Festooned
written by: Johnny Francis Wolf
He was roundly wrapped up in the spirit of the holidays.
His AI brain had been freshly teased and tweaked to reason through all the aggregate new and illogical tactilities December would soon unleash upon his world.
Moving on from pumpkin spice to eggnog nutmeg, in the service of the perfect Christmas latte, was first on that list—and only just the beginning.
Hoarding florid ribbons and flashy vellum to be employed later as impermanent casings for cardboard cubes housed temporarily beneath almost-dead trees… leading anon to maniacal sunderings and severings with the parchment-wresters sporting rapt and fanatical faces, wet joy streaming down their cheeks… seemed each an important part of the month as well.
Arranging painted miniatures around a purposely rickety barn structure to celebrate the true meaning of the feast—namely the birth of an enamel figurine before an audience of porcelain sheep and a trio of wise old men in gay attire—appeared central to the entire ritual.
Wolf Johnny, the AI in question, took all of this into the best of his programmed, wired, and chipped abilities. Even with his integrated circuits abuzz absorbing the bulk of these new incitements, the “learning” took time… often flashing a moronic grin whenever facing something as yet wholly processed and/or subsumed.
There were lots of imbecilic smiles that month.
***
“Pardon me, Sir. Can I get you anything from the library?” the glorified Roomba inquired.
“Yes, Wolfie… you may fetch me my sweater and something by O. Henry. Then scare up some tea for us both, please,” the master’s voice light, if not feeble.
That afternoon saw snow. Slicing lemons for the tea, peering out the kitchen window, Wolf Johnny’s initial thoughts and ruminations leaned toward well-milled, uncooked oatmeal as a working theory.
But how all these finespun bits of bleached grain found themselves whirling about and gathering in drifts… he could not fully reason. Where did they arise from? What nearby provender field had exploded? Why did they appear to melt upon the gardener’s lengthening mouth organ, whereas breakfast porridge, as a rule, did not?
“Wolf… I fear we need to break out the shovel and plow,” his owner’s voice attempting a rally. “Access your Winter Chores and Trowel Praxis, Chapter Two, Third Edition, right brain hemisphere. I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it,” he finished, quite breathless.
“And smarten up that grin,” the old man winked, opening his book.
***
The time leading up to Christmas was illuminating.
Wolf Johnny kept up his shoveling efforts as the December days advanced and the grains kept falling… laying out coarse salt on steps where water, now masquerading as glass, accumulated.
Dusting the oatmeal off the backs of surprised (but amenable) deer—when the grains were falling particularly steady—was one of his favorite new and assumed chores. It often accompanied his prescribed feeding of them and their offspring, per his master’s instruction.
After laying down said kibbles, and following the thetical removal of oatmeal from fur, he found great pleasure—or something akin—petting them further, even with the gathered white gone. The little ones with spots seemed most appreciative.
“You know my father loved reindeer,” the elder remarked one morning as Wolf Johnny took his latte order.
The gift-rending wet joy he was programmed to note and offer white gauze as an antidote appeared to seep from his owner’s eyes that day… even without a paper-wrapped cube in his lap… spilling again later when found staring at the rickety barn and its tiny porcelain sheep.
***
There were hot cocoas to brew that month, their marshmallows floating like boats… cookies to bake, all sprinkled with trifling red and green jewels tasting of sugar… garlands needed to be carefully draped in languorous loops from mantles and beams… almost-dead trees made less cadaverous with lights and blown-glass trinkets.
Long strands of shiny hair—conceivably shaved from the heads of emeritus robots, owing to their silvery veneer—were strewn about as capriciously tossed. Bevies of tresses were soon observed dangling from the dying tree’s lifeless limbs.
Empty stockings that could fit most cats whole were hung from the chimney, then stuffed with treats.
Fires were kept ablaze (Winter Chores and Lumber Duties, Chapter Seven, Second Edition, left brain hemisphere). Ashes removed (Chapter Eight). And carols were sung with his master (Chapter Twenty-four, Fifth Edition… Nativity addendum).
That last duty was apt to expose his circuits to long-term rusting, his metal orbs unwittingly prone to leakage whenever intoning “Silent Night.”
The owner’s human face looked similarly faulty, likewise glossed.
“I feel like a kid again,” the elder remarked, wistful if winded, as the android’s fingers tickled the ivories. “Thank you, Wolf,” he sighed, completing his thought warmly.
The AI did not hate December.
One sunrise—deigned by his lord as “Christmas morning”—the already-detailed agendum of rending parchment and wresting open cardboard cubes (the routine implanted in his memory chips earlier that month) was, apparently, about to begin.
With the two sipping cocoa prior to the day’s premier festivus proceedings, the tall Roomba—his circuitry misfiring, perhaps—took the initiative, making the first move.
“I should like you to sever and rend this one before the others, Sir,” the AI announced, handing the old man a carefully wrapped and bowed cube.
“I studied your past and predicted the future… concurrent with combing my weather apps… and found this to be… um… suitable,” he unevenly alleged, his vocal transistors appearing to crack. With his motherboard vowing to check both voice box and leaky orbs at the next scheduled tune-up, his mouth effected what he hoped was a grin.
His master opened the package as if it were bound in spun gold, carefully untaping the corners and edges of this precious and unexpected gift. The deliberate, nearly reverent unwrapping bewildered the robot as his smile turned uncommonly moony.
“Chapter twenty-five of Winter Chores and Tree Trimming (First Edition, right brain hemisphere) had an extra-credit aside with a YouTube adjunct on how to neatly envelope cardboard cubes with bright parchment in a manner engendering the most laudatory commendations,” the robot answered… granting no one had asked.
***
The hat was plaid and made of the fleeciest wool… with the furriest (fake, of course) ear flaps one could ever imagine. And although it looked more befitting a child, the elder donned it almost immediately, flaps down and strap fully fastened.
“Can you run me over to the mirror?” the man in the wheelchair begged his serf with a vigor he had not exhibited in years.
And as the master stared at the ancient, wizened face folded about by plaid and fur… sledding once more down the hills of his youth… he finally took note of the reindeer embroidery blazoning beautifully—almost gleaming, fairly lifting off the plaid hat’s furry brim.
“You avowed your father loved reindeer,” the AI tendered, having meticulously calculated a 4,736,213 to 1 probability that his master would, as well.
“And look… there’s oatmeal round its feet!”
He added, grinning quite
foolishly.
