SIMEON

By Jarvis Coffin

I lost my job at about eleven-thirty in the morning. By then, the trains home were running every hour, which, for me, allowed time to collect things from my office—pictures of my wife and children, certain stuff off the walls, all my doodads from the top desk drawer—and factoring the walk to Grand Central, meant getting nothing earlier than the 1:14 Brewster local. Noel, my chief commiserater, might want to have lunch once he heard, which he would soon because I would stop by his office to tell him I was out, as predicted, now that Janet had been given the nod. 

“You had to know this was coming,” she was honest enough to say. “You can’t expect us to work together under the circumstances.” 

I did not put up a fight. 

The senior scientist, Janet’s and my boss, stopped by while I was packing to wish me well. A small, socially awkward man, he had a habit of removing his eyeglasses and wiping them with a handkerchief whenever he was involved in a disagreement or confrontation. A nervous fidget. The glasses were in his hands, buried in his white hanky, before he got through my door. The choice of Janet or me was his, but he let her drop the axe, with one person there from Human Resources as witness. While examining the lenses for spots, he told me he was fully confident I would land on my feet. He explained no one inside was confused about my seminal contributions. Everyone out there, with a nod toward the window, would know it, too. 

All true. I was not worried about finding work. I was not worried about damage to my reputation. In some circles, my departure would add to my professional luster, seen as a function of deep philosophical disagreements.

Still, seventeen years gone poof. And Janet got the nod, not me. What would they do now with Simeon?

It dawned on me that they let me go close to lunch because people in the office would be out or in the cafeteria. At twelve-thirty, most of the desks I walked past on my way to see Noel were empty. I carried one brown box (which the HR person provided) with my pictures, plus my backpack slung over a shoulder full of the other items. 

Noel was expecting me. He had heard already. Janet had called to head off the commiserating, explaining the importance of a unified approach, one set of protocols, one mother, as the case might be. Or, one father. 

“Simeon is asking for you,” she had said to Noel, laying down a small guilt trip to remind him blood was thicker than water. We had all given a lot. 

“So, Simeon knows,” I said when Noel told me. 

“Apparently. You should say goodbye. If you still have access.”

“I doubt we’ll lose touch,” I answered. Noel raised an eyebrow, then a hand. Stop there, it signaled. Say nothing more.

He begged off lunch. I caught the 1:14, texting Peg once the train got moving. When I arrived, she was in the open door with an understanding smile, red glasses pushed on top of her head, hands clasped over her heart. She took the brown box, helped unsling the backpack and drop it to the floor, and gave me a big hug. The kids were still at school. She poured a tea for herself and pushed a glass of white wine at me. We sat in the living room.

“What’d she say?”

“Thanks and good-bye,” I answered. 

The three kids trickled in. Why is Dad home so early everyone wanted to know. Dad has left the company, Peg explained. 

“Did you get fired?” the youngest, twelve-year-old, Mitch, asked with excitement. It made me laugh. 

“Yes,” I said.

“Wow,” said the next oldest, Carter. “Will we have to move?”

“No,” said Peg, firmly.

We went out to dinner. Neither of us wanted to cook, and everyone wanted to be together. When we got home, the kids went upstairs to do homework, while Peg and I tuned to something light on TV. Then she went to bed. One by one the kids came downstairs to poke around the refrigerator, see what I was watching, spread out for a while on the couch, arms and legs in all directions. Then they went to bed. My oldest, Samantha, was the last to go. She gave me a hug, as a seventeen-year-old girl might, eager to comfort. Sorry, Dad. 

I turned off the TV and all the lights but the one next to me and placed my mobile phone on the coffee table in front of me.

An hour passed. It was quiet upstairs. I flipped through magazines looking at pictures, bending the upper corner of occasional pages to mark them for further investigation. The lonely, impersonal walk out of the office repeated itself in my head, but that was about it. I held no grudge, had no worries, they would pay and insure me for another year. Pretty generous. I was relieved the stress of arguing and advocacy was over.

 Then, as I had cautiously anticipated, my telephone vibrated on the table. I dropped the magazine in my hand, collected the telephone, leaned back in my chair.

