Sorting out the Sprocket Malarkey
I’ve seen this before, Ignatius thought as he stared through the doughnut hole of the sprocket between his green-gloved fingertips. It feels so familiar, important. Integral, like a gear popped out of a grandfather clock. Why can’t I place it?
Ignatius rolled the quarter-sized piece of toothed metal back and forth, his elbows on the diner table. People buzzed around him and dishes clanked in the background, but it was all peripheral. This sprocket was all that mattered, this… shiny piece of metal that had been left behind on Ignatius’ table.
But he couldn’t focus. Try as he might, no synapses would light up in his head. Like an aardvark hitched up just beyond the anthill, Ignatius couldn’t make it work.
The sprocket had to have been set here, on Ignatius’ favorite table, for a reason. But why? By whom?
He narrowed his eyes and looked around the white-washed diner. The diner, with its black-and-white checkered floor and red cushioned stools at the service counter. Like it was the 1950s or something. No one would suspect anything shifty in a place like this.
No one but Ignatius, that is.
Ignatius eyed the barrel-shaped sandwich-maker working the counter, the grease on his apron like the sweat at his pits. The cook, whose name Ignatius forgot, swung the cleaver on a hunk of ham, hacking off a thick, circular slice of meat. He had a huge grin on the sweaty face of his as he conversed with a customer. A cheeky-chipmunk grin. A guilty grin….
But the jolly-looking food preparationist didn’t need to remove sprockets, did he? No, no, of course not. If Ignatius asked him about it, he’d probably guess it was some new kind of processed meat for surviving nuclear winters.
A dark-haired woman in a short, red skirt opened the diner door with a jingle from the overhead bells. She smiled at the cook and walked toward Ignatius with swaying hips, clutching her pocketbook to her ample chest. Her eyes shifted side to side, nervously.
Ignatius followed the woman with his eyes alone. Oh, sure. Damsel in distress leaving a lone sprocket on my table because her brother’s missing, this is the only clue, and I’m her only hope. Thank you, ma’am, but I’m not falling for that old trick. Go peddle your woes elsewhere.
The lady in red passed Ignatius’ table without so much as a glance in his direction. Ignatius felt his ego drop like mercury in the Arctic.
Ignatius returned his attention to the silver-plated sprocket in his fingers. He kept rolling it toward his thumb tip, away, back, forth. What are you, little thing? What do you want from me?
The doorbell jingled again, and a vaguely familiar voice pulled Ignatius’ attention from his analysis of the troublesome piece of equipment. A man, clean-shaven in a charcoal business suit and fedora, hurried toward Ignatius. He pulled out a long, flat-nosed screwdriver from his inside coat pocket and put his free hand on Ignatius’ shoulder.
Ignatius held onto the sprocket and looked at the man through the corner of his eye.
“Don’t worry, Iggy,” the man said, his voice barely audible. “It’ll all be over soon.”
He jabbed the screwdriver into the base of Ignatius’ skull.
* * *
“Lifetime warrantee,” the dealer had said. “He’ll outlast you, your wife,you’re your kids – even your dog!” Please and toss it – not even a decade old in dog years, and Barnaby had to run out and buy replacement pieces short-notice. Just the one replacement piece, actually; but he had to go back out and get the converter for it, which was the whole point of this parts scramble.
Barnaby Patchett adored that sleek, gunmetal green android of his. Generations of guys prior had their dogs, but Barnaby had Ignatius. His chassis looked pretty much like a human torso, but his arms and legs were spindly, like skeletal versions of a regular human’s anatomy. His head was a different story, though – shaped like a piece of butt-end toast, it wasn’t much more than a monitor on a swivel neck. The whole screen made up his face, but only his square, blue eyes were up at the moment. Thank goodness Iggy never took up a nose for himself.
Barnaby lifted the panel to what would’ve been the back of Ignatius’ skull. The inside was all circuit boards on the top and clockwork under the eyeline. A maintenance light on the inside of the panel cast a jazzy blue light over Iggy’s brainpan so Barnaby could see what was going on.
Barnaby reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a small, sprocket-shaped platform the size of a half-dollar. It was still sealed tight in the kind of clear plastic that was four times as hard to open as a brand-new CD. He rolled his eyes and rushed to Reese’s counter, the scent of popping fryer oil and lemon cleaner meeting Barnaby halfway.
“Afternoon, Greese,” Barnaby greeted the diner owner, smirking.
