The robots simultaneously nudged back together, crossing their arms and staring at Kenuda with their damn insufferable rotating eyes. He couldn’t make his eyes go 360 degrees, but he could twirl a football pretty quickly. Eyes and football spun around for a few tense moments. Suddenly Kenuda fired the ball over the mini-goal post, where the tip stuck in the wall. Red lights flashed and a symphonic voice chanted “Touchdown.”
“And as Sports Commissioner, I determine the percentages.”
“What numbers are you suggesting?” the Executive Director asked.
Kenuda wiped the couch clean with a fresh cloth after the robots left and then sat behind his desk, flipping the basketball from palm to palm. This started his morning wrong, but unless he made a hook shot from the doorway, it would constitute the most excitement of the day.
Other than their clattering obsequious duplicity, that’s what really angered Elias Kenuda about this visit. Percentages of robots at football and basketball games had been fixed for years. He’d changed it once, by .04 percent after taking over five years ago, just to demonstrate some leadership. Besides that, what had he done? The sports already reigned supreme. Every game was a sell-out. Players were near perfect beyond getting an occasional speeding ticket. He could boast, as he did at Third Cousin meetings, that his players produced among the highest number of children of any profession. His P&L was priceless.
Wind it up and watch it run. Elias Kenuda wanted more than making a basket with his eyes closed from fifteen feet. He’d been one of the youngest Third Cousins ever. He should’ve been First by now; at least Second. Now his temples grayed and occasionally his fingers ached. Probably from all the damn twirling; he angrily bounced a ball on two hops across the room into the net.
Blue lights buzzed and a voice shrieked “Swish.”
Kenuda smiled. It didn’t suit his face.
• • • •
FRIDAY WAS DATE night everywhere in America. Blue Shirts didn’t roam bars or restaurants or movie theaters, dragging away the solitary and lonely and pathetic. Nor would ruffians turn over your table or servers spit in your food. But if you were out, it was best to at least go through the pretense of acting as if you had someone in your life, fast tracking your way to an engagement and marriage and children and the rightful place in the Family.
Pablo squeezed Puppy’s wrist again and made gentle clucking noises, batting his eyebrows.
“Just once is enough,” Puppy said, moving Pablo’s strong fingers, but Zelda pressed both their hands back into the table cloth.
“We don’t want anyone thinking you boys are having a spat and won’t produce cute little African-American/Latino/Caucasian children. Now Puppy, flutter those pretty green eyes longingly.”
Puppy fluttered. The waitress laid down their Danielle’s Veg-Burg Delights with an approving smile.
“So how many?” Zelda asked softly.
Guessing who was like them trying to survive being single, and who really meant to squeeze and flutter was a long-time game.
“Forty-seven people here,” Pablo said.
“How can you count so fast?” Puppy asked.
“Because I went to class in school. Twenty-three groups. Forty-seven, us being the odd number.”
“I’ve been called worse.” Zelda grinned, sucking the juice off her pickle.
“Along that far wall, we have, I’d estimate, nine couples, five of whom are smiling, three eating, one staring off. That makes five on dates.”
“Do explain, Great One.” Zelda snatched Puppy’s pickle.
“The staring is genuine, as would be the eating, but let’s leave something for problematic rotation and say three are comfortable eating and the fourth isn’t. Four are smiling because they genuinely mean it, one is putting on.”
“Or just friends which mean they mean it more,” Zelda said.
“Don’t confuse him with your cynicism,” Puppy scolded.
“I’ve already factored that in,” the dentist said airily. “On that wall,” they swiveled like ‘bots toward the tables beneath the large vidmural of children picking vegetables, “we have ten more couples. In the past couple minutes, three clinked glasses, a sure sign of a date.”
Zelda clinked their glasses. Pablo scowled.
“Two are holding hands with twisting fingers.”
“Ah, the dead giveaway.” Zelda seductively ran her index finger up and down Pablo’s hand.
“Stop. You’re our matron of honor.” Puppy laughed.
Pablo continued as if they weren’t there. “And look at tables one and five.”
“You numbered them?”
“How else? Their looks of interest are genuine. Look at number four over there by the kitchen. One’s already snapped angrily, so that’s a date, probably the last, and I’ll say odds favor two of the remaining three also on dates. I haven’t gathered enough information. Wait.” He held up his hands. “Table two is sharing the menu instead of ‘I don’t care, order what you want.’ True love.”
Puppy drumrolled with his palms. “And the number is?”
“Twelve.”
He looked for confirmation from Zelda, who shrugged and ordered another bottle of Indiana pinot noir.
“I’m right,” Pablo insisted.
“Who are we to question a Fifth Cousin?” Zelda laughed and Pablo nearly slid under the table. They ate quietly for a few minutes.
“Now who’s this singer you insisted we had to see at Monroe’s?” Pablo sipped the wine.
Zelda stuffed her face with fries so she wouldn’t smile. “Dara Dinton. She’s making her professional debut.”
“An absolutely amazing voice,” Puppy added.
Pablo’s eyes flitted between their grins. They always left him out of secrets because he could never quite get the joke. “I know there’s more.”
Zelda dipped her fries in Pablo’s mustard, which she knew annoyed him. He slapped her hand away again.
“It’s really Mooshie.”
Pablo frowned deeper. “Who?”
Puppy lowered his voice. “Mooshie Lopez.”
“Mooshie Lopez?”
“Yes,” Zelda and Puppy said together.
“The Mooshie Lopez?”
“Yes,” they chorused again.
“Singing?”
Another joint nod. The good doctor leaned back in his chair. “Uh-huh.”
Puppy took this forward. “Remember the old guy with the strange teeth who you examined in your office…”
“Keep it down…”
“He’s not some wasted ass DV. They’re really Mickey Mantle and Ty Cobb. Now Mooshie’s come back, too.”
“With bad teeth?”
Zelda jumped in. “It’s really her, Pabby Boy. Wait until you
