In The Machine

by Joshua Siegal

Earlier in the world, I would have been a crouching gear manipulator, my den a cabinet, and I’d have ducked spokes and cams, pushing rods up through a mechanical man with wooden eyes who played chess for money.  These days, there’s so much more room.  Prickly green and sliver motherboards tucked respectfully aside.  Wires, neatly bundled.  Cool plastic case.  I have room for a little drink cooler inside the ATM machine.

The people come up and insert the cards, and I watch their chins through my pinhole.  You need a shave.  Your chin is pointy.  Tuft of hair, another ten-year-old with a credit card.  I take DNA samples off their cards, then let their transactions go forth.  You don’t need a person inside an ATM machine to steal mere money.  I’m logging bank accounts and genetic samples in one swoop.  Someday we’ll need these things; visionary theiving requires forethought, technical prowess, and it helps if you have access to an old junked ATM machine, some machine tools, and a DNA testing lab.

I have my claustrophobia now, but one day soon it will be writ large and people will carry their claustrophobia around on them, like their clothes.  And I’ll be living on the open sand, a millionaire bum scamming tourists for change.