Reese wiped his hands on a dry dishcloth with a melodramatic sneer. “Ehh, yeah, welcome back, Barns.”
“You got a knife or something I can open this with?” Barnaby asked, holding up the new sprocket base’s prison.
Reese took the package with his meaty fingers and placed it flat on the cutting board. He lopped off two plastic sides with a couple of quick thwacks of his cleaver and offered the opened package to his regular.
“On the house!”
“Yeah, yeah.” Barnaby took the sprocket base and headed back to Ignatius. “Thanks for watchin’ Iggy again, Reese,” he called over his shoulder.
“Sure, no problem,” came the throaty, dismissive reply.
Barnaby took the sprocket from Ignatius’ fingers. Iggy slowly turned his head to look up at his master, the nine-square LEDs that made up his blue eyes almost confused.
Barnaby smiled. “I’ll have you up and operational in a jiff.” He sat on his knees in the booth behind Ignatius and placed the silvery sprocket in its nickel base. The fit was snug, but now the other gears could turn properly.
“Iggy was bein’ a good ‘bot, right, Greese?” Barnaby called out, sliding the part in place.
“Yeah, but it kept eyein’ me weird,” Reese called back. “Thing gives me the creeps!”
Barnaby snapped the panel back in place and sat in front of Iggy with a smile. “Aww, he’s just a harmless ol’ helper ‘bot,” he replied. “Right, Iggy?”
The LEDs blinked on and off a few times before staying on. The corner dots in each eye disappeared. Ignatius turned his head slightly as a blue line appeared for his mouth.
“Oh, how’re you, sir!” came the mechanized Southern reply. The “mouth” simply went wavy when Iggy spoke, like a curvier version of a heart monitor.
Barnaby winked at the uneasy diner owner. “I’m all right, Iggy! Let’s go pick up Annie’s birthday present.”
The pair stood up and headed to the door, side by side.
“I think I had the strangest, how d’you say… dream, Barnaby,” Iggy mused aloud.
Barnaby raised an eyebrow. “Really, Iggy?” He opened the door with a jingle from above. “Do tell.”
Ignatius stopped at the threshold and waved at Reese, who shivered in his apron before sending a wave back.
Ignatius followed Barnaby onto the sidewalk, tapping him on the shoulder. “Sir, I think our friend may be afraid of me!”
Ignatius rolled the quarter-sized piece of toothed metal back and forth, his elbows on the diner table. People buzzed around him and dishes clanked in the background, but it was all peripheral. This sprocket was all that mattered, this… shiny piece of metal that had been left behind on Ignatius’ table.
But he couldn’t focus. Try as he might, no synapses would light up in his head. Like an aardvark hitched up just beyond the anthill, Ignatius couldn’t make it work.
The sprocket had to have been set here, on Ignatius’ favorite table, for a reason. But why? By whom?
He narrowed his eyes and looked around the white-washed diner. The diner, with its black-and-white checkered floor and red cushioned stools at the service counter. Like it was the 1950s or something. No one would suspect anything shifty in a place like this.
No one but Ignatius, that is.
Ignatius eyed the barrel-shaped sandwich-maker working the counter, the grease on his apron like the sweat at his pits. The cook, whose name Ignatius forgot, swung the cleaver on a hunk of ham, hacking off a thick, circular slice of meat. He had a huge grin on the sweaty face of his as he conversed with a customer. A cheeky-chipmunk grin. A guilty grin….
But the jolly-looking food preparationist didn’t need to remove sprockets, did he? No, no, of course not. If Ignatius asked him about it, he’d probably guess it was some new kind of processed meat for surviving nuclear winters.
A dark-haired woman in a short, red skirt opened the diner door with a jingle from the overhead bells. She smiled at the cook and walked toward Ignatius with swaying hips, clutching her pocketbook to her ample chest. Her eyes shifted side to side, nervously.
Ignatius followed the woman with his eyes alone. Oh, sure. Damsel in distress leaving a lone sprocket on my table because her brother’s missing, this is the only clue, and I’m her only hope. Thank you, ma’am, but I’m not falling for that old trick. Go peddle your woes elsewhere.
The lady in red passed Ignatius’ table without so much as a glance in his direction. Ignatius felt his ego drop like mercury in the Arctic.
Ignatius returned his attention to the silver-plated sprocket in his fingers. He kept rolling it toward his thumb tip, away, back, forth. What are you, little thing? What do you want from me?
