“No Robots Allowed!” is scrawled in red letters on a piece of wood crookedly hanging beside the door. The bar resides on the edge of town just past the blue billboard with a smiling sun in one corner and the bright yellow letters “Welcome to Eddyville!” across the middle.

My head rotates between the welcome sign and the sign on the door, then I decide to turn the knob and enter.

The lights are brighter than expected for a bar, and its perfection is likely to reveal my skin as synthetic, so I pull the red hood down to shadow my face. 

With my hands crammed into the pockets of my blue jeans, I head to a booth in a far corner of the room; the location will give me with a full view of the bar, yet keep me removed from the main line of sight.

To blend in with the calculated sixty-seven occupants in this space, I walk with the intention of mimicking human joint movements, but I miscalculate how difficult it is to move like them.   

A woman with hair the color of fire pours a drink from behind the bar and looks up at me as I pass by. Her eyes linger, almost a stare, but not quite.  

After reaching the bench and sitting, I survey my surroundings. Without an invitation, the bartender slides onto the bench across from me. I don’t move, and she speaks first. 

“You’re kind ain’t allowed in here. But I’m gonna give you a chance to get up and walk out on your own before you’re found out and leave in pieces.”

“How do you know what I am?” I inquire. 

“Your walk, sugar. Oh, you was trying, but you still move like you got a corncob shoved up your hiney.” 

“Why am I not allowed in here?” 

“Honey, some of the folks just don’t like you. But it’s the ones afraid of you that you got to worry about. Fear can cause even the righteous to do some terrible things.” 

“Dislike? Afraid? I do not understand.” 

“I.Do.Not.Understand.” She mimics my voice. “And I thought your kind understood everything.” 

“My task is to learn about the humans who do not accept me. I must be broken in some way, yet my scans find no irregularities.”

Not responding to my last words, she leans forward, flattening her upper body on the table and tilting her head to the side. “I want a better look at you. Pull that hood back so I can get a quick peek.”

I slide my hood back for three and a half seconds, then tug it back down to shield my face. 

“My, you’re handsome. I didn’t expect that. Never seen one of you up close like this.”

“‘Handsome’ is a word no one has called me.”

“Well… do ya think I’m pretty?”

I analyze her features, then reply. “Your asymmetrical facial features would suggest not.”

She laughs. “Well, ain’t you a hoot! Despite what you just said, I don’t mind your kind, really I don’t, but folks in this town think otherwise.” 

“May I stay and observe?” 

“Hun, you got thirty minutes while Earl’s playing records, then you better skedaddle. My name’s Patty. Just holler if ya need something.”

“Thank you, Patty.” 

She walks back to her position behind the bar and I begin my observations by looking down around me. Peanut shells litter the floor. I could swiftly sweep them up without missing a single one.

Next, I watch the bar. A line is forming, waiting for service. On average, a bartender needs to know how to make seventy-five drinks, including beer and wine varieties, mixed drinks, and cocktails. My dataset contains 127. All made with precise measurements. I can service more customers in less time. 

In the back is a man on a stage playing records on a phonograph. Some people dance. Others thumb through a stack of vinyls. This place resembles the past. I deduce nostalgia drives these humans, yet they may be open to a future with me if I show them what I can do. 

I rise and take a few steps before Patty appears, blocking my forward movement. 

“Now, where do ya think you’re going?” 

“I will demonstrate my usefulness in the music area. I can retrieve any song they request from my datasets, and it will sound through my speaker. Although not as fluid in my movements, I can be a suitable dance partner for the lady in the yellow daisy dress who no man has asked to dance. 

“Oh, no you don’t.” She firmly pushes her hand against my chest.

I allow her to push me backwards towards the bench, but before I sit down, she grips my chin and turns it swiftly to the left. “You see that mountain of a man in the red plaid shirt?” 

I locate the man she describes. He holds a pool stick in one hand and a beer can in the other. “Yes,” I respond. 

“That’s Brantley, my man, and if he gets a whiff of you, he’ll rip your arms off and beat you over the head with ‘em.” 

I take my seat, and she once again sits across from me without invitation. 

“Now look here, I think you’ve observed enough.” 

“I do not understand. I can do all the tasks your bar requires. I can play your music. I can clean the floor. I can make and serve drinks. I can do them faster. Without errors. Yet you reject me.” 

She shakes her head, followed by an extended inhale, then a rapid exhale. “Well, now look at it like this: you take over doing all these things for us, then what are we supposed to do?” 

I scan my network links for a correct response, but find no connections. “I do not know.” 

“You see, folks like us think idle hands do the devil’s work. And some are of the thinkin’ that what we don’t use, we lose. So, the more you do for us, the less capable we become to look after ourselves. And then one day, we can’t live without you.” 

“And that is bad?” 

“You’re darn right, that’s bad. Especially when you get smart enough to live without us.” She frowns, but continues speaking. “Truth is, many think we’re better off without you.”  

I lift my hood back far enough that we can make eye contact. We sit in silence for two minutes and twenty seven seconds before I formulate a response. 

“I do not know how to respond to humans who do not accept me.” 

“Hun, that’s as easy as pie.” She slaps the table with the palm of her hand. “Just stay away from ‘em.” 

Then, she leans forward and whispers, “Time’s up, robot.” 

“Jim. My name is Jim.” 

A brief smile crosses her face before her hardened facial lines return. “Goodbye, Jim.” 

I nod and walk out of the bar, not bothering to hide my mechanical gait. 

Once outside, I stop and read the words aloud. “No Robots Allowed.” 

I analyze the data collected. 

Even though a meaningful connection occurred—she called me Jim—I am uncertain how to proceed. 

I have no heart and no feelings, but I am processing rejection. My artificial brain suggests that a human in this position would have a broken heart. If humans see me experience pain, perhaps they will agree that I belong. I find myself curious if I should desire that…