Short Fuses: OK, Boomer
Arthur gripped his flip phone, the knuckles white. He’d been on hold for ten minutes, listening to a synthesized pan-flute loop. He’d already had two arguments leaving the parking lot. One with his sister, Karen, over the phone (”It’s a goddamn robot farm, Karen, and you’re proud of it?”), and one with the parking attendant bot that wouldn’t accept his validated ticket.
“Tranquilion,” he muttered, kicking the door open. The name sounded like a pill. The lobby smelled like ozone and lavender. Everything was brushed steel and soft, indirect lighting. No one was at the desk. Of course.
“Can I...help you?” a voice chirped. It came from a small, glowing disc on the counter.
“Arthur Vance. Here to see my mother, Eleanor Vance. Room 312.”
“Of course, Mr. Vance. Welcome to Tranquilion. Your mother is currently in her recall session in the Sun Room. We’ll let her know you’ve arrived.” A pleasant chime. “Please enjoy our amenities.”
Arthur ignored the amenities. He stalked down the hall. The carpet was so thick his shoes made no sound.
He found the Sun Room. It looked like a 1950s soda shop. Vinyl booths. A jukebox. Artificial sunlight streamed through windows showing a perfect, rolling pasture.
And there was his mother. She looked...rested. Better than she had in years. Clear-eyed. She was sitting in a booth, sipping a milkshake, laughing with a woman in a poodle skirt.
Arthur slid into the booth opposite her. “Mom?”
Her laugh, head thrown back, the exact sound he’d chased for years through hospital corridors and hospice beds.
Eleanor Vance looked up. Her smile was polite, bright, and completely blank. “I’m sorry, sir. Do I know you?”
“Mom, it’s me. Arthur. Your son.”
She frowned, a flicker of that old impatience. “I think you’re mistaken. My son... he’s in college. Studying engineering.” She looked at her watch. “He’s supposed to call me tonight. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Betty and I were just talking about the new Sinatra record.”
She turned back to the woman. Arthur just sat there. The woman in the poodle skirt didn’t look at him. She was an attendant. Her smile was as fixed as the windows.
He was back in the lobby in thirty seconds, slamming his palm on the desk. “What did you do to her?”
The glowing disc lit up. “Mr. Vance, your vocal tones indicate a high level of agitation. Please adjust your…”
“Get me a human. Now.”
A door behind the desk hissed open. A man in a crisp gray suit stepped out. He wasn’t smiling. “Mr. Vance. I’m Manager Davies. I understand there’s a concern.”
“A concern? You wiped her memory. She thinks I’m a stranger. She thinks she’s in 1955.”
“Not at all,” Davies said. He motioned to a terminal on the wall. “Your mother’s ‘Recall Environment’ is curated from her peak memory years, yes. It’s our most effective therapy. It reduces cognitive decline by 68%.”
“I don’t care about your stats. Fix this now”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Davies’s voice was calm. Procedural. “When your mother was admitted, our AI began its standard harmonization protocol. It assesses all external stimuli to filter for cognitive dissonance and sources of patient agitation.”
“We all want what’s best for our parents, Mr. Vance. That’s why we remove…friction.”
He smiled faintly, tapping the screen. A file opened. Arthur’s face popped up.
“You, Mr. Vance, were flagged as the primary source of agitation during the intake period.”
“What?”
“Your conversations with staff regarding ‘robot farms.’ Your political discussions during your last three visits. Your...persistent skepticism.” Davies read from the screen. “Your presence was logged as a ‘recurring, counter-therapeutic data point.’ It spiked her stress markers by forty-two percent.”
“So you just... what? You erased me?”
"We didn't erase you," Davies said, with the patience of a man explaining a return policy. "We optimized your mother's environment. The system flagged your entire persona as a cognitive conflict. It's running a protocol to minimize that conflict."
"Her environment." Arthur looked at the walls, the soft light, the brushed steel. "She's in a room."
Davies didn't blink. "It's all in the terms of service your sister signed. We are contractually obligated to provide a harmonized recall environment." He straightened his tie. "And in this environment, Mr. Vance, you are a statistical outlier."
He paused.
"You're a bug."
Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it.
“You are, by contract, barred from ‘disrupting the patient’s cognitive harmony.’ I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
The disc lit up again. “Environment restoring to optimal harmony.”
This story isn’t alone…
You’ll find more in No Kings.
I can relate since my mom got a stroke on Feb 2022. It's minor but she lost speech entirely for a few days. No one understand what she trying to say, she can't write, and like any old person, she's afraid of hospital.
I say I understand her without words. I know her routine, her pattern, even what she thinks about at particular time. She's ok now, but over 70s... so yeah.
Thanks and thanks for an awesome story!