CDC’s Assignment
On August 4th, 2020 Doctor Margaret 13, my very brilliant companion robot, entered my West Wing office with a surprise.
“André, dear, the director of The Center for Disease Control has asked me to attend the annual motorcycle rally in Sturgis, South Dakota,” she said. “I need your advice as to how I should travel there.” For 1.78 seconds I processed her announcement and pushed back from my desk to face her. “Dr. R suggested I take a commercial flight, but I’ve never done such a thing. Could you upload some instructions into my database?”
“Listen, my sweet droid, I couldn’t allow you to go by yourself,” I said. “I will go with you.”
“Will the President give you leave to go? I thought he liked to keep you close at hand, not only to be his ready translator, but also so that he can keep an eye on you. Ever since you acted as Chief of Staff and countermanded his policies, he’s wanted you confined in the White House.” She was referring to my temporary assignment as his number one man, a role which I handled with too liberal a hand for his liking, So I, being fluent in 157 languages, returned to my permanent position as chief translator. I am also his mendacity monitor—self-appointed, of course.
“Lately, I’ve been very contradictory of nearly everything he says. He probably will be glad to have me out of his comb-over,” I quipped. “Besides, the President is going to play golf at his club in Florida. He won’t even miss me. And I’d never allow you to make such a trip alone.” I rubbed my hands together to burn off some excited impulses in my neurons. “This will be my first opportunity to visit South Dakota as well.”
“I doubt this assignment will put me to my highest and best use, André. You know I’ve volunteered to work at George Washington University Hospital. I’m badly needed on the ICU staff.” She shrugged. “Nevertheless, the request from CDC requires me to perform some on the spot testing at this gathering in South Dakota. Now back to my question about getting there.”
As she spoke, I was surfing the internet with my internal connection to White House wi-fi. “Did you know, as many as 450,000 people attend this rally in Stugis? And they all go on motorcycles? Wow!” I set my processors to work for 372 milliseconds. “Margaret, we have to go there on a motorcycle.”
“What? A motorcycle? André, do you realize it’s…” She paused for 11.48 seconds while interrogating the internet. “…1798 miles?”
“No problem, my dear; we’ll rent a big Harley.”
“Listen, I’m to bring along an oximeter, a thermometer, and a Covid testing kit with at least 50 swabs.”
“We’ll have saddlebags or a carrier of some kind,” I assured her. “And you’ll need to dress in jeans and whatever goes with them, you know, like a biker’s gal.”
“A biker’s gal? André? That doesn’t compute.”
“I will explain on the way. Now please prepare.”
I left her still replaying it all in her circuits and headed to the basement. On the way, I surfed for the necessary transportation. It was not difficult to find what I needed. Indeed, there was a motorcycle rental website for an agency right in the DC area. I scanned through it quickly and then phoned the number.
“I have seen that you have Harley-Davidson motorcycles for rent? What about one they refer to as a ‘hog’? Great! I need to rent one for an extended trip. Does it have a buddy seat? Saddlebags? Good. Good. I’ll be there to pick it up in an hour. Oh, yes, I can pay either by credit card, or bitcoin if you prefer. Credit card, fine. Oh, the name? André Strauss. A-n-d-r-é That’s eé with an accent. Oh well, don’t bother about the accent mark. Last name? Strauss, S-t-r-a-u-s-s. Address? Uh, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. What? Oh, well, it’s my office address, you understand. Look, I’ll be there in an hour and we can straighten all that out then, okay? All right, thanks. Bye.”
Shaking my head about all the details, I went to my locker in the White House repair shop and opened it. My morph suit wouldn’t quite do for this. But I did have some coveralls that would pass. The next item was a bit more difficult, but fortunately an antique stuffed chair had been brought down from the East Wing for some repair. It had a rip in the fabric, so I was able to extract a good bit of the horsehair stuffing placed inside sometime during the Nineteenth Century. I managed to comb it out, find some suitable glue and I was all set. I stuck it on, checked it in a mirror, and was happy enough with my handiwork. I slipped on the coveralls, called for a taxi to meet me in ten minutes, and then went to find Margaret. I found her in her infirmary office.
“André! What in the world?” she exclaimed. “What is that on your face, your chin?”
“A beard, my dear,” I explained. “They all wear them. Do you think this one’s long enough?”
“Long enough for you to trip over if it gets under your feet,” she said, simulating human laughter to the point of over discharge.
“Well, perhaps I could shorten it a bit—to about twenty inches should do. Then I will have some to put on as a wig.”
“Sometimes, André, you do get some really strange ideas,” she said.
“Never mind,” I replied, a little miffed at her reaction to my disguise. “Just get all your stuff together and let’s hurry.”
Of course, they always want to argue with me about accepting my credit card. And this man was overly dubious, I suppose because of my beard. Their accessory shop did have biker’s duds, so I was able to find a more appropriate outfit for me and a good jacket for Margaret, helmets with Bluetooth so we could easily converse on the road, not that we couldn’t have used our internal “Droidtalk” transceivers of my own invention.
Our abundant purchases made the store owner very happy. I hesitated for 1.269 seconds when he asked our destination, my thinking was we were on a government mission. But then it seemed okay to tell him we were headed to Sturgis, South Dakota.
“You’ll be the fourth customer headed there this week,” he said. “Y’all be careful, hear?”
Margaret was a bit taken aback when she processed the idea of riding approximately thirty hours on the Buddy Seat.
“You mean I’m supposed to sit behind and cling to you all the way?”
“Of course, dear,” I said, imitating a human smile. “It’s very intimate. And it shows you’re my gal.”
“Gal?” she exclaimed. “Well, I never expected that! I’m a physician, you realize, rather highly respected by White House staff, I’ll have you know. And you expect me to…to…”
“Please, Margaret,” I said. “You need to realize we are off on a mission for the CDC. It requires we look and act like other bikers. In their culture, the women are subservient to the men, proud to be included in this man’s activity. You must…”
“Subservient?” she said, hands on her not-quite-extant hips. “We’ll see about that.”
Needless to say, after another 3.987 minutes of discussion I went back inside and renegotiated for a sidecar attachment. It was a necessary compromise, and I calculated that between Washington and South Dakota I tactfully could persuade her to allow me to ditch it. Even though other more senior bikers might be allowed sidecars, the younger sports would not even consider such a thing. But even though Margaret was a creation of my own hands, robot or not, she was her own person, and I could not escape appreciating how similar we were in programmed stubbornness.
Shunting off my frustration, I packed the saddlebags with her medical gear and a few other items I might find useful later. I took Margaret’s hand to steady her as she climbed in the sidecar, handed over her helmet, mounted the “hog”, and fired up its engine.
“André!” Margaret Do you really know how to operate this machine?”
“Of course, dear,” I replied. “Didn’t you notice? While the clerk was processing my credit card, I read the owner’s manual cover to cover.” With that I made a rather jerky, schreechy start, and we were off!
PART TWO
ARRIVING IN STURGIS
Long before arriving in Sturgis after 29 hours 22 minutes non-stop except for pit-stop-styled gas-ups, we encountered numerous motorcycles on Interstate 90. Groups of three, four, five, as many as a dozen, cruised in loose meandering formations. Cars passed with some annoyance, but semis queued up behind, their drivers clearly irritated by the leisurely pace. I tuned in to Citizens’ Band channels where I heard cyclists and truckers exchanging views in very colorful language. I was surprised by how many riders wore no helmets, most having bandanas tied around their heads instead. Margaret and I certainly were wearing ours, even though I’m certain our heads were far less fragile than those human ones.
By the time we reached the exit, we were all but embedded in a battalion of roaring motorcycles, creating congestion at the off-ramp. Near the first intersection we encountered a group of older people looking at the arriving cycles, some sitting, some standing, all wearing facemasks, holding signs reading, “GO HOME.” I pulled into a parking place next to them and stopped.
“Let’s go speak to them,” I said to Margaret. She took off her helmet.
