Alexa

I wonder if we can love it here. I've spent most of my life wishing it was all different.

But in fifty years, it'll just be us. You’ll have the same pomegranate tattoo on your forearm. I’ll still wear black, low top Vans. You'll still want succulents on the windowsill, and I’ll still want to buy graphic tees with death metal logos like the ones that fill my closet. We’ll want to go see a movie once a month. Or take a trip, even if it’s just an hour outside of the city. Just an Airbnb in a small town. Nothing will be different, not if we’re the same.

~

When I unwrapped the Alexa, I felt you deflate, sitting on the couch next to me. And when I looked, you were holding your elbows. Your eyes were wide behind your glasses. The look on your face, I know it well. I’ve gotten to know it for a decade. I worried for a second. That maybe it was too obvious, your disgust. But when my aunt said, “I hope you like it,” I realized nobody else knows that expression, because nobody else has looked at you so many times.

Aunt Jo doesn't read about the NSA. Or surveillance. Or anything she can't control. The gift was a thank you for helping her. Because we drove an hour to build a bed frame. And it's ok that she micro-managed everything. Because that's how she loves us. She tells us what to do. She wants us to learn.

The day before, I deactivated my twitter. Dragged the tiny bird from its place between the unused MyFitnessPal logo and the meditation app I haven’t opened in three months. Placed it in the trash. Told myself I'd be present. I'd be with you. When you spoke, I'd pay attention to how another person is here, with me.

~

On the freeway you said, we're not installing that. Meaning the Alexa. And I said, it’s not the moment to discuss it. Meaning the Alexa.

So I'm sitting in the office and you've already gone to bed. It’s just me and the walls, mostly bare, except the postcards I put up since we can’t afford any art. The postcards have paintings on them, since we can’t afford to buy our own. One of a Basquiat and one of an empty apartment building. These images I was supposed to look at every day and think about. Maybe feel inspired by. Maybe even write poems as a result of feeling inspired by. But right now all I can do is hold this tiny Alexa screen in my hands and wonder: What does it matter? They know everything already. They see every dirty thing we reach for. Every morbid fascination. Why not let them all the way in?

I read there are machines that know us by our voices.

And maybe life would be easier that way.

Saying, “Lights on. Set a timer. Remind me to water the plants.”

But I'm thinking of those CIA books I bought as I’m just sitting here in the office. Looking at this thing, meaning the Alexa. And admitting it to myself: how I lost. How we all did.

I put it back in the box for now. Maybe I'll install it tomorrow. We just moved into a new place. It's more than we can afford but it's safer here. We've always made compromises. I didn't take that office job, the one with the benefits. We get health insurance through the school where you work and it's enough for me to see my therapist at reduced cost. Or for you to get a checkup whenever you think you should. 

For a couple years we didn’t even have wifi. I was so ashamed when people came over.

And I guess we're young. But it feels like it's getting to that point. Like, a lot of our friends are buying houses now. Just as an example. That’s something that keeps happening.

~

I've been off twitter for two days but here I am, getting ready to reactivate. Feeling myself get ready for this, to do something I don't want to do. I wonder what is moving me that I can't understand.

Today Aunt Jo told me she’s a Marxist. She said, nobody should have more money than anybody else. Then she showed me the shed she built for her power tools. She makes these gold-plated frames for all the photos she prints. Her pictures of me, hanging on the wall. Pictures from my fifth-grade graduation. Pictures from our wedding.

She always tries to teach me things.

She says, for when you have your own house.

She says, you spend or you sweat.

She says, write down what you want for your life and carry that around in your wallet.

I can't help but feel like she's giving me something that doesn't exist anymore.

Take the Alexa, for instance. Just another example. It’s not what it is to me. It’s not something she’s thought about very much. To her, it's just another tool.

~

By the streetlight I can see out our window, I glimpse a road that connects to the highway. It's safer here. But I still worry. Because highways are tools for human trafficking.

Our last place, the little townhouse we just moved out of, was separated from an empty field by a thin fence.

There was a lot of construction nearby. A lot of different people walking through the field, behind our house.

Turns out the neighbors put that fence up. To keep people out. So nobody would walk into their backyard.

Right before we moved there, I listened to an audiobook about how important it is to sleep. Rem sleep, deep sleep, there’s different kinds you need.

And when we moved in, I woke up almost every night at three or four. I'd go look at the field. Standing on the stairs, watching. There were always people back there. Smoking or just standing around. I watched. I never called the cops because they weren't hurting anyone. But I never slept.

I'm sorry I woke you up so much. Maybe that's why it feels like our lives haven't started yet. Maybe we just need some rest.

~

Aunt Jo showed me how to properly use a hack saw today. I practiced cutting shelves in half. She showed me what the inside of a hollow door looks like.

I thought, looking around her yard, I don't want to pretend anymore. Pretend that I don't want this.