Sound approximating speech.

I wake, dream receding into the back of my mind. Like some monster with glowing eyes disappearing behind a bush. Perforated edge of imagined reality tearing away as my senses start to record the real world.

Sun coming in through a window. Bed with soft sheets. Smell of fresh coffee in the kitchen. All very nice.

I start to swing myself out of bed. Stop, surprised by the lightness of my body. Lifting the sheets up, slowly. Scared. Knowing what’s coming. Seeing how my legs come to a stub halfway to where my knees would’ve been.

Not so nice.

I imagine that it’s becoming less and less of a shock everyday. Used to be, when I’d wake up, move those sheets aside, everything would come back in cut-scenes. Like I’d had amnesia and was remembering everything for the first time.

Lay back, try fruitlessly to remember my dream. Always waking to that same sound. Something spoken but impossible to make out. Before this, a constriction of the throat. Hard to breathe. Watching the destruction in slow motion. Beautiful visions of fire and light playing on the mirrored wall. All I can ever remember, those three things. Sometimes, it feels like forever. And then I wake to that sound.

But I give my head a shake, lift myself to a sitting position. Fumble a few times as I attach my Logo© brand prosthetics. Strange, to be walking with plastic legs. Feels, looks like real flesh.

I walk (still alien and familiar all at once) into the kitchen, where a pot of coffee is at the ready. I hold a cup underneath the spout and fill it up. Watching steaming black liquid blot out the artificial white of styrofoam. Take a sip. Horrible, as usual. I shrug, to no one in particular. I drink my entirely machine made coffee, bordering on repulsion all the while, as I go about my morning routine. I could get an older machine, measure out just the right amounts of coffee grind and water, rather than drink bad coffee from one that does everything for me. I could. Wouldn’t be so hard. I turn on the news, content to let convenience trump quality for another day.

Scroll through the headlines, try to decide between two stories. A massive chemical spill somewhere in the Pacific or a twelve year old who won a national hot dog eating contest. The decision, at this point in the morning, is too difficult. I lift the styrofoam cup to my mouth. Sip. Gag. Swallow.

I imagine a commercial that must have been made years ago. The completely automated coffee maker, sitting on a table. Or is it a counter? Or a shelf? Some kind of surface. Entirely empty save for the coffee maker, as if no other household appliance is worthy of being near it. Highly polished, that coffee maker. Reflecting the sun’s rays, though it’s in a windowless room. Like it makes its own light. Like some heavenly halo.

And a voice, disembodied, speaks. The voice is wonderful. Caring. Compassionate. Strong. Safe. Like the voice of God. And this is God’s coffee maker.

And God says "Sick of having to wait for that first cup of coffee in the morning?"

(And some untold number of consumers nod in time. Yes, we are.)

And God delivers unto them the answer to their prayers. "Well now you don’t have to! With our newest coffee maker, you need only refill it with our special brand of coffee mix every ninety days! You’ll always have coffee ready to go!"

(And a bazillion consumers shake their head in disbelief. But how? How can three months worth of coffee beans fit inside such a small machine? What brilliance! What innovation!)

And God lists off the various stores where mere mortals can purchase this device. And God lists the retail price of his coffee maker. And God says that for a limited time you can get your first ninety days worth of mix for free when you purchase the machine.

(And a bazillion consumers rush out to follow God’s advice. And a bazillion consumers rush home and sip, gag, swallow. And the next day a bazillion consumers marvel at their coffee machine, and they sip, gag, swallow. And they wonder how they ever got along without it.)

Work, for me, goes a little something like this: I walk in, chat with Bob and Jim or Mike and Tom or Steve and Paul or Dave and Rob or whichever pair of janitors happen to have their shift on that particular day. Talk about the weekend. About late night sexual conquests involving women that may or may not have actually existed. About how lousy the pay is. About how good the coffee is. Sip. Gag. Swallow.

Leave them to do whatever it is they do. Don’t see them much during the day. Don’t see much of anyone during the day. Just the bots. Walk to my office where I can look out on the floor of the assembly hall.

Sit down at the computer. Make sure that each Logo© brand car that rolls off the assembly line is manufactured within the strictest guidelines. This means making sure that one thousand two hundred and eighteen Logo© brand parts go into each Logo© brand car. This means making sure that a Logo© brand car with one thousand two hundred and seventeen Logo© brand parts and one no-name brand part will cease to function. This means making sure the Logo© brand construction bots have all the Logo© brand parts they need to fabricate a Logo© brand vehicle.

I order the Logo© brand parts from other Logo© brand factories. Make sure the Logo© brand delivery trucks get here on time. Something goes wrong, I pick up my Logo© brand phone and call the other factory overseers. Set things right in Logo© land.

I fulfill orders from Logo© brand vehicle distributors. Something goes wrong, I set it right.

My official duties take up two hours of an eight hour work day.

The rest of the time, I wonder if life is just an elaborate placebo effect.

Seven years ago, God was twenty four years old.

God had just received a seven hundred and twenty dollar paycheck for his voiceover work in a coffee machine commercial. And they gave him a complimentary coffee machine.

God waits tables in an Italian restaurant, but really, God is an aspiring actor. But God has a problem. God is ugly. God never makes it as an actor. God only has a face for radio. But God wants the stage, where there were things he could touch, things he could feel.

God’s real name is Bob. God/Bob, these days, is thirty one years old. God/Bob, these days, is a janitor in a Logo© brand car factory.

God/Bob, today, is on break. He is patting the coffee machine affectionately. He is talking to a man he works with, named Jim.

"You know, Jim," says God/Bob. "I was in the first commercial for these things."

"Yeah, so you’ve told me," answers Jim. He pours himself a cup (sip, gag, swallow).

