Dr Jew

entered the room and Jew stopped talking. She wore a black maid's uniform with a high dress and low neckline. She had to be under twenty. Jew couldn't take his eyes off her. Her black hair was in a bun at the back of her head. Her pink lips and rosy cheeks, blue eyes. Her legs—
    "Stop staring," said Robot Raccoon.
    "I wasn't—"
    "Lygia," said Robot, ignoring Jew, "Get us some tea. Mint or something."
    "Oui, monsieur." She smiled at Robot Raccoon and briefly made eye contact with Jew.
    When she was gone, Jew said, "Whoever you sold your soul to, please refer them to me. She's amazing. I want her. I want," —he looked up at the high ceilings, the piano—"this. I want this, Robot."
    "Well, she 's not for sale. You'll have to find your own. As for the rest…"
    "Yes? How? You've got to tell me."
    "Do I?" said Robot.
    "Yes! Aren't we friends? Do you know I got beat up again today? Don't leave me hanging, man."
    "Alright," said Robot. "What if I told you I won it playing blackjack? Would that satisfy you?"
    " All of this? Is that the truth?"
    "The truth? Hmm, I'm not sure. I'm not sure I even understand the question."
    "It seems pretty simple ," said Jew. " How do you afford this ?"
    "Ah, but often what seems simple is nothing of the sort. People are always looking for the magic bullet, the missing link, the trick up the magician's sleeve. Nobody wants to know the real answer, the years of practice and self-discipline."
    "Blackjack ? You call that anything but luck?"
    " Perhaps that's not the best answer. But I really do want to help everyone. I would if I could, but for now, some people are just not ready to hear."
    The maid came in with their tea, set it down, and left silently. Jew stared at her butt as she went away. It haunted him even as he saw it.
    "My God," he said.
    "Jew, do you think any of this is real?"
    "What do you mean?" said Jew. "It seems pretty real to me. The teacup is hot. That feels real."
    "Yes, but I 'm sure part of you knows something… that we've never spoken about… about me. You've never mentioned me to anyone, have you? Never admitted my existence, even to your dad when he beat you years ago. Even your second grade class. They saw me and thought I was just a toy. You said nothing."
    Jew felt a little uncomfortable. "N-no. I never told anyone."
    "And why is that?"
    "I don't know. I just haven't."
    "C 'mon, Jew. This is me. Don't hide from it. Face it. Be honest. Why haven't you ever told anyone about me? About your friend, the robot raccoon , who talks and acts like a real person?"
    Slowly, quietly, Jew said , "Because… I don't think they would believe me."
    "And what about you?"
    "What?"
    "Do you believe I 'm real?"
    "Of course."
    "Do you?"
    "Well… sometimes I used to wonder. That maybe I was imagining you. That I was crazy or something."
    "But not anymore? Have my new circumstances changed your mind?"
    "I don 't know why they would."
    "Neither do I. And yet instead of questioning the validity of this whole reality, you only question how I can suddenly afford this."
    "I 'm just a kid," said Jew. "Sometimes when I talk to you I think I'm just talking to myself. I suppose this could be my imagination, but it seems very real."
    "What if it 's your imagination and it's real?"
    "What do you mean?"
    Instead of answering, Robot Raccoon sipped his tea. Still too hot, so he returned to words.
    "Maybe I'm not even sure. Maybe none of us can ever be sure. Not really."
    Jew said, "I need to pee. Where is the bathroom?"
    Robot tossed his arm in a loose direction that helped not at all.
    And where as Jew moved away along polished corridors had he felt this sensation before, this blind movement from emptiness to emptiness that commanded him to seize and embrace these moments of freedom that would always be few