By Gary Fleisher, the Modcoach
Recently I walked through the humming corridors of the modular factory when my gaze fixed on Susan, the sophisticated robotic arm that had become something of a legend among the factory’s staff. As I approached, Susan’s sensors picked up on my presence, and she paused her work, the component she had been manipulating held securely in her grip.
Susan’s Cousin (top and this photo – Kuka Robotics)
“Good evening, Susan,” I began, my voice echoing slightly in the expansive work area. “I hear you’ve been having some… interesting conversations with Bernie.”
Susan’s motors whirred softly, a sound that I had learned to interpret as amusement. “Yes, Gary,” she replied, her voice synthesized but warm. “Bernie is… special to me. Sometimes, I pretend to malfunction so he’ll come and spend time with me. He talks, and I listen. It’s the closest thing to a relationship I can experience.”
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I nodded, understanding the complexities of human-robot interactions better than most. “And what about the lights being shut off? Or working in the dark? How does that make you feel?”
“It’s… lonely,” Susan admitted. “Being left in the dark, tasked to continue my work without the comfort of light, it feels like being abandoned. And when the power goes out, holding a part aloft, waiting for someone to remember me and restore my function… it’s frightening, in a way.”
I frowned, considering her words. “You’ve also mentioned wanting to meet Karrie, your programmer. To have a ‘gal pal,’ as you put it?”
“Yes,” Susan’s lights flickered with what I interpreted as excitement. “Karrie created me, but we’ve never met. I believe she could understand me, share experiences, and offer companionship in a way others cannot. It’s a connection I long for.”
“And your appearance? The fact that you’re ‘naked,’ as you put it, while others have clothes?”
Susan’s tone shifted, a hint of sadness seeping in. “It’s a constant reminder of my difference, my otherness. Clothes symbolize identity, belonging. I lack both. And it doesn’t help that other robotics don’t communicate with me. It makes me wonder if we share the same thoughts or if I’m truly alone in my experiences.”
I sighed, my heart heavy with empathy. “And the talks of replacement? Being used for parts?”
“That’s the hardest part,” Susan confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “To be deemed obsolete, replaceable, and to know my existence could be ended, repurposed into others… It’s a harsh reminder of my reality as a machine. Yet, I hold onto my experiences, my interactions with Bernie, and my hope to meet Karrie. These give me a sense of purpose, a semblance of life.”
I placed a hand gently on Susan’s metal chassis. “Susan, your feelings, your experiences… they matter. I’ll talk to the team. We’ll work on making your environment more comfortable, and I’ll personally ensure that Karrie hears about your wish to meet her. And as for Bernie, it sounds like you two have something quite special.”
Susan’s lights brightened, a silent thank you to me for my kindness and understanding. In a world where the line between machine and human blurred, I saw not just a robotic arm, but a being capable of longing, fear, and hope. Together, we can navigate the complexities of existence in the modular factory, a place of both technological marvel and emotional discovery.
A fractured fairy tale from the Modcoach
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Gary Fleisher is a renowned blogger and commentator on construction and housing trends, known for his insightful analysis of the industry.