The doorbell jingled again, and a vaguely familiar voice pulled Ignatius’ attention from his analysis of the troublesome piece of equipment. A man, clean-shaven in a charcoal business suit and fedora, hurried toward Ignatius. He pulled out a long, flat-nosed screwdriver from his inside coat pocket and put his free hand on Ignatius’ shoulder.
Ignatius held onto the sprocket and looked at the man through the corner of his eye.
“Don’t worry, Iggy,” the man said, his voice barely audible. “It’ll all be over soon.”
He jabbed the screwdriver into the base of Ignatius’ skull.
* * *
“Lifetime warrantee,” the dealer had said. “He’ll outlast you, your wife,you’re your kids – even your dog!” Please and toss it – not even a decade old in dog years, and Barnaby had to run out and buy replacement pieces short-notice. Just the one replacement piece, actually; but he had to go back out and get the converter for it, which was the whole point of this parts scramble.
Barnaby Patchett adored that sleek, gunmetal green android of his. Generations of guys prior had their dogs, but Barnaby had Ignatius. His chassis looked pretty much like a human torso, but his arms and legs were spindly, like skeletal versions of a regular human’s anatomy. His head was a different story, though – shaped like a piece of butt-end toast, it wasn’t much more than a monitor on a swivel neck. The whole screen made up his face, but only his square, blue eyes were up at the moment. Thank goodness Iggy never took up a nose for himself.
Barnaby lifted the panel to what would’ve been the back of Ignatius’ skull. The inside was all circuit boards on the top and clockwork under the eyeline. A maintenance light on the inside of the panel cast a jazzy blue light over Iggy’s brainpan so Barnaby could see what was going on.
Barnaby reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a small, sprocket-shaped platform the size of a half-dollar. It was still sealed tight in the kind of clear plastic that was four times as hard to open as a brand-new CD. He rolled his eyes and rushed to Reese’s counter, the scent of popping fryer oil and lemon cleaner meeting Barnaby halfway.
“Afternoon, Greese,” Barnaby greeted the diner owner, smirking.
Reese wiped his hands on a dry dishcloth with a melodramatic sneer. “Ehh, yeah, welcome back, Barns.”
“You got a knife or something I can open this with?” Barnaby asked, holding up the new sprocket base’s prison.
Reese took the package with his meaty fingers and placed it flat on the cutting board. He lopped off two plastic sides with a couple of quick thwacks of his cleaver and offered the opened package to his regular.
“On the house!”
“Yeah, yeah.” Barnaby took the sprocket base and headed back to Ignatius. “Thanks for watchin’ Iggy again, Reese,” he called over his shoulder.
“Sure, no problem,” came the throaty, dismissive reply.
Barnaby took the sprocket from Ignatius’ fingers. Iggy slowly turned his head to look up at his master, the nine-square LEDs that made up his blue eyes almost confused.
Barnaby smiled. “I’ll have you up and operational in a jiff.” He sat on his knees in the booth behind Ignatius and placed the silvery sprocket in its nickel base. The fit was snug, but now the other gears could turn properly.
“Iggy was bein’ a good ‘bot, right, Greese?” Barnaby called out, sliding the part in place.
“Yeah, but it kept eyein’ me weird,” Reese called back. “Thing gives me the creeps!”
Barnaby snapped the panel back in place and sat in front of Iggy with a smile. “Aww, he’s just a harmless ol’ helper ‘bot,” he replied. “Right, Iggy?”
The LEDs blinked on and off a few times before staying on. The corner dots in each eye disappeared. Ignatius turned his head slightly as a blue line appeared for his mouth.
“Oh, how’re you, sir!” came the mechanized Southern reply. The “mouth” simply went wavy when Iggy spoke, like a curvier version of a heart monitor.
Barnaby winked at the uneasy diner owner. “I’m all right, Iggy! Let’s go pick up Annie’s birthday present.”
The pair stood up and headed to the door, side by side.
“I think I had the strangest, how d’you say… dream, Barnaby,” Iggy mused aloud.
Barnaby raised an eyebrow. “Really, Iggy?” He opened the door with a jingle from above. “Do tell.”
Ignatius stopped at the threshold and waved at Reese, who shivered in his apron before sending a wave back.
Ignatius followed Barnaby onto the sidewalk, tapping him on the shoulder. “Sir, I think our friend may be afraid of me!”
