A Plastic Robot, but Not Italian

A flash fiction

“Puttana Madre di Dio,” I screamed at my robot, waves of electric shock passing down my spine. It was not because the shock was painful. The sensation was actually delightful, even enjoyable for a short time, bringing me back memories from the rural Southern Italian town where I grew up. Whatever was playing with my nerves, I could feel from it a wonderful three-course meal à la Sicily, tastes of every plate at once yet not disturbing each other. The puttanesca with almonds was extremely superb, but for just one thing: it was not really there.

 “Alessio, bambino mio, why do you feel frustrated?” The robot asked in a fake accent that resembled how my late Sicilian Nonna would try to speak in English after having moved to Bronx.

 “Get the fuck away from me,” I snapped. “Nonna is dead. Italy is gone. And you pretend everything is fine, tricking me every day with fake stimulations. You live forever. You don’t understand how frustrating it is to grasp nothing lasts forever to us. The Earth cannot even produce pasta any longer.”

The robot stared at me for some seconds which felt like an eternity. I could tell from the buzzing sounds that it was trying to think up a proper answer. “While I am truly sorry about how you feel, Signore,” he calmly answered, “I am a plastic being, made of non-recyclable plastic.” Then the robot caressed the plastic table where I was seated, with no real food on it. I thought for a moment that it was pondering in sadness, though it must have been my own momentary human projection. “Plastic is not forever. I hope that makes you feel better.”

After Italy had disappeared from the face of Earth, that was the first time ever that I heard my robot’s non-Italian accent.

If you enjoyed my work, you can buy me a cup of tea. I am not a coffee person, by the way.