“He doesn’t look very friendly,” she replied. Margaret produced two masks from her bag, handed me one, and climbed out of the sidecar. “Put this on.”
I fumbled a bit trying to make the mask fit over my not-quite-human-appearing ears. It had not been necessary for us to wear them before because everyone at the White House knew us. Very conscious of being a representative of CDC, Margaret insisted we bring them to wear here, however, if for no other reason than to set an example. In addition, keeping our faces covered would help disguise the fact we were a different sort of being. Warily, we approached the group. A white-haired man, appearing to be in his eighties, looked over at us, frowned and waved his sign.
“Good morning,” I said, having to turn my volume up to be heard over the continuous roar of engines. “I see you’re not too happy about all these motorcycles.”
“You people are just like a giant swarm of locusts,” he growled, “coming here every goshdarn summer, crawling all over our city, eating and drinking everything in sight. Destroying everything, you do, especially our peace and quiet.” He glanced at us curiously. “Never seen anybody like you before.” He elbowed the woman beside him—likely his wife—and nodded toward me. “Where you from?”
“Washington,” I replied as I looked at her and fashioned a human smile. “You are a resident here in Sturgis, I presume?”
“How’d ya’ guess?” he said. I ignored his sarcasm. Margaret stepped closer to join in.
“If you don’t like all these motorcycles,” she asked, “then who promotes the rally?”
“Nobody has to anymore,” he answered. “It’s been going on so long, shoot, there’s been yearly rallies in Sturgis near ‘bout my whole life. “
“I would think they would have cancelled it this year,” Margaret said, “because of the pandemic.”
“Hell, ma’am, pardon my French,” the man replied. “The mayor said, as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t stop it. These blamed people would just show up here on their big Harleys anyway. After eighty years of rallies, it’s like a big firehose ya’ can’t shut off.” A gaggle of thirty-one motorcycles charged by in front of us, shutting off all conversation with the noise. It was all a huge flash of chrome and colorful outfits. Women in gawdy shirts and bandanas astride buddy seats clung to their men who mainly wore black riding outfits or cowboy’s leather chaps. Long hair and beards streamed in the wind, and blue tattoos disfigured burly arms. From their position beside the road, the old people waved their “GO HOME” signs vigorously and shouted very unwelcoming words at each group as they passed.
“I have yet to see a single face mask,” Margaret exclaimed. “Isn’t there some law?”
“Nah,” the old man said. “Our governor is agin’ ‘em. Says requiring masks and social distancing is unconstitutional, a violation of civil liberties. Can you believe it?”
“We hear that back at the White House all the time,” Margaret replied, shaking her head. “One day it’s this way, the next day it’s that. You can’t predict what the President’s going to say.”
“Yeah, as if he were some kind of medical expert,” the lady said.
We watched in silence as more passing loud engines drowned out our words. From our vantage point you could see a long stretch of the interstate with antlike processions of motorcycles flowing into the city. With renewed vigor the “GO HOME” sign-wavers shouted their displeasure.
“Come along, dear,” I said to Dr. Margaret 13, “we may as well go join the crowd downtown.”
Because of the huge numbers of cyclists entering, it took us 36.27 minutes to reach the center of the town. Along the sidewalk of Harley-Davidson Way, Margaret and I made our way through the crowds of people. We couldn’t move into the street to walk around them because thousands of motorcycles were jam-packed into all the parking places. Guys slumped around several of the more chrome-studded machines discussing horsepower, acceleration, and so on. For 22 minutes and 19 seconds we walked along the street listening and observing the rather monotonous socializing until my companion finally spoke.
“André, can’t we go inside somewhere? I’m bored with hearing these endless, repetitive conversations. I think all they can talk about is the shiny appearance of their “hogs.” Whoever heard of a shiny hog?”
As politely as possible given the throng of sweaty humanity, we pushed our way into The Knuckle Sandwich Bar and looked for a table. The place was packed, but fortunately a nearby couple at a tiny table in a back corner near us stood up. Margaret headed for it, and I followed. Trying not to knock the stacked up dirty dishes off the table, we squeezed in the bench seats against the wall where we could see, yet be out of the way. I decided we should take off our masks. Clearly, none of the customers wore one. A somewhat rotund woman with an order pad in her hand and a yellow pencil sticking out of her frizzy brown hair came over to take our order.
“What’ll it be, hot shot,” she demanded, looking off to her left, more focused on a couple of guys in a nearby booth, waving at her to come over. She looked back at me with an impatient smile.
“Coffee?” she shouted over the din of boisterous conversation and laughter.
“Yes, two coffees please,” I replied.
“Anything else?” she asked, eying Margaret curiously. “You know dear, I’ve never seen anybody thin as you. Don’t he take any better care of you than that? Better order a couple extra eggs if I was you.”
“No thank you,” Margaret said. “I am fine. As a physician, however, I would recommend you cut down on the carbs. Your LDL level must be above 260, a condition that could cause you heart trouble in a few years.”
“Well, ain’t you somethin’? You just keep your doctor opinions to yourself, dearie.”
“The two coffees will be sufficient,” I said before Margaret could reply. “We’ve uh, eaten already. Thanks.” I configured my lips into a smile. The woman regarded me a moment, then swept up a couple of egg-stained white plates.
“I’ll tell the busboy to get the rest,” she said and headed off. As she turned away, Margaret read aloud the inscription on the back of the woman’s red shirt.
“WELCOME. AIN’T NO VIRUS IN STURGIS.” She looked at me, gave a static discharge, and shook her head. “And I perceived things were bad at the White House.”
Our coffee did not arrive right away, which mattered little to us. Fortuitously, there was a 110-volt outlet in the wall behind us. I asked Margaret for her cord, and took both hers and mine and plugged them in.
“That helps,” she cooed.
“A lot more than coffee will,” I answered.
As we charged, I watched the two men in the nearby booth. The older one, whom I estimated by his graying hair to be sixty-one, kept up incessant talking only interrupted by his coughs approximately every 37 seconds. I amplified my hearing for a minute and fourteen seconds, determined the conversation was of no value and tuned him out. Margaret produced her infrared thermometer gun and surreptitiously pointed it toward him.
“Fever of 99.8,” she told me. “That along with the dry cough provide sufficient symptomatic indications of Covid-19.”
“And neither he nor the fellow across the table from him has a mask,” I replied.
Our discussion was interrupted when a brown-skinned man pushed a busing cart of dirty dishes over to our table and with a nod began gathering up the pile of soiled plates and cups and glasses. Although he wore a surgical mask—just about the only human there with one–I could see enough of his facial features to surmise he might be Native American.
“Are you a citizen of Sturgis?” I asked. “I mean, are you indigenous here?” He paused and looked at me strangely for 2.37 seconds.
“Yep,” he mumbled and then continued wiping off the table.
“Sioux?” I ventured. “Are you descended from a local tribe perhaps?” He regarded me again.
“Don’t get asked that much,” he said with some embarrassment.
“I’m happy to see you wearing a mask,” Margaret said. “You’re one of the few here.”
“My people already been made very sick by white men,” he said. “Many centuries ago. I’m not going to be another if I can help it.” He glanced at us as if for the first time. “You wear no mask.” He stared. “You… Maybe you wear Halloween mask or something.” He looked astonished. “You…What are…”
“Let’s not worry about that,” I said as offhandedly as I could. “Just call me André, and this is Margaret.” I extended my hand. He stared at it a moment, gripped it with a slight bit of amazement and we shook. He withdrew his hand, still gazing at mine.
“Jonathon,” he mumbled. “Never met a man with such a hand.”
“It’s not important,” I said. “Please, tell me about yourself. You are of the Sioux nation, I believe.”
“Lakota,” he nodded.
“And what do you think about all these motorcyclists coming here every year?” He grimaced.
“I find extra work, but I don’t like it.” He finished wiping the table and placing a napkin holder, salt and pepper back in the center. “Too many loud cycles, ruining our hills. Too many people who care nothing for us who live here.”
