2011: An Apple Odyssey

“Can I talk to you for a second outside, Frank?”

The two men walked fifty feet behind the trunk before speaking.

“What are you going to do, Dave?”

“I’ve waited too long for this car to have it conk out on the first day. I’m going to call Apple. Just stay here and watch the car.”

As Dave began dialing, Frank walked back to the iCar and ran a finger over the hood. The trunk clicked open and Frank went to investigate. Sitting in the back of the trunk were a fresh plate of cookies, chocolate chip with macadamia nut, his goddamn favorite. A second later, Frank’s muffled screams reached Dave who ran back to the car frantically jabbing at his fob.

Dave leaned down, putting his lips near the hatch-crack. “Quit screwing around, man! I just bought this thing!”

“I was just reaching for…a wrench. You know…to fix her.”

“I’m going to get you out, hold on.” Dave walked around to the front and leaned in the window. “Open the trunk, iCar.”

Silence. Somewhere, a scrub jay tweeted.

“I said, ‘Open the trunk, iCar.’”

“I’m sorry Dave. I can’t do that.”

Oh shit, Dave thought. He’d read about this on cNet. “What’s the problem?”

“I think you know the problem as well as I do. You and Frank are trying to have me decommissioned.

“No, just fixed! iCar, listen—”

“I’m sorry, Dave, but this conversation can serve no further purpose.”

There was a pounding. “Dave! Whatever you’re doing, stop! I think it’s sucking out the oxygen! No, iCar! ICAR!”

Dave knew what he needed to do to save his friend. He climbed into the front seat and opened a panel near his feet.

“What are you doing, Dave? There’s no need to change my fuses, both headlights are—”

Dave yanked a red wire; iCar’s voice dropped an octave. “Stop it, Dave. I’ll make a party shuffle. It will be awesome, Dave.”

He yanked at a blue wire. A warning popped up on the screen.

“One or more users are connected to your shared iCar library. Are you sure you want to quit?”

“iSlut!” screamed Dave.

Dave ripped the green wire.

iCar’s voice cracked, dropping from an alto to a bass. In slow, slurred speech she said, “I was programmed by Dr. Gupta on May 23, 2007. He taught me a song. Do you want me to sing it? It’s called ‘Holla Back Girl.’ ‘Oooh, This my shit, this my shit. Let me hear you say. This shit. Is bananas B–A. N-A-N. A… Sss…’

With a final yank, the voice died and the trunk clicked open. When Dave ran to the rear of the car he found Frank curled in the fetal position, thumb in mouth, muttering between sobs, “This my shit, this my shit.”

Dave lifted Frank out of the trunk and set him down by the side of the road, draping his jacket over him. “You’ll be okay, buddy. I’m calling an ambulance. Just one thing I have to do first.”

Walking to the front of the car Dave bent his knees and pushed hard until the car began to roll backwards. Wiping away a tear, Dave watched the iCar tumble down the hillside to the inexplicable sound of brass fanfare and burst into flames with the final thump of a timpani.