John and Robot John
Jonathan Garrett

“What do you suppose it is?” Robot John asked curiously.

I looked at the object closely. It was curved on one side, flat on the other, and it had a spot in the exact center that rose up about two or three inches. It might have been made out of metal, but it made dull sound when I tapped it.

“Maybe it’s just some piece of junk that somebody threw out,” I suggested.

“No, it’s a treasure,” he said with some measure of delight, “I’m sure of it!”

I took it from his hand and looked at it more closely. There was something odd about its construction, I was sure of that, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on exactly what. I turned it over and over in my hands, hoping that I would gain some clue from its design. Robot John spoke up.

“John,” he said, “Don’t you think that it looks a lot like the old fountain down behind that old estate on Clover Street?”

I thought about this for a minute and it made sense. That old estate had a lot of weird stuff on the grounds. You couldn’t help but get the feeling that it belonged to a different place and a different time than all of the other houses in the area. Robot John always complained that it made him feel nervous just being on the same street.

“Let’s go check it out!”

Robot John let out a low moan as gears inside his metal chest turned slowly.

Clover Street was one of the worst in the city. It was filled with potholes and grass was growing up from numerous cracks. The houses were rundown too, their gaping windows stared silently at us as we walked past.

“I don’t like it here,” said Robot John.

“Nonsense, there’s nothing to worry about. You know that.”

“I know.”

The old estate took up at least twenty acres and had a large, four-story house in the center. Robot John said that it was probably built a long time ago. He was probably right because it was in even worse shape than the other houses, which were all completely different from the estate besides. There were statues scattered all over the grounds and hedges ran wild from one fence to another, creating an elaborate maze of tangled branches and sharp, point leaves.

Robot John was good at remembering the path to any of the interesting spots, so I let him lead the rest of the way. Sometimes he complained that the only thing he was good for was remembering. But that wasn’t true.

“See?” Robot John said, pointing to the old fountain, “It’s the same.”

“Why do you suppose that someone would want to have a weird. little statue that looks exactly like their fountain?”

“I don’t know, John. Maybe it’s a key or something?”

He ran over to the fountain and began looking over its surface. He did this for several minutes before letting out a cry of triumph. Down near the base of the fountain, which would normally be hidden by water, was a small slot in the exact shape of the object we found.

“Should I?” He asked hopefully.

“You’re the one that found it,” I told him, “Go ahead.”

Robot John gleefully inserted the oddly shaped object into the oddly shaped slot and then twisted it slightly. Somewhere deep inside the fountain there was the rasp of rock grating against rock. A small panel slid open.

We looked at one another.

He carefully slid his fingers into the hole and pulled out a little metal box.

“Can I open it, John?”

I nodded.

With a reverence that I had not seen in him before, he undid the latch and slowly lifted the lid. I bent down for a closer look. The box was filled with a stack of papers. Robot John took a sheet of paper and studied it. Then he handed it to me and I studied it as well. The letters seemed like they should be familiar, but I couldn’t make anything out.

“Can you read it, Robot John?”

He shook his head sadly. Then he replaced the sheet of paper and put the box back in its secret compartment. He took the key out of the slot and held it in his hands again. Disappointment was clear on his face, even though it didn’t look any different from the way it always did.

I stood up and walked a few feet to a soft patch of ground and then lay down. The day was nearly over by then and I could almost see a star or two beginning to come out.

Robot John sat down beside me.

“Well,” I said glumly, “We wasted a whole day on nothing.”

Robot John merely nodded, keeping to himself whatever comments he might have had.

The sky was a deep orange at that time of day; it was beautiful. Sometimes I thought I could stare up at the sky forever and not get tired of the view. Robot John said that he didn’t much care for the sky; it was the ground that he enjoyed. Every time he said that, I’d ask him why. He never would tell me.

“Do you ever think about things, Robot John?”

He looked down at me, the question worked its way slowly through his brain.

“Of course, John.”

“About what?”

“About my parents,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You never had parents, Robot John.”

He was silent for a few seconds before he spoke. “I know…but I think about them just the same.”

Robot John looked down at the little statue that was still in his hand. He squeezed it tightly to his cold chest and then set it down on the ground.

“John?” He asked, “What shall we do tomorrow?”

I looked up at the only friend I had left in the world.

“Anything!”