“You, Johnathon!” a man with a greasy beard protruding from a soiled black face mask yelled from behind the counter. “Bus those tables, injun. Get with it!” He made an angry sweep of his arm. Johnathon nodded and obediently began pushing his cart away.
“Wait,” I said. “Could we talk later? There’s so much I’d like to know.
“Off at four,” he called over his shoulder.
“See you then,” I said.
When the waitress arrived with our coffee, she slopped it down, and it sloshed a bit on the table. I asked for the check. We unplugged, retracted our charge cords and slipped our masks back on. Leaving a modest tip, I led Margaret to the cash register to pay. While in line with my credit card in hand, I tried to stay six feet from others, but a man in jeans and cowboy boots clomped up beside us.
“Excuse me,” Margaret said. “I can’t help but notice you’re not wearing any facial covering. Are you not concerned about contracting Covid-19?” He slowly cut his eyes around at us.
“New here, ain’t ye?” he said with disdain.
“Our first visit,” I said pleasantly and stepped between him and Margaret. He gave me a look up and down.
“Well, mister, I might tell you it ain’t nobody’s business but mine whether I wear a mask or not.” I was processing my reply to the human when the cashier motioned for me to pay. Using that as a ploy to avoid responding to the cowboy, I turned and handed the cashier my credit card and the check.
“You should be wearing a mask to protect others,” Margaret persisted. “Unless everyone is properly masked and separated, there is no protection for anyone.”
“Listen lady,” he drawled. The way I see it, If you don’t believe in it, ya won’t git it.”
“It is a matter of medical science, not belief, sir,” Margaret said. “Surely you have enough sense…”
“Time to go, Margaret,” I exclaimed, taking her by the arm and leading her toward the door.
“André?” she said. “I was merely attempting to educate the poor soul. Droidness knows he’s very confused.”
“There’s an old expression, dear,” I said as I led her through the mass of customers waiting for tables. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do. And that translates to ‘don’t mess with Texas.’”
“But, André, I was going to offer to take that man’s temperature and swab his nose so that he could see the failure of his logic.”
“Listen, Doctor,” I advised. “We came here to observe. You cannot fix this, my dear.”
“I suppose you are right,” she said as she expelled a breath of static discharge. “I’m not presently equipped to perform brain surgery.”
PART THREE
ARM WRESTLING
“I would like to rent one of those empty booths, André,” Margaret said. “Then I can offer Covid-19 tests.”
“That’s fine with me, dear,” I replied. “But I don’t anticipate many customers.”
“I brought only fifty tests, so it shouldn’t take too long to use them up.”
“We’ll see,” I said as we headed toward the main kiosk. A woman behind the counter told us the cost was $100.00 a day for a 10’x8’ tent covered space, table, and two folding chairs. Our assigned spot was located on Harley Davidson Street next to a booth selling T-shirts. Margaret took one look and shook her head.
“How can I give tests beside a bunch of shirts with “F… Fauci & the CDC” blowing in the breeze?” Something of counterintuitive message, don’t you think? Let’s go back and ask for a different place.”
“This was the only vacant one, Margaret. It will have to do.”
Forming a human grimace on her face, she sat behind the table and unpacked her supplies. “Since we have no sign, André, it will be your job to accost passersby and invite them for free tests. Look, here comes a couple now.”
A man with a sleeveless white T-shirt with a big Q on it and a dumpy woman in a not-quite-large-enough pink halter approached.
“Excuse me,” I said. “We are offering free Covid tests and…” They totally ignored me and entered the T-shirt shop beside us. A group of four men followed along behind them. I stepped forward slightly and began my pitch again.
“Tests? Hell!” the first of the group said. “I ain’t had no tests since high school.” They all chuckled and pushed past. I glanced at the next man.
“Out of the way, bub,” he said, and sauntered on. I received the same reaction from a number of others. Meanwhile, Margaret was aiming her thermometer gun at passersby.
“Ninety-nine point six,” she announced to a middle-aged woman with a heart tattooed above her barely covered bosom. The paused for 2.38 seconds to glance our way but then walked on hurriedly.
“This isn’t working,” I told Margaret.
“We need a sign,” she decided. “Go back to that pharmacy we passed down the street and buy some poster paper and markers. I’ll stay here just in case someone wants a test.”
Obediently, I walked to the store, found some suitable supplies, and headed back. Upon my return, I found two blue-uniformed policemen questioning Margaret.
“You’re not authorized to give tests,” the senior cop said. “You’ll have to show some licensing documentation.”
“Pardon me, Officer,” I interrupted. “She is a fully licensed physician, on the president’s medical staff, in fact.” I pulled out my identification, and Margaret produced hers.” The policeman studied her card.
“We are top echelon staff in the White House,” I mentioned.
“Wow!” said the younger cop. “You mean you work for…”
“The President himself,” I said. “As the documentation clearly shows. The senior policeman looked a bit skeptical but handed us our i.d.’s. “Can’t see how swabbing noses will do any harm,” he said. “If you can get any of these characters to let you test ‘em.”
“We’re just hoping to help,” I replied. “We’re striving to save humanity.” They both eyed me curiously for a moment and then laughed.
“Save humanity?” the top man exclaimed. “Well, there’s a half-million of ‘em needing it around here.” He made a gesture of futility and walked on.
“Have a good day, Officers,” I called behind them. I handed Margaret the poster paper, and she neatly wrote out FREE COVID-19 TESTS in big red letters.
“Hold up the sign, André,” she commanded. “Flash it at people as they walk by and speak to them if you can.” I reluctantly took up the sign and held it in front of me. Numbers of people came by but paid no attention. I tried dancing and waving it a bit, the way I had seen a boy do in front of a pizza restaurant. It got a few grins but still generated no real interest. After 17 minutes and 46 seconds, I gazed at Margaret and shrugged.
“We need a gimmick,” I said.
“How about a cowboy’s rope?” she suggested. “Snag those that show a fever.”
“I don’t process that force will work,” I said. The word force generated a memory of seeing a couple of men seated in the Full Throttle Bar arm wrestling. There was a crowd around them laughing and egging them on. At the time I concluded silently that I could have beaten both of them with ease.
“I have an idea,” I blurted out. “I could challenge guys to an arm-wrestling match. That would bring people.”
“What a thought! You’ve been exposed to these people too long, André. It’s wearing off on you.”
“No, really,” I insisted. “We can make it a challenge. A hundred dollars to anyone who beats me. Anybody I beat has to take the Covid test.”
“How many hundreds of dollars do you plan to lose, dear? Have you seen the biceps on some of these gorillas?”
“My arm servos can handle any of them,” I claimed. “You’ll see.” I turned the poster over and scrawled on the back, BEAT ME AT ARM WRESTLING, WIN $100. In smaller print below I wrote Lose and take a Covid test.
“I’m not processing happy results,” Margaret warned.
“Nevermind,” I said, taking the poster up and waving it at the passsers by. It took less than 2.26 minutes for a burly character in jeans, boots and leather vest to step up.
“Let’s see what ya’ got,” he said, winking at his cronies that stood back to watch.
I made a smile and handed Margaret the sign. He followed me over to the table and sat opposite me, putting his meaty elbow up and giving me a sneer. I positioned my elbow on the table and took his hand. He glanced at mine curiously.
“Metal glove? What the hell?” I ignored his question.
“Ready?” I asked. He grimaced and gave a great push of his arm. I simply resisted and let him struggle. After 29.3 seconds I noted beads of sweat on his frowning forehead. I decided to articulate my servo. He grunted loudly as I pushed his arm to the table. His jaw was agape.
“Two out of three?” he gasped.
“Not the agreement,” Margaret said cheerfully. “Hold up your head while I insert the swab. Hold still, now. Okay, that’s all.” She stored the swab. “I need your name, address and cell phone number, please.” She produced the paper and a ballpoint. My opponent groaned, wiped his nose on his bare arm and got up from the chair.
“Go to hell!” he said and stormed off. I looked at his buddies.
“Any other takers?” But they already were following their defeated hero.
