New Man

I tried to be clever with this one.  I'm really not as clever as I thought I was.

            Newman was created St. Patrick’s Day, March 17.  His first sense was one of cold.  His next sensation was coarse and strangely, uncomfortable.

            He decided to see.

            He opened his eyes and let his vision float downward.  At thick, prickly material draped over his form.  Words came to mind.  Wool blanket.  He turned his head.  Beside him stood a man.  The man was old.  Old, yet his pure joy stripped away the many years of grief, of sadness, heartbreak, and anguish.

            “Hello, my son.  Welcome.”

            Those first few years passed as happily as any.  Newman spent his days learning the world he had been gifted.  He read voraciously, hungering madly for words.  He devoured Poe, he inhaled Wells, he nibbled Asimov, and he feasted on Bradbury.  Such things were his diet.  His sustenance. 

            Yet, despite all his literary ingestion, an answer eluded him.  The question was clear:  Am I human?  Am I real?

            One day, Newman came upon his Maker sitting in the living room, openly weeping.  Newman found himself intrigued.  He’d read about these things, these emotions.   He sat beside his Maker.

            “Are you ill?  Do you require medical aid?”

            The Maker shook his head.  “No, Newman.  I do not require medical aid.”  He paused.

            “I do not understand.  You are not injured, yet you weep.”

            The Maker wiped his eyes and smiled softly.  “I hurt, yes, but no physically.  I grieve, Newman.  I am sad.”

            “You are sad?”

            “Yes, I am sad.  I miss my wife.  She died five years ago.  Today.”  The Maker shook his head.

            “You miss her?”  New man found himself fascinated by these revelations.  He felt that he was close to the answer to his puzzle.

            “I miss her because I loved, love her very much.  More than anything in the world.  And because she’s no longer here, I am sad.  I hurt and grieve.”

            Newman’s eyes flashed with comprehension.

            “You hurt because you love,” he rushed out, excitement turning his face brighter. 

            The Maker in turn, smiled broadly, proud of his creation.  “Yes, Newman.  I hurt because I love, and I love because I am human.  It makes me human.”

            Newman fell silent.  He would never forget his Maker’s words.  It would be years later when those words came back.

            Newman sat in a dimly lit, smoky little diner.  He was alone.  His Maker had died two weeks ago.  Newman was thrust into the world alone, no longer able to depend on the Maker.

            “You okay, honey?  Do you need somethin’?”

            Newman looked up at his waitress, a kind-faced young woman.  Her red hair was pulled back in a severe pony tail that did little to detract from her beauty.  She smiled at him.  Tender.

            Newman wiped his eyes, realizing that he’d been weeping.  “Oh, I’m okay.”  He attempted a weak smile.

            “Can I get you another glass of tea, sweetie?”

            He nodded.  She smiled softly at him and glided away. 

            It was a strange, uncomfortable feeling.  It was like a burning acidic sensation in his gut.  He couldn’t quite understand it.

            The waitress returned, depositing the new glass of iced tea.

            Suddenly, it hit him.

           

            Hours later, the waitress picked up a napkin left on Newman’s table.  What she mistook for a phone number turned out to be a message written in an exuberant hand.

            “Strange people come in here.  Stranger and stranger,” she muttered.  She took one last look at the napkin.  Written in joyous, curvy letters was a simple question.:  “I LOVE?”

            “I just don’t get it.”  Frowning and shaking her head, she crumpled the napkin and threw it away.