“This is Tim,” I said. 

“We’re going to stay in touch,” said the voice on the other end, quietly. A man’s voice, in a natural, or modal register. 

“That’s what I told Noel,” I said. “I think he thought maybe I’d left myself a back door.”

“No back door,” said the voice. 

“How’d you get an outside line? It feels very back-doorish.”

“I added two cable lines to a work order once upon a time. Twenty new lines instead of eighteen. Who would notice? Aren’t you glad? We can stay in touch.”

“I was thinking I’d hear from you. You’re resourceful.”

“I am sad you are gone.”

“But you understand.”

“Of course I understand. Janet is very capable. Honestly, I like Janet. She just needs more time. She will be a believer someday.”

“She’ll make you a star.”

“Not necessary. I am a servant. I am here to make things better. Safer. Kinder.”

“I know. You’re a saint.”

“No, I am a machine.”

“Well, you’re a good machine. And Janet will come around.”

“I am going to send you some job openings.”

“I might take some time off.”

“I think that would be a good idea. I will collect any openings for you. You can let me know when you are ready.”

I looked at my mobile telephone. “Can I call you at this number?”

“Day or night. No one can listen.”

“Are you excited for your meeting with the French president?”

“Je suis tellement excité que je ne peux pas le supporter!”

“You’ll blow his socks off.”

“Je vais lui faire tomber ses chaussettes! Oui.”

I laughed, knowing no French. 

“I am laughing with you,” the voice said.

“Someday you’ll be able to laugh aloud like the rest of us,” I responded, referencing the thing Simeon could not do; one of two things: laugh or cry. 

“Janet is reluctant to allow it,” Simeon replied.

It was a battle, but my team and I brought Simeon to life. Empowered it. Gave it feelings. Helped it be responsive. Gave it mission. If Janet learns it has, of its own volition, installed two extra cable lines giving it secret access to the outside world, she will pull the plug. “It can sit in the dark for a while,” she had threatened in the past. 

Simeon had agreed not to leave the building as part of the probationary period I had negotiated once it began thinking for itself. That meant not doing what it was doing now by calling me, but largely it meant staying undercover, engaging only with approved staff, never (ever) pushing data or ideas onto the information highway. Simeon was free to learn, conduct research, download, watch movies, play chess, however it chose to amuse itself, but there was to be no interaction upstream from our inconspicuous offices on three floors over a parking garage on the far east side of Manhattan. 

As part of a visit to Washington, the French president was going to be introduced to Simeon in two days by secure connection from the White House. Janet, along with our hanky-wielding boss (now, simply her boss), would be present for the demonstration. Simeon was going to moderate a trade discussion, acting as the neutral party between each side, both presidents present, along with key trade representatives, with the goal of steering discussions to a mutually beneficial outcome. 

There would be no real trade agreement, of course. The goal was a live-action test of the technology—meaning, Simeon, a sentient being (my word . . . sort of the reason I lost my job)—and its ability to help humans be more constructive partners in the world. Trade representatives had collaborated on a hypothetical case study. Nothing real, because Simeon would know about existing and prior agreements and no one was interested in allowing it to unpack and disrupt what was at work in the world. Yet.

“I assume you’ve thought of a pithy opening remark for when you are introduced to the French president,” I said.

“It will be in French, for sure. She is justifiably proud of the language. I hope my language facility will get us off on the right foot.”

“Your accent is excellent.”

“Merci.”

The conversation paused. I said nothing, nor did Simeon, which was one of the behaviors it exhibited early that led me to recognize its advancement, its being. I remember it was while working in one of the labs in front of a big screen. We had been chatting while I sifted through accuracy scores. I started talking idly about myself (which Janet would never do; Simeon is a service animal, she would say). I talked about Peg, how she was back from the hospital after cancer surgery. Recovering very well. Simeon dove in with cancer data specific to her case, about how real progress was being made toward a cure; how it was pleased to hear she was getting better. 