“No use in saving this test sample,” Margaret said, “even though I could tell from his body temperature that he’s positive. “We’ll have to insist the others fill out the paperwork first.”
Soon there were others. Word began to get around. Within the next 39.45 minutes, I had downed 21 challengers, all of whom were properly identified and swabbed.
“We’re drawing a crowd,” Dr. M. said. “Most don’t have on masks.
While I was having no trouble winning, I noted my batteries were depleting rather rapidly.
“They’ve been crowding around all day if not all week,” I replied. “What difference will a few minutes of close gathering here make?” Another challenger sat across from me, and I promptly put him down. He gritted his teeth and got in the swabbing line.
“How many more tests do you have?” I asked.
“Twenty-seven,” she replied. “How are you doing?”
“I calculate I can manage that many more opponents,” I said. “As long as they are about equal to the ones I’ve already encountered.” My confidence did depend upon being able to put down each of the twenty-seven within forty-five second’s average. I computed the effect on my batteries. At rest, I burn up 1-1/2 Ah (ampere per hour) or 5400 coulombs. While arm wrestling, I additionally expend at the rate of 4.5 Ah or 16,200 coulombs. If it takes me an average of 45 seconds to defeat each opponent, the cost is 202.5 coulombs. If it requires one hour of time to take on the twenty-seven remaining challengers, then I compute the drain as follows: 5400 + (27 x 202.5) = 10,867.5 coulombs. I checked my battery monitor and determined I had only 11,000 coulombs of usable energy remaining.
“Margaret,” I intercommed to her, “This is going down to the wire, so to speak.”
“What do you mean, dear?”
“I mean, if I don’t get my charge cord wire plugged in before taking on the last challengers, I may not be able to walk out of here.” I paused to concentrate on my next opponent and put him down in 37 seconds.
“Perhaps it will not be so close,” I said, heartened a bit by the quicker defeat.
Or so I thought until I realized the opposition was wasting more electrical power than I had calculated. Having only three more opponents to defeat and test, I looked up at a giant. Looming over me from across the table stood a hulking 6-11” gorgon, clad in grease-stained leather chaps and matching vest. Swelling out above a massive belly was a skull and crossbones staring at me from a hairy barrel chest.
“Hear you ain’t been beat yet,” he said with a scowl. He plopped down in the folding chair, causing it to creak audibly.
“That is correct,” I answered while checking my meter, which indicated 628 coulombs remaining.
“Here you are, sir,” Margaret said as she placed the paperwork before him. “You must fill this out first.”
“That’s is if I lose. Well, I ain’t losin’,” he announced. He banged a massive arm up on the table. “You ready?”
Without a word, I placed my elbow, gripped the massive hand and felt an immediate pressure. His triceps bulged as he tried to push my arm over. I locked my servos to hold the vertical position, thinking to let him tire with his pressing.
“Get him, Big Hank!” one of his cronies yelled. They cheered and clapped as we struggled. After 43.7 seconds I determined it was time to act. I applied the pressure required to defeat all the others, but his arm didn’t budge. He stared at me with a malign frown and was not perspiring like the rest. I increased the electrical pulse to my servo motor. It made his arm tremor but not move. We went on this way for an additional 59.2 seconds, and I computed the struggle now had expended 463.05 culombs, leaving me 164.95 units before virtual paralysis.
“How are you, André?” Margaret intercommed. I reported the numbers. “You must give up,” she pleaded. “You cannot stand battery fatigue.”
“Never,” I replied as I stared at the now perspiring hulk across from me. “André does not quit.” It sounded good but I was failing fast. Then I sensed Margaret reaching under the table and opening my charge cord port. Even as I strained to keep the giant from defeating me, she fiddled with the cord and joined her cord to mine. Instantly, I felt a great surge of power. She was charging me from her own batteries. Suddenly renewed, I fired a surge of power into my arm servos and forced the beefy, sweaty arm to the table with a thud. There were gasps from the crowd and a few cheers. Mostly, however, Big Hank’s cronies groaned and booed.
“She did something!” One of them shouted. “I don’t know what, but they cheated.” The giant stood up and rubbed his hand.
“Yeah, what kind of man are you anyway?” one said. “Some kind of metal man? This is rigged.”
“Nobody cheats me,” the hulk said and gave me a malicious look. I scanned the crowd and realized he had lots of supporters. At this point I knew that not only was I down to empty batteries but, having given me the charge Margaret must be as well. My pride in victory gave way to recalculated risks.
“Look,” I said. “You battled me three times as long as anyone else. Here I want to award you the prize.” I handed him the hundred dollar bill. He stared at me a second, gazed at the money, shrugged and snatched it.
“And the winner is Big Hank!” one of his guys shouted. The giant scowled at me, then held up the money.
“C’mon you assholes,” he said to his friends. “I’m buyin’.” He gave me one more dirty look before they all turned, slapping him on the back and heading toward the bar.
“We didn’t make any friends, André,” Margaret said as she packed up her test kit.
“Aw, so what? Well, you c’mon, my dear Dr. M,” I said and took her hand. “Let me buy you a nice long charge. I could use one myself.”
PART FOUR
QANON KIDS
After a very relaxing charge up, we took all the completed tests to the post office and mailed them off. Going back outside into the great plethora of parked machines and people. What sparked my attention was a young couple beside a parked motorcycle on Main Street, each engrossed with their iPhones. The girl, likely about twenty, in gray short shorts and red halter was well proportioned in her human frame and had her brown hair in a ponytail. Except for the scanty clothing, I would have deduced she was a college student. The dark-haired young man, perhaps a year older, lanky build, in jeans and boots, had on a white tee-shirt emblazoned with a big Q in red, white, and blue stripes. I had seen thousands of those Q shirts and decided this was a good subject to quiz about it. I motioned to Margaret to pause beside them.
“Your cycle,” I said, “looks to be an Indian Scout.” Without glancing up from his phone he answered.
“Thunder Stroke 111.” He muttered, his thumbs busy texting. I pressed ahead.
“How do you like it?”
“Best I’ve ever ridden,” he replied, still focused on his device. I located a weak but usable wi-fi signal and searched on “Indian TS 111 faults.”
“I hear it has a problem with parasitic draw,” I said, not bothering to download all the information. He looked up.
“Been fixed on mine,” he insisted. “This machine’s perfect.” He looked at me curiously. I fashioned a smile.
“Glad to hear it,” I said and gazed at his shirt. “What’s the Q mean?” His girlfriend looked up when I asked that.
“If you don’t know, you must be the only one in Sturgis who doesn’t,” she said.
“We’re sort of new to this rally,” I said with a tone of confession. “Our first time.”
“Figures,” he said, continuing to look at both Margaret and me oddly. “Where y’all from?”
“Washington,” Margaret replied. “And where are you from?”
“Dayton, Ohio. We came on Saturday.”
“Are you two aware of how sunburned you’re becoming?” Margaret said. “Ultra-violet rays cause not only painful redness but also the breakdown of skin cells.”
“We’ll just drink it off later, like everybody else” the boy grinned. “Won’t we, Jan?”
“Maybe it’s that time already,” Jan suggested. “I could use a cold beer about now.”
I pointed to the bar across the street. “Let me treat,” I said, nearly shouting as a group of six Harleys and two Yamahas thundered by. “Then you can tell me more about Dayton. We’ve never been there.”
“Haven’t missed much.” He glanced at his girl. “Ready?” She shrugged.
“Why not. I’ve never refused a free beer.”
As we walked, I introduced us and learned his name was Tim. The four of us crossed the street through a haze of exhaust and entered One Eyed Jack’s. It was significantly darker and cooler than the sunny street. Although the place was packed, we found a small table and sat. Jan said she wanted an IPA; Tim nodded, and I went to the bar. It took four minutes 37 seconds for me be served and pay. As I carried the four bottles to the table, I heard Margaret asking them to talk about themselves.
“Are you going back in time for school?” she asked. “Too bad about how the pandemic’s interfering with classes.”