"You should come over to my place this weekend. I still have the one that was in that commercial," says God/Bob. "That very one. I don’t use it, though. No, it’s locked away in a glass case. Worth a lot, probably. Thousands, maybe. Tens of thousands. Yeah, you should definitely come over. See all the stuff I’ve got. I’ve got some cool stuff."

Jim downs the rest of his coffee, close to half a styrofoam cup, in one massive gulp (GulpGagSwallow). "I was over last weekend, Bob. I saw your stuff. It was great. Real great."

"Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it great, Jim? I’ve got more, though. You should see the stuff I’ve got."

Jim tosses his cup into a wastebasket. "I don’t think so. Maybe some other time."

And Jim grabs a mop. And Jim says, "I’ll start at the far end."

Today, Bob and Jim are the janitors on duty. Sitting in my chair, watching them mop the floor of the assembly hall. The mirrored walls of the hall watch Jim and Bob mop the floor, but see it reversed. Watch Jim and Bob. Watch the mirrors watching Jim and Bob. Wonder if I’m a mirror, if they’re mirrors, if it’s all just mirrors. Just a lot of smoke and mirrors.

When a Logo© brand car breaks down, the Logo© brand consumer is supposed to take it to a Logo© brand service center. If they don’t, they run the risk of getting a faulty part. If their no-name mechanic installs a no-name brake disc, or a no-name tail pipe, or no-name windshield wipers into a Logo© brand vehicle, it’ll never start. The Logo© brand consumer will berate the no-name brand mechanic, sob over their inoperative Logo© brand vehicle.

After that, the Logo© brand consumer will never fail to go to a Logo© brand service center. The Logo© brand service centers will order more Logo© brand parts for a Logo© brand world. And the Logo© brand world is just what we all want, isn’t it?

Leave my office. Go downstairs for a coffee. And I sit there and sip, gag, swallow, sip, gag, swallow for a full ten minutes until my cup is empty and I’m sucking at air.

God/Bob pushes his mop across the assembly floor. He tries to stay out of the way of the bots. God/Bob doesn’t want one of their arms to accidentally tear his Logo© brand shirt or scratch his Logo© brand watch. Then God/Bob would have to go buy new things. And God/Bob is trying to save his money so he can buy other new things. Things he doesn’t have yet.

God/Bob looks to his right and sees the bots leaning over a conveyor belt. God/Bob looks to his left and sees himself in front of the bots leaning over a conveyor belt. And God/Bob sees what’s on the conveyor belt. God/Bob sees a Logo© brand hood ornament.

God/Bob looks in front of him and sees Jim concentrating on the mop. Back turned. God/Bob looks behind him and sees the manager concentrating on a styrofoam cup. Back half turned.

God/Bob thinks, that would look good on a mantle. God/Bob thinks, that would look good on a shelf. God/Bob thinks, that would look good on my night table. God/Bob thinks, I would set it slightly askew. God/Bob thinks, I would keep it polished. God/Bob thinks, it would make a good conversation piece. God/Bob thinks, people will love me if I own this.

God/Bob reaches out and takes the hood ornament.

He puts it in his pocket.

Turn to throw the empty cup away. See, on the edge of my peripheral vision, Bob reach toward the conveyor belt. See him take a hood ornament. See him put it in his pocket.

Go back to my office, sighing. It’d be simpler, really, just to hire bots as janitors. Wouldn’t have to deal with any of these problems. But it’s better to get people. To get real flesh and blood. Not better, actually, just part of business. Government gives tax breaks to companies that hire humans for menial labor.

End result: I have to call the Logo© brand parts supplier, order in a three dollar Logo© brand hood ornament, so the Logo© brand car it needs to be attached to will start. And the Logo© brand head honchos will see that my factory hasn’t been one hundred percent efficient. And the Logo© brand bossman will write a comment in my Logo© brand permanent record that says I haven’t achieved optimal production for the month.

And I have to fire Bob.

I do all that.

It takes half an hour.

God/Bob has four gallons of gasoline in his garage. If someone was in God/Bob’s garage, God/Bob would say to him or her, "Need some gas? I have four gallons of gas."

If he and a visitor were in his kitchen, he would say, "Ever want the perfect toast? I have a toaster with seventeen different settings."

If he and a visitor were in his bedroom, he would say, "Ever want the perfect night’s sleep? I have a bed that moulds itself to your body and pillows that never need fluffing."

I have. I have. I have. Sip, gag, swallow. Sip, gag, swallow.

Tonight, though, God/Bob is in his garage. And God/Bob has no visitors. God/Bob is alone. God/Bob is wondering how he will be able to get new things if he doesn’t have a job. God/Bob is wondering what he will talk about if he cannot get new things. God/Bob is wondering if he will have any friends if he has nothing to talk about.

God/Bob, alone in his garage, reaches for the gasoline.

Drinking putrid coffee at midnight when the notice comes. Displays itself, all angry red and white, on my vidscreen. Hard block letters and small caps. My Logo© brand factory has sustained heavy damage from a fire set by an employee I had terminated earlier in the day. The Logo© brand bossmen anticipate significant losses. Message says that I am no longer part of the Logo© brand family. Reason being that I hired a mentally unstable person as an employee. I am the no-name brand mechanic.

Drink my coffee until I fall asleep at the table.

Dream of mirrored fire. And sounds approximating speech.

Wake. Still at the table. Try to stand up, but can’t. Look down at my Logo© brand legs and realize, of course, that I’m no longer a Logo© brand part.

Thinking that the sound, the one in my dream, might not be so hard to figure out. Look at my empty coffee cup and think it might be a lot like sip, gag, swallow.