Mr. Hamburger Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2: THE CALLI closed the holo-deck and leaned back into my couch, mouth slightly agape, breathing slowed. The gelato was dripping out of my pint onto the floor—to the absolute delight of Ziggy.
"Hell yes! Oh, mmmmmm, mmmmmm!" she exclaimed, way too loud for something her size. "That's exciting, right! Al moving on up, kicking ass, taking names, and now a little baby!? I'm so proud! Oooooooo. I'm gonna decorate a nursery!"
She was one of Al's first projects—early AI in a mini cleaning bot. About the size and shape of a cantaloupe, pale pink, covered in old stickers we'd slapped on her over the years. Bands. Cartoons. Some demon baby thing with sharp teeth Al used to love. La Poopoo's or something like that.
Ziggy's voice was based on one of Al's old educational assistants—back when schools had aides instead of full-blown AI packages. Loud, aggressive, a little country, a little hood. Al didn't need her, really. She was always too smart for school regardless of the era. But Ziggy soaked that personality right up and never let it go.
Ziggy wasn't the fanciest model anymore—hell, you could buy bots now that cleaned, cooked, babysat, and wrote your memoirs for you—but for me, Ziggy was perfect.
Right now, she was finishing up slurping the stracciatella I'd dripped. She rolled back, big blue monitor eyes looking up at me, reading my vitals, reading my face. Al had given her that ability too. Ziggy chirped, tilted her head, and asked:
"You okay, big guy? Or do you need to poop? Wanna help clean out the old junk outta this guest room and set up a nursery?"
I laughed, but only a little. Because the truth had just hit me like a dump truck:
I was going to be a grandpa.
"Grandpa Burger." Fuck.
I realized I didn't even know if it was a boy or girl. Or who the other parent was. Or if there even WAS another parent. Al had said so little. But that was Al—tell you just enough to get you moving, figure out the rest later. I'd ask her next time we talked. The weight of it sat heavy like a pile of bricks on my chest. My place was clean but deteriorating. Littered with miscellaneous TLC repairs that needed to be done. My appearance, worse. A beard filled with refuse and melted cream stuck, scratched-up glasses sliding down my face, and a balding Albert Einstein wig. I looked like a half-shaved testicle with bifocals.
I handed my glasses down to Ziggy for a buff and polish and shuffled toward the shower. Steam was already filling the room when I finally took a long look at myself in the mirror.
When had I last done any self-care?
"Self-care." Always sounded like a concept invented by people with too much free time. But staring at the man in that mirror? I felt guilty. I hadn't done him a single favor. And there he was, still showing up.
A wave of emotion came hard. Eyes welled. But I did what I always did: caught it, shoved it down.
"Don't feel sorry for yourself, you stupid fuck. This is why they left. This is why they always leave. You deserve it."
The words were familiar, but the guy staring back didn't deserve it. I said them so many times they didn't even hurt anymore. That was good right? Not feeling it didn’t matter…right? He deserved help. He needed it. Why wouldn't I treat myself the way I treated a stray shopping cart? Put it back. Make it easier. Why not do that for myself?
What would I tell Al?
The house rules. The sayings.
"Make a list, knock it out. Start small. Six easy things. If you don't get them all done? Move them to tomorrow."
"You're not doing a chore. You're helping your future self. Tomorrow you'll say: thanks, past me!"
"Don't put it down. Put it away. Save yourself the trouble later."
"Every time you get up, do two things before you sit back down."
"Bravery isn't not being afraid. Bravery is being afraid and doing it anyway."
"You don't have to. You get to."
Al had listened when she was younger. Maybe I should, too.
I muttered to myself: Be like Al.
Got the clippers. Shaved off the Gallagher wig I'd been unknowingly growing. Trimmed the beard down—not too close; no need to unleash the double chin. Food bits fell out. Gross.
Hair in the sink, hair on the floor. Ziggy started vacuuming it up immediately, chirping:
"'Bout damn time. Big man was starting to look rough."
Didn't like hearing it. But she was right. She always was, when I was ready.
She hummed "Affirmations" by Flippa T while she worked, throwing in her usual "HYPE ME UP! HYPE ME UP!" between beats.
The steam, the shampoo, the running water—it calmed me down. I thought of Al. Of being a grandfather. Of what that meant. My grandfather hadn't been around. Cold. Distant. That wouldn't be me.
Intrusive thoughts hit anyway. This apartment was my prison. When was the last time I did anything for joy? Where were my friends now? Breathing went shallow. Fast. Panic coming on.
Box breathing. Four in. Hold. Six out. Hold. Focus on the water. On the steam. On the sound. Slowly, my chest unclenched.
And when I finally calmed, I thought: I'm gonna be awesome at this.
Smiled. Rinsed the soap away.
Then I heard Ziggy scream, "HEY! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!"
I didn't have time to react before something grabbed me—shower curtain and all—and threw me through the window.
One second, calm steam and eucalyptus. Next: glass exploding, humid night air, body twisting in freefall, wrapped in my vinyl curtain.
Adrenaline spiked. Stick the landing, I thought. Just stick the--
WHAM. CRUNCH.
Street cracked beneath me. Spiderweb of concrete. Pain lanced through every nerve—my resilience kept me alive, but it never kept me from feeling it.
I screamed.
Vision blurry without my glasses. Soap stung my eyes. Vinyl wrapped my limbs. I couldn't see, but I heard the voice.
"You're gonna fucking pay for what you guys did to TROY!"
That voice. Dumfrey.

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