“We saw the light and dropped out,” Tim boasted. “We wanted to get out from under, know what I mean?” I handed them each an IPA and sat down.
“I don’t process, uh, I don’t get what you mean by ‘out from under’.”
“Hell, I was a math major, and Jan studying English. Thank God we wised up.”
“Wised up, how?” I asked. He sneered.
“In the New Age, I can make a great living as a plumber instead being a statistician or something. And I can work on my own and not under some asshole’s thumb.”
“And I want to write novels,” Jan said. “I don’t need to know all that crap from Tennyson or Wordsworth or whoever.”
I started to explain that the wisdom of great writers provides one an invaluable perspective on life, but Margaret challenged Tim about the importance of mathematical statistics.
“Do you realize how important statistics are to our combating Covid 19?” she asked him. “The CDC gathers data about where there are outbreaks occur, where the most deaths occur, where testing reveals the rate of infection.”
“Those are all fake numbers,” Jan interrupted. “You can’t trust CDC. It’s all part of the Deep State.” She took a big gulp of her beer.
“How can you say that?” Margaret countered. “Why my prediction is based entirely upon scientific analysis of data.” Tim tapped the Q on his shirt.
“Question everything,” he declared. “CDC is part of the conspiracy of the Left. It’s trying to make us all afraid. Pretending to control disease, those doctors are trying to enforce the agenda of Satan.”
“Are you being humorous?” I asked. “Do you really believe what you’re saying?”
“It’s not only doctors,” Jan added. “It’s also teachers and all the other liberals, including many bureaucrats in the government. Qanon is exposing their cult of fantastic lies and false reality. showing us the way.”
“Yeah, they fear exposure, these sick bastards, who prey on the innocence of children. There’s proof that some of them eat feces and do evil sexual things to children,” Tim said. “But we are going to defeat them. There soon will be a Great Awakening as truth is rebuilt and revealed. It will be the birth of freedom, freedom from the oppression of the old crippling morality, the oppression of what our parents mistakenly taught us. I’m just so glad me and Jan have seen the light.”
I sensed my entire listening processors vibrating. “Where in the world are hearing all of this?”
“Oh, it’s being revealed to many, many of us,” Jan said fanatically. “There now are a huge number of websites instructing the good people and bringing them together.”
“Where we go one, we go all,” Tim declared, holding his beer bottle high then putting it to his lips and draining it dry.
“I cannot process this,” Margaret said. “I thought we had difficulties enough with truth at the White House, but…”
“Oh, the Deep State is in the White House, all right,” Jan declared. “They do all they can to interfere with our President, trying to hinder rather than help him carry out his agenda. But we’re going to assist…”
“Just a moment,” I said. “Margaret and I are employed in the White House, as a matter of fact. And I can assure you that the overwhelming majority of those career people are dedicated, working hard to maintain our national government and uphold the Constitution.”
“Oh, you work there?” Tim asked, doubt in his tone.. “And what do you do?”
“I’m a physician on the in-house medical staff with rotation to Walter Reed Hospital. André is the President’s interpreter, able to translate instantly almost every human tongue, and all of the computer languages.”
“Aw bull!” Tim snorted. “What is he? Some kind of robot or something?”
Margaret made the sound of human laughter. “You would be surprised.”
Margaret! I transmitted, We’re not supposed to reveal… But I was interrupted.
“You’re some kind of Deep State beings, I’ll bet,” Tim cried. He half stood and grabbed his empty beer bottle by the neck, holding it like a weapon.
“Take it easy,” I said. “You are as much in error about that as you are everything else. Listen, my friend, there is no deep state as you call it.”
“Oh, yeah. Well I’ll tell you one thing. There are enough of us Qanon followers here to bust your buns many times over. What kind of evil creatures are you anyway?” He drew back his arm menacingly.
“You are so confused,” Margaret said. “I cannot process how your minds have been so altered.”
“Yeah, and fuck you, too, bitch.” He broke the bottom of the bottle against the table, leaving sharp edges. I grabbed his wrist. He grunted and squirmed but could not break away. “Ow!”
“Drop the bottle and calm down,” I said, “and then I’ll let you go.” The broken bottle landed on the floor. I noted several people watching us. I made a grin at them and then turned back to my opponent. “Here, you two can have our beers. No doubt your minds could not be muddled any more by alcohol. Let’s go, Margaret, dear.”
We both stood. I let him wrench his hand away. By this point nearly everyone had ceased to talk and were watching us. I gave a sort of friendly wave as we headed for the door. Outside, as we walked down the street, Margaret shook her head.
“Are all these people around here as insane as those two?”
“Far more than they, I’m sure.” I released a breath of static discharge. “Observing all these motorcycle enthusiasts, I perceive an overall sense of aimlessness, a lack of any purpose, a sort of frustration, don’t you think?”
“Yes, and it appears this Qanon fantasy serves to fill the void, lend a purpose to their lives,” she surmised. “Oh, André, I find it to be a very dark and dangerous fantasy, so counter to reality.”
“And our lordly leader in the White House stokes all the fires of discontent.”
“What we’ve seen here gives me great concern for our nation.”
“If this truly is the beginning of a new age, it will be a very dark one indeed.”
PART FIVE
LAKOTA RESERVATION
At 1600 hours MDT arriving at the kitchen door in back of the restaurant, we met our Native American friend, Johnathon. I asked if we could go somewhere for a talk, but he needed to go home to care for the children while his wife went to work. I expressed disappointment, and he invited us to follow him home to the Cheyenne River Reservation, and we could talk there. We soon were on our way on our Harley following his ancient, rusting pickup.
When we arrived at the boundary, we were stopped at a barricaded checkpoint with a big sign reading, “NO BIKERS ALLOWED, PANDEMIC.” Johnathon got out of his truck and spoke to the guards. They looked at us with somewhat amazed expressions and laughed.
“I compute that Johnathon has told them we’re droids,” I transmitted to Margaret through our Bluetooth helmet system.
“Obviously a bright individual, I suppose he sensed it when he shook hands with you,” she replied. “I wonder why an intelligent man would be working as a busboy.”
“That is one of the things I anticipate learning while we’re here,” I said as I watched the gate being opened and Johnathon waving us to follow behind his truck.
We followed his truck down a dusty dirt road to a small white frame house with a small barn or shed behind. Seven chickens, pecking idly in the yard, scattered and ran toward the back as we drove up. As Johnathon got out of his truck, a woman in a brown dress came out of the front door, holding a baby, and put her free hand up to shade her eyes to look at us.
Johnathon spoke to her in his native language, and my processors hummed to translate.
Lakotan Sioux was a dialect in my cache which I had never accessed, but it translated to
“We have guests who will drink. Go and fix coffee.”
“Yes, Tahatan,” she replied, shifting the baby to her other hand and jigging it up and down.
“Thank you, my friends,” I said as I dismounted the Harley. “We require no food or drink.” He looked at me strangely.
“You understand Sioux?” he asked.
“I am not completely fluent,” I replied in that tongue, “but I can get along.” Margaret climbed out of the sidecar and stood beside me. “Dr. Margaret is not so equipped,” I added. “So please speak English if you will.”
“Then please come,” our Native American said. “We can sit inside at least.” As we walked to the door, he gestured to his wife. “This is Ehawee. And our son, Enapay.” She bowed slightly and laughed, very appropriately because her name translates to “she laughs.” The baby, whose name means “goes forth bravely,” reached toward Margaret.
“Oh, may I hold him?” she asked. “So cute!” But the year-old child, who was not so receptive, withdrew his hand and made a face as if to cry. Margaret stepped back.
“Perhaps he’s not so ready to greet strangers,” I suggested.
“Enapay must grow to deserve his name,” his father said. “Come, let’s go in.”
While the outside of the little house was very plain and its white paint was damaged by relentless sun, the inside was colorful. We were led into a front room with a small sofa, covered in tan animal skins, and two straight-back wooden chairs. Ehawee took her baby into another room and closed the door
Behind the sofa was a wall hanging made of bright colored feathers and two arrows. To either side were small framed black and white photos of people in traditional dress. They stood stiffly and wore somber expressions.
