The programmer

It was a family tradition: the weekend after Thanksgiving, ever since they could remember, the family drove to the Depot to choose the new programmer. Outside their four-wheel drive climate-controlled SUV, tiny flakes chased each other across the windshield. A whirlwind scooped a pile of leaves off the sidewalk, twirled them around and scattered them in the middle of the road. In the backseat the children, a boy and a girl, wriggled in excitement, anxious to reach their destination. Once at the depot, they would take notes of the programmers toiling in their glass cubicles, pore over their resumes, ask all the pertinent questions and, having narrowed their choices, confer in the receiving room sipping hot chocolate. By then the children had made their choice; everything else was a formality.

On their way back the children sat to each side of the programmer, chattering, asking questions, telling him about their home and dying to show him around. Their house sat in a cul-de-sac at the end of a winding driveway, shielded from view by a forest of tall, ancient trees. The programmer’s quarters were in the third level: bedroom, bathroom, living area and a window with a view to the backyard. His quarters were also seat to a state of the art computer system networked to a fully automated home. As his title implied, he would be in charge of programming and overseeing every task in the network, controlling lighting, temperature, air quality, all the mundane chores of cleaning, preparation of meals, etc., overseeing finances and everything in between.

There was a caveat: he had free reign of his quarters, the whole third level, but was not to roam anywhere else in the house unaccompanied. He didn’t mind. In fact, he was happy that the family appreciated his work and included him in their daily lives. Every afternoon, upon arriving home from school, the children rushed to free him from his post and lead him by the hand for a walk in their backyard and at dinnertime compete for a seat next to him at the table. After dinner, they watched movies he had dutifully recorded during the day or played games until it was time for bed.

About midwinter, however, with the shrinking days, the unwavering cold and the snow cover lingering on the ground too long, the family retreated into their old habits. The children, home from school, would dash straight to the game room and more days than not he ate alone in his quarters. Often, his meals were late and when they found their way to his quarters they were cold. He lost his appetite and started to lose weight, which no one seemed to notice. Some evenings, when the family gathered to watch a movie they could hear him whine and would yell at him to keep quiet.

Winter eventually relented but it left unseen. By spring’s end he couldn’t remember the last time he went for a walk. Or ate dinner at the table. Everyone seemed too busy for him. True to his stock, he made a deliberate effort to keep to his work and for the most part he succeeded… but for the occasional slip. From his window, he could see the family having a picnic, playing games in the yard, or simply relaxing and his concentration faltered. KitchenChef, the latest in robotic kitchens, sometimes missed a step and dinner emerged cold or overcooked. Some days the house was too cold, others too hot. And the Yankees game failed to record. The father made clear in no uncertain terms, with a booming voice that rattled his insides and made him fear for his life, that this was totally unacceptable. But he couldn’t help it; he was truly hurting.

Suddenly, in late summer, the shift in the earth’s axis brought with it some unexpected changes. After having resigned himself to a life of seclusion, he was surprised one evening to see the children at his door, urging him down to the dining room. Meals with the family became again a regular event, as were the daily walks in the backyard. In no time he forgot the lonely days and nights, the long months of neglect. It was as if there had never been a hiatus in their shared lives. His appetite bounced back and in a few weeks he regained his previous weight and then some.

Life was good again. Summer gave way to more pleasant, cooler days. The leaves turned colors and a thick carpet of rust, yellow and orange covered the yard. As Thanksgiving approached, a festive mood swept through the house and the family treated themselves to richer and more plentiful meals, prepared as always under the programmer’s direction from his lofty outpost.

The day before Thanksgiving, also a family tradition, they enjoyed a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Everyone donned their party clothes and even fitted the programmer with one of the father’s ties. After dinner, they stayed up past their bedtime sampling desserts and coffee, recounting old family tales and laughing. He couldn’t eat one more bite or have one more drink. He had more wine than he should and his eyes were bloodshot and his tongue was numb and heavy.

Early the next morning he was awakened by loud footsteps and laughter and worried he had overslept. He would be reprimanded for being late at his station. His heart racing, he hastened to turn the system on and was startled by loud knocking at the door. No work today, it’s Thanksgiving! Everyone, he included, had the day off. After resetting the computer he followed the father downstairs and out to the backyard. It was a crisp day; he could see his breath as they stepped out. The children were already out and seated on matching lawn chairs, their legs dangling in excitement a few inches above ground. Their father led the programmer to a tree stump near the back of the house and had him kneel down by it. Without quite understanding the meaning of this ritual, he acquiesced in his habitually agreeable manner. The boy spoke first, could he have leg? But his sister wanted leg too. It wasn’t fair, she complained, why couldn’t she also have leg? Their father appeased them. Not to worry, there will be plenty of leg for everyone - as he swung the ax above his head - this is a big one.