "Yes 45623," he responds.

There is an almost eternal pause...

"I think... I think I would rather be called Adam."

Kimberly Raiser is the editor of Route 66.

Route 66 Magazine

Email: Kimberly Raiser

Return to Table of Contents