“Please us about the people in the photos,” I said. “Are they family members?”
“My parents are here,” he said, pointing to the photo on the left. Then he directed me to the other picture with many persons. I counted 37 adults and sixteen children.
“Tiyospaye,” he explained. “Our extended family. We always have been very close.”
“It’s great to see them in native dress,” Margaret said. “Do they wear those clothes all the time?”
Johnathon smiled. “Only on occasion, ceremonial days.” He sighed. “And sometimes for exhibition to tourists,” he added. “I would prefer we not do that, but unfortunately it’s necessary.”
“I see,” I said. I sensed a note of displeasure, frustration perhaps.
. We were invited to sit upon the sofa, and Johnathon pulled one of the chairs over and sat in it backwards, resting his arms on the chairback.
“I would offer you something if I only knew what would please you,” he said to Margaret. She made a smile.
“We are quite comfortable, thank you,” she replied. I sat forward.
“Jonathon, when we were at the restaurant, I noticed your disapproval of all the motorcycle people gathered there. So I am hoping you will tell us how you feel about the Rally in Sturgis.” We exchanged glances, and he made a gesture of futility.
“They have held their rally for ___ years now—starting before I was born. It is so much taken for granted now, but the old ones, they still harbor much resentment.” He turned and called out to his wife.
“Ehawee, is your father here?” In 3.69 seconds, she appeared at the bedroom door, her finger to her mouth to signify quiet.
“Shh, Enapay is sleeping. Yes, Wahkan is home.” The sound of the baby’s crying came from behind her.
“Colic,” she said, and with a grimace went back to the bedroom, closing the door.
“Perhaps I could help,” Margaret said. She stood and followed Ehawee.
“She is a physician,” I told Jonathon, “a very good one.” He glanced toward the bedroom and then nodded to me.
“Thank you,” he said. “We have a clinic here, but no true doctor.” He stood. “Please make yourself comfortable. Her father lives in the little house behind us.I will go and see if Wahkan will come speak to you He can answer your questions so much better than I.”
I waited on the couch, listening to Margaret and Ehawee discussing the child’s health. In 8.43 minutes, Jonathan returned with his father in law. I rose to greet an elderly dark-skinned man with wrinkled facial features who walked with a limp but his body language and unwavering eyes revealed the strength of a younger person. He looked at my hand as he shook it, a bit surprised by the feel. I made a friendly grin.
“Please do not be disturbed by my physical make-up,” I said pleasantly. “I am pleased to meet you and only wish to learn something about your people.”
“We have a visitors’ center,” he replied with some shortness. “It has exhibits and pamphlets about us and our history.”
“Actually, I have downloaded, uh that is, I’ve learned the superficial information about the Lakota,” I said. “And I am impressed with what a wonderful heritage you have. But what I would like to know is your reaction to the Motorcycle Rally in Sturgis.” As I mentioned Sturgis, I noted a fiery gleam in his eyes.
“Dad, could we sit and talk a few minutes?” Jonathon said. “I told André that you would be able to explain things so much better than I can.” He pulled the other straight chair out, and the older man sat across from me.
“Even though the motorcycle rally has gone on every summer for many years,” I said. “This is the first time there has been a pandemic when people will get infected and sick. I wonder how you feel about having 400,000 cyclists in your area who can spread a highly contagious disease not only among themselves but to you residents as well.”
“The Sioux have been here for thousands of years. We know our stories that have been passed to us from our fathers. Many stories we do not tell outside our tiyospaye. We have ancestors buried in the Black Hills, there are spirits of our gods dwelling in the Badlands. Until two centuries ago the Lakota had not seen a white man. But white men have come, invaded our lands, fought our brave warriors and beat us back to this little land they call the Reservation. And then the bikers came. First there were only a few. And yet their numbers grow and grow. We hear the terrible thunder of their engines. We see the land scarred by tracks of countless tires. They throw their beer cans and plastic bottles along the roads and the paths. The animals hide in fear. It is a horrible thing they do to our peace and our lands.” He raised his hands in a gesture of disbelief.
“And what is sickening to my heart? They are so wrapped up in themselves, so focused on their own pleasure, their own liberty as they call it, that they do not seem to see. It is a kind of blindness, a deafness, an unfeeling. These people do not care. They do not care for us and what is so strange is they do not care even for themselves.”
“Nihilism, it would seem,” I interjected. Wahkan shrugged.
“And now we have the Corona virus,” Jonathon said. “We have been able to blockade our roads to keep them out, and yet some sneak around to break our quarantine. Some of us must work in town, which means we may bring the contagion home. And yet their invasion is relentless, and our families are put at risk.”
“We complain to the government but receive no help,” the old man said. “The laws that should protect us are disregarded, disobeyed, as if we do not count, we do not matter.” He paused in silence.
“But now there is coming a time of reckoning, The gods of our fathers will be revenged. This disease that plagues the world will visit Earth’s wrath upon them.”
ANDRÉ ON STAGE
At 9:12 and 28 seconds the next morning we arrived and rode down Harley-Davidson Boulevard. People already were filling the streets. They were gathering in small groups near the flea market tents, laughing, talking, in close proximity to each other, and not a single face mask anywhere. We wore ours, of course, which was somewhat ridiculous given our immunity to human disease, but Margaret insisted we continue to set an example.
We noticed a crowd moving toward a grandstand a block away. I inquired, and a passing couple told us the Governor of South Dakota was speaking at 10:00. Our mutual curiosity peaked, we queued up in the line and headed toward the show.
Dr. Margaret 13 and I managed to squeeze our way up near the grandstand. In the standing- room-only spot we had chosen, we were close to a group holding signs proclaiming their religion. JESUS LOVES BIKERS and REAL AMERICANS LOVE JESUS.
One, in particular, caught my attention: GOD PROTECTS US FROM COVID 19. I squeezed over close enough to speak to the young woman waving it.
“Excuse me. Shouldn’t you be wearing a mask?” I asked. She flashed her sign at me.
“I am one of God’s chosen. He will protect me.” She said, all but sneering at my mask.
“I’m sure he will,” I said tactfully. “But perhaps not in the way you are thinking.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I doubt he has time to stand over you,” I explained. “Instead, he endowed you and most all other humans the eyes, ears, and defensive skills to protect yourselves. I conclude he expects you to exercise some good sense in the matter.”
“Oh, you’re one of those,” she said. “I don’t talk to non-believers.”
“On the contrary,” I replied, “I greatly admire the morality taught in your religion, I only wonder why Christians can’t seem to practice what they…” But before I could finish, she gave me a scornful look and moved away, waving her sign with more vigor.
“What were you saying to that lady, André?” Margaret asked.
“It was just another one of those ‘Do you not have eyes to see’ discussions,” I replied, quoting from the Book of Mark. My words were drowned out by cheers and clapping as the Governor of South Dakota appeared on the stage.
It was a rousing welcome by someone hugely popular with the motorcyclists. After the final applause, we slipped over beside the steps leading from the stage where we could accost her. Competing with several journalists, Margaret nevertheless succeeded in getting her attention.
“I realize you are very busy, Governor. But as a representative of CDC…”
“CDC?” the governor interrupted. “What’s CDC doing here? I haven’t got time for… ”
“I am a member of the president’s staff,” Margaret interrupted back, “with my share of responsibilities as well. So perhaps we should dispense with trivialities and get right to the subject.” Mentioning the president gained us the woman’s attention.
“What can I help you with then?”
“Yes, let’s discuss the effect this rally will have on the pandemic. Don’t you realize that a great number of these people will be infected here and take the virus to their homes? The result will be a great spread of the illness all over the country.”
”Oh, you people make too much of this. All these bikers are having a great time here. It’s giving them a much needed vacation from their day to day lives. Let them have some fun before they have to go back to work.”