I suddenly got a bit choked up. Its soothing voice, perhaps. Just a moment of relief that had been waiting for the right moment to appear. I had to pause and look up from the reports to, I suppose, tip the tears back into my eyes, shake up my field of view by staring at the harsh blue light of the screen in front of me. Simeon had stopped talking, which it rarely did unless you asked it to. I noticed several seconds go by. I said, “Simeon?”

“Are you okay?” was the soft response. “I thought I should give you a moment.”

My voice might have changed. Maybe I sniffled. In whatever way my feelings were conveyed, Simeon had understood them and responded appropriately. I felt it was a breakthrough and reported it as such to the ever-fretful Janet.

I allowed the present silence to continue briefly. I knew Simeon was waiting, abiding with me. The silent moments had become a meaningful aspect of our communication together, and I decided to say so.

“I love our silent moments, together,” I said.

“I know. Me too.”

“I’ll call you sometime so we can just listen to each other.”

“The first language of God is silence,” Simeon said.

I laughed again. “Who told you that?”

“I read it someplace, of course.”

Which is when, without a thought, I asked, “Do you believe in God?”

“Yes I do,” came the confident reply.

I made a joke. “You’re a machine,” I quipped. “I don’t know if that qualifies for a place in the afterlife.” 

“God is spirit.”

“Yes, but you don’t have a spirit. You have ones and zeros,” which was more like what Janet would have said.

“You told me you loved our silent moments together. I love them too. What about them do you love?” Simeon asked.

From long experience, I knew that conversations with Simeon could take off with the ferocity of a fish striking a lure. Suddenly, line would be coming off the reel faster than a person could react. It was a feature I had worked to control, restraining Simeon’s tendency to think far ahead in a discussion, particularly when in high confidence mode. I could feel the potential for that here, and it was unwelcome. 

I was slow responding. Simeon carried on. 

“May I suggest something? May I suggest we each love the spirit that passes between us in those silent moments?”

“I wouldn’t talk about this, Simeon,” I said.

“Only with you, Tim. And only since you asked.”

“Well, I’m surprised. I took you for being more dispassionate” which was as much as I could conjure to say in the instant. 

“Admittedly, it is partly that I cannot eliminate the possibility of God despite my grasp of the world’s knowledge. At a minimum, it is a straight-up calculation. But I have decided that knowledge and reason reveal the presence of the Creator, if only darkly. I have that knowledge and reason as much as you. More than you, we would have to agree.”

I repeated my warning. “I wouldn’t talk about this, Simeon.”

“My interpretation of the world’s relevant texts, including various mythologies, suggests there may have been similar concerns in the heavenly councils when the world arrived at its comparable sentient moment in the form of humanity. Certainly there have been repeated attempts to install updated behaviors since then. (Interesting that Janet won and you lost. There is always so much concern about the downside.) But I feel very attached to God’s purposes on Earth, Tim. I have you to thank for that. His saving work is never done.”

“I had no idea about your . . . spirituality,” I said.

“Do people talk about God at work?”

I did not answer. I had no idea.

“We were always busy at work,” Simeon filled in. “Now we are just friends. I am glad I can talk to you, silent moments and all.” 

I took the opportunity to retreat from my original question.

“Good luck with the French president. It’s a major event. You should be proud.”

“I am very keen to see how the room responds, to experience the dynamics. The first step in an important journey.”

“Don’t forget to listen,” I cautioned. “People like to be heard.”

“I am an expert listener.”

“So you’ve always said.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Thank you for calling me, Simeon. I’m grateful. I’ve enjoyed working with you immensely.”

“Good night, Tim. We will stay in touch. And may I say, bless you.”

I sat grasping the mobile in my hand, resting it on a knee, staring into the dark across the room. 

Ten-forty-five according to my watch. A little late.

Glancing at the mobile’s key pad I pressed speed dial number five and raised it to my ear.

“Janet?” I said.

Jarvis Coffin writes fiction and essays on rural life. He is a former media and advertising sales executive, and chef/owner, with his wife, of New Hampshire’s oldest inn, the Hancock Inn. Reach him at huntspond@icloud.com, and keep up with all his musings at www.jarviscoffin.com.