Randolf
by KJ Hannah Greenberg

 

 

Randolf was Mrs. Applebee’s animatronic pet, purchased by her only child, who lived halfway across the world. Rather than book a flight to visit, that worthless offspring had bought her parent a robotic cat.

 

At that point, we had no rules prohibiting golden agers, who were dwelling in our assisted living facility, from owning realistic, power-driven companions. Plus, studies had been passed around among our departments’ chiefs about the utility of such familiars for elders suffering from Alzheimer’s or from other degenerative cognitive issues. Nonetheless, four-legged AI machines created havoc for us orderlies.

 

Because those fur-covered mechanisms were kept by geriatrics lacking rudimentary problem-solving abilities and short-term memory, we medical assistants repeatedly found ourselves not only emptying bedpans and transporting wheelchair bound old-timers but also cleaning up from automated brutes that collided with trash bins, became tripping hazards in common rooms, and caused OAPs to shriek and cry when those programmed critters’ vocal controls went askew.

 

The worst offender of our convalescent home’s chip-driven barnyard was Randolf; he habitually glitched. That problem was unsurprising as Mrs. Applebee never cleaned his sensors nor performed necessary factory resets. It was certainly beyond her ken, for instance, to realize that the patterned carpet in the meditation room created a confusing catalyst for her synthetic mouser.

 

Consequently, I was continually called away from other duties to pick him up (despite his artificial albeit sharp caws), activate the rest mode on his power button, and return him to his aging keeper. I have scars along both arms that prove I provided that service.

 

Whenever I give back Randolph, Mrs. Applebee granted me a small smile. I’m not sure that she ever understood my role in her community, or that the stuffed creature, which I restored to her again and again, belonged to her. Per my bosses, they worried only that the inhabitants’ shared spaces remained clear of obstacles and that the ancients, themselves, received just a modicum of attention.

 

The head of physical therapy was the exception. He possessed a deep, enduring hatred for all “therapeutic” automata. However, he never voiced his apprehensions to the administration since those persons were reassessing his employment as they “had received senior abuse allegations referencing him.” In truth, that professional had never harmed a single internee. Rather, he had donated his personal time to supplying interventions that relieved whitebeards’ pain and improved their function.

 

Providentially, a sanitation worker had found particular directors’ notes in the assembly room trash that showed that the physical therapist was being set up as a straw man so that the daughter of a director could take the therapist’s place. Sometimes, break room “gossip” reveals important facts.

 

An additional alarming item came to light from that housekeeper’s report. Apparently, management wanted to replace orderlies with animated, plush playthings. The latter would demand no salaries whereas we cost the establishment pay and benefits. The executives were unconcerned about their needy renters living in a hovel.

 

What’s more, most shifts featured merely ten or fewer ward assistants. Thus, we were experiencing growing difficulties completing our routines, let alone corralling or otherwise mitigating the problems that “pally” apparatuses created. Still, the people in charge encouraged family members to assuage any guilt related to their “dump and run” care by buying  interactive toys with paws. They were happy to have that entertainment be supplied by outside funds.

 

We orderlies joined the head of physical therapy in a class action suit. Other personnel, including nurses who had never received promised raises, cafeteria workers whose yearly bonuses had been cut “for the good of the retirement village,” and doctors who were tired of being notified that the cheapest, not the most optimal, responses to health issues had to be utilized, added their names.

 

Regrettably, people investing in grandparents’ residences to grow richer tend to be unethical, not illiterate. They’re often bankers or venture capitalists, who grasp the denotative meaning of regulations. In short, our lawyer’s team apprised us that our testimony would be insufficient to win in opposition to those wicked others.

 

The team suggested that documentation, verbal, visual, or both would help. Fortunately for our cause, Randolf once more strayed from Mrs. Applebee’s room.

 

Chuck Smith, another orderly, had used his cell phone to film the chaos that that computerized beast had caused. That sham of an animal had upended a heavy flower pot, had literally torn through fresh linens sitting in a maintenance cart, and had scratched the dominant hand of a doctor who was preparing respiratory relief for a grandam with pneumonia.

 

At the same time, Maryanne Broder, a cafeteria worker, who was coming off the clock, nearly tripped on Elenor, the second smart figure sent to Mrs. Applebee by her child. That descendant, while arranging a caterer and a florist for a forthcoming holiday party had “remembered” her mother.

 

Maryanne, who had also used her phone, snapped one still after another of Elenor swatting plates and saucers off of open kitchen shelves, knocking over glass jars of condiments, and felling an administrator’s tot who was had escaped his father’s office. Maryanne’s images turned out to be highly incriminating.

 

Because Mrs. Applebee was not only lacking a sound body but also lacking a sound mind, she was not arraigned. Instead, she was moved into a ward with a higher staff to tenant ratio than her original assignment. Her moggies were disposed of.

 

The board members who had meant to reduce our positions and to increase their profits were hard pressed to counter the cell phone evidence. Their personal knowledge of legalese combined with their expensive defenders proved to be as nothing compared to our earnest findings. Also, we rejected their bribes.

 

In fact, we waited to send our attorneys our data. After our information had been passed around the employee lounge and after we had taunted our supervisors, we contacted our legal team. More exactly, I called back a week later and told them we were good to go.

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