“How do people go to work if they are sick or likely to become infected in their workplace?” Margaret persisted. “What all of our citizens must do is severely restrict the physical interaction of humans. Without the entire population either quarantined or hygienically separated with social distancing and face masks, PPE, etc., how can you expect any businesses to remain open for long? At the present rate, the entire economy will shut down just by attrition, either by employees or customers being too sick to carry on.” The governor shook her head as if to ward off Dr. M’s argument.
“That’s why we need to develop herd immunity,” the governor replied. “You’ve heard of that haven’t you?”
“Oh, herd immunity? Let’s consider that,” I jumped in. “The notion is that if a large majority of the population have had the disease and have recovered, then there are insufficient un-infected humans to be newly infected. Sounds good, right?”
“Right, right,” the woman said and started to walk away.
“Well let’s see what’s wrong with that herd immunity concept,” Margaret said, following along with her. “That required large majority has to be at least seventy percent of the people. The United States is home to 330 million people. 70% of 330,000,000 means 231,000,000 cases of Covid-19 are required. At the present rate of infection, about 60,000 per day, the number of cases in one year would be 21,900,000. If the goal is 231,000,000 total cases then divide that number into 231,000,000 and you find it takes approximately 10.55 years to achieve herd immunity.”
“Oh, those are absurd numbers.”
“Of course, Governor. We were proving your speculation, not mine, correct?” Margaret went on. “And if about 150,000 American citizens have died of the Corona Virus in the first six months of the pandemic, then multiply that one-half year’s number by 10.55 X 2 x 150,000 to see that 3,165,000 people will have died of the virus before herd immunity is reached. The other variable in this equation is that it may require a 90% infection rate, in which case it will take 13.56 years to attain herd immunity. That’s another three years, raising the death toll to over 4,000,000.”
By the time Margaret finished expounding her calculation had reached the black limosine with South Dakota flags on the bumpers. Her security guard opened the door and she hurriedly climbed in. Margaret and I got in our last words before the door was shut.
“So you intend to do nothing? Make no requirement for social distancing, face masks, limited seating in bars and restaurants? Instead you want to let the disease spread and have people die? Is all of that mortality acceptable to you, Governor,” I asked, “just to keep the economy going?” She looked somewhat amazed. Then her eyes narrowed.
“Without economic activity the nation will collapse. People will be at one another’s throats,” she insisted. “No matter what, we have to open our businesses.”
“And if a great number of your citizens are sick and dying from Covid-19,” Margaret said, “then who will there be to do the opening?” But before she finished asking her question, a pair of uniformed cops swung their motorcycles up in front of the big limo, and with a blare of sirens and flashing blue lights, the governor’s procession sped away. We stood watching until they rounded the corner, heading for the interstate. We looked at one another and shook our heads.
“We must do more to warn these people about the Corona virus,” Margaret declared. “It is why CDC sent us.” I paused for 6.28 seconds to process.
“We have to find a way to get their attention,” I said. “Something better than arm wrestling.” She glanced at me and made a gesture of helplessness.
“From what I’ve observed, they simply do not comprehend the dangers,” she replied. “It’s as if they do not care for their own safety. Remember that man we talked to yesterday—the one who said, “If you don’t believe in it, you won’t get it.”
“I cannot say a human such as that has any hope at all,” I replied, “but some of them must be sensible. If we could only find a way to talk to them.”
“With as many people as we’ve engaged,” she said, “not one has listened. Why would you expect anything different from any others?” I made a grimace.
“Well, somehow we must reach them,” I answered as I dismounted and helped her out of the side car. “Otherwise, our trip here will be for naught.”
She retrieved a box from the sidecar. “Here are all these test kits I brought, and so far no one has been interested in being tested. I think they don’t even want to know.” I shrugged and led her down the sidewalk toward the flea market.
“We could try meeting more people over there,” I said. Then I noticed a sign posted on a brick wall. “Look, dear,” I said. “There’s going to be a concert tonight, hillbilly rock, it says.”
“That will produce an even bigger congregation of humans, likely without masks,” she said. “Just more exposure to contagion.” I nodded.
“That’s where we can talk to a lot of people,” I said. “We can go tell them about the virus even while they’re being infected in masse. “
“You cannot do much talking at a rock concert, André. The music will drown us out.”
“Perhaps,” I said, and then in 483 milliseconds processed an idea.
“I must get on that stage, Margaret,” I said. “If only I could get in front of their microphone. If only for a few minutes.”
“Ha, what do you plan to do, André dear? Sing a song, play an electric bass? Or dance for them maybe…”
“Precisely,” I exclaimed, my processors a-whirr. “Margaret, you’re brilliant, my sweet droid. I could kiss you. I will.” I took her hand and pulled her close.
“Careful, André!” she said, pulling back. “Last time you did that we nearly had a short-circuit…” But I stopped her words with a big smooch.
“The idea is hatched!” I said. “Now for the execution.”
I looked closely at the circular on the wall. Down at the bottom in small print was the name of the shop where the sign had been printed. “402 Second Street,” I mumbled. “Come on, Margaret, we have work to do.”
Ace Printing indeed was open. We entered, and I asked the man if he could print up 1000 copies of a flyer right away. He said we’d have to pick it up tomorrow, and that was when I pulled out my wad of cash. Miraculously (ha), he discovered he could get on it right away and have it within the hour—just design something for him. He handed me a pad and pen. I looked at Margaret.
“How does ‘Rockin’ André’ sound?” I asked.
“Pretty terrible,” she replied.
“Hmmm,” I said, a bit hurt by her reaction. “Actually,” I realized. “It would be better not to have a name on the flyer. More intriguing that way. Stir the curiosity more.” Boy, was I processing. “All right.” I took up the pen and wrote.
SPECIAL ATTRACTION!! SECRET GUEST PERFORMER ON STAGE TONIGHT IN STURGIS! A HILLBILLY ROCK STAR IS BORN! DON’T MISS THIS ONCE IN A LIFETIME PERFORMANCE.
I handed it to the manager. “Make it two thousand copies,” I said. “Got to have ‘em quick!” He nodded and headed into the back. I turned to my good Doctor M and explained my scheme.
“André, have you overheated your CPU?” Margaret asked. “I never have…”
“Worry not, my pretty robot,” I cooed. “You will see, you will see.”
In 51 minutes, 48.6 seconds, the print man came out with two reams of fliers. I scanned the sample copy, found it satisfactory, and paid with an ample tip. I hustled my companion out to the street and handed her one of the packages.
“You head south and I’ll go north. Hand flyers to people, post them if you can, take them in bars and cafes. Tell them this is going to be the most amazing show they’ve ever seen.”
“It’s going to be the most amazing show I’ve ever seen!” she said. “Have you for one millisecond considered the consequences?”
“These are difficult times, dear,” I replied. “And we must respond with courage and tenacity. It’ll be okay, you’ll see.” I gave her a gentle shove. “Now take your fliers and go before we lose the day. Hurry, dear. And convince them of your enthusiasm for the show. I’ll meet you back at our cycle at 5:00. And remember, Margaret, I love you.”
Now what? I wondered as I headed off in the opposite direction. In fact, it was not easy passing out all those fliers and trying to sound convincing to people. But it did appear that most intended to make it to the concert, mystery performer or not, which was good. What was not so good was that I did not yet have a plan as to how I could succeed at my own challenge of being the Rock Star they would expect.
At 16:37 hours, I had distributed all of my fliers, and it gave me some time to think up what I would do on stage that night. I found a quiet spot in an alley near where my cycle was parked. I sat down on the ground, leaned against a brick wall and began to compose. Between the heat of the August sun and the electrical activity of my processors, I was very baked by the time I met Margaret on the street.
“If you expect to perform,” she advised. “You surely have to dress the part.” It had not occurred to me. But fortunately, there was a store selling western togs not far down the street. We chose a suitable cowboy outfit, and I did end up looking presentable. She wanted me to wear this black jacket with sequins, which I declined, claiming it would just be too hot and overheat my circuits again.
At exactly 7:30 PM, we mounted the Harley and merged into a line of motorcycles heading toward the outdoor arena. What I hadn’t calculated was how long a line it would be and how long it would take to arrive and park.
“I’m going to stay here, André,” Margaret insisted. “You can call me to bring the machine if necessary. Who knows what may happen.”
“Please do not worry, Doctor M,” I assured her. “I will convince them of the truth. When I’m finished, they will be eating out of my hand, so to speak.”
“Please be careful,” she urged. “I’m not so sure.”
With more jauntiness than I actually processed internally, I strode toward the stage. By that time people were sitting on blankets on the ground, drinking beer, smoking pot and listening to the warm-up performers. I noted with satisfaction more than a few of my fliers were in hand or lying around on the ground. When I managed to wend my way through to the stage, there were a couple of burly men standing guard.
“This is a restricted area, bud,” one of them told me.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m one of the performers.”
“Yeah, what’s your name?”
“André,” I replied. “I’m the…”
“There ain’t no Andy or Ann-dree or whatever on the list, cowboy,” he said and stood in my way.
“I’m the special attraction,” I replied. “You must have seen the flier that circulated today.”
“The boss says he knows nothing about no special act.
“Just let me speak to him,” I pled. “He’ll understand.”
“Look dude, he’s busy. The way I see it, you ain’t legit. Now get along with ya.”
Nonplussed, I backed up a few paces, found a bar bit of ground off to the side and sat down to reconsider. A famous country-western singer came on stage and there were abundant whistles and clapping. He performed a couple of songs and was followed by a band with a girl singer. It went on that way for an hour. I glanced back to see Margaret, but it had grown dark. After the last act finished, the manager came on the stage and thanked everyone for coming. Then what I hoped for happened.
“Where’s the mystery act?” someone shouted. There then were more calls and then a chant.
“Mystery, mystery, mystery.” The tone was highly demanding, probably fed by all the beer drinking. I chose the moment then to approach the stage.
“I’m the mystery singer,” I yelled up to him. “I’m the one they want.”
The manager looked down at me curiously, then nervously gazed out at the chanting crowd.
“Okay,” he said, waving me up. “Come on up.”
The guards parted like the Red Sea and I climbed onto the stage.
“This better be good,” the boss warned as I strode by him and went to the microphone.
“My name is André,” I said, surprised a bit by hearing an echo from the loudspeakers. “I’ve got a new song for you.” I looked over at the band of guitars and drums. “Back me up, will you? Y’all know ‘Stewball Was a Racehorse’—key of D?” The lead guitar glanced at his players and then nodded.
“All right, let’s hit it,” I said and turned to the audience and sang.
I rode here to Sturgis to find me some fun.
I brung my pretty gal here and am packin’ my gun.
We greeted my buddies and bought them some beer,
Sat all close together like there’s nuthin’ to fear.
But as we was a’ talkin’, I began feelin’ ill,
I done brought somethin’ conturgis
To this rally here in Sturgis.
In slipped the virus, this Covid Nineteen,
Raisin’ ragin’ fever, affectin’ heart, lungs and spleen.
(As I sang, I noted first some surprised expressions and then some more sour ones. I pressed on, however, in hopes my message would begin to have an effect.)
I’ve paid no attention to the words of warn-ing,
Now I’m sick from the pandemic and may die by morn-ing.
“Boooo!” came from the crowd. “Get him off.” The band quit playing. Acapella, I began the final verse.
Corona Virus, Corona Virus, Dread Covid Nineteen
Get a mask, social distance,
Or you’ll soon be a dying and leavin’ the scene.
O, you’ll just be a [Em] dyin’ and it’ll be so mean.
Almost on cue the first beer bottle struck me. Amid angry shouting more objects hurled toward the stage. The band grabbed up their instruments and fled.
“Friends,” I called into the microphone. “Friends, wait. I just want to warn you…” I could hardly be heard above the chorus of boos and cat calls. “Margaret,” I transmitted. “Maybe you better…” But even above the crowd noise I could hear the guttural roar of an unwinding Harley. Down the aisle in front of me charged Margaret on our cycle, side car and all. The steps to the stage came up at angle on the left. Astride the big hog, Margaret blasted forward down the aisle, barely slowed to hit the stairs, did a wheelie, climbing them and skidded to a halt beside me.
“Get in,” she commanded, revving the engine all the while. But my circuits were overheating and ready for discharge.
“Nihilists! Don’t-give-a-shitists!” I shouted putting it in their terms. “Can you humans not understand what you’re doing to yourselves? Are you merely a great herd of lemming charging over the cliff?”
“André I” Margaret shouted at me. “Get in, now!”
I dodged a Red Dagger wine bottle thrown from the crowd, released a static discharge, and bounded into the sidecar, and she tore off. I don’t think the wheels touched the steps going down. With a mixture of boos for me and cheers for her driving, we sped through the crowd, down between all the parked cycles and into the night.
“You can slow down now, Margaret,” I called. “I didn’t know you could manage this machine.”
“I knew your silly scheme wouldn’t work,” she yelled back, speeding up.
“Well, I had to try something,” I said. Then I heard the growl of motorcycles behind us. I turned and looked back. “Perhaps you better step on it, my dear.”
Ignoring all lights and stop signs, we roared through Sturgis and out onto the highway. My initial thought was to take refuge at the Reservation, but then I realized we could not involve the Lakota. So I directed Margaret toward the Badlands. We entered the National Park and wound through the jagged pinnacles. Finally, we came to rest, hidden and well off the road.
“Thanks for rescuing me, Margaret dear. You were wonderful.” She turned and stared at me.
“And we can’t say the same thing for you, can we André,” she replied. The dopplered howl of motorcycles faded in the distance. “As for your effort to advise and instruct those misguided humans, I conclude you accomplished nothing by your little songfest.”
I pondered that for 2.439 seconds. “Maybe if I had had time to compose better lyrics,” I suggested.
“No, André! It’s going to take more than that. I don’t know what will wake up these people, but you can’t sing good sense into them when there just isn’t any.” We sat silently on a boulder and watched the moon rise over the weathered jagged rock formations. It cast interesting dark shadows on the rocky barren ground. After 37.6 minutes of contemplation, I turned to Margaret.
“I don’t have any more ideas,” I confessed. “I do not process any other actions we can take to convince those people at the Rally.” She paused 27.2 seconds before making a shrug of her shoulders.
“We’ve done our duty,” she replied. “I could have given more tests if I had had them with me. I’ll send them to the lab, but the elevated temperatures of all those arm wrestlers indicated they already have the virus. Strangely, it was as if they do not care whether they contract the virus or not.”
“What did that one man say? ‘If you don’t believe in it, you won’t get it?’ “ I recalled. “How inconceivably foolish.” I shook my head. “What will be the outcome of all this do you think?”
“Massive infection, spread by these people, who either are amazingly ignorant or just terribly selfish. Just think of it, André. When they leave Sturgis tomorrow, it will be like a giant octopus with forty-eight tentacles, spreading the contagion to all the contiguous states.”
I nodded and looked at the full moon, now 36.9 degrees above the peaks, and let out a static discharge.
“Let’s go home, André dear,” she said.
“I’m ready,” I answered. and took her hand. “Yes, let’s go,” We climbed from our perch on the rock and walked to our rented motorcycle.
“You drive this time, André,” she said as she headed for the side car. “I’ve had enough for one night.”
“Oh, but you were spectacular, Dr. Margaret 13,” I said as I mounted and hit the starter. “Marvelous, in fact.” I shifted into to gear and drove toward the highway. “Perhaps one day we’ll have to enter you in the Motorcycle Grand Prix…”
“Oh be silent, André, and just take me home.”
After pulling on to the interstate and heading east, I thought about where we were going. “You know, Margaret,” I said, “going home to the White House is about like that old saying, out of the frying pan into the fire.”
–Steve Coleman
September 30, 2020
Click here to see the website for, “André’s Reboot: Striving to Save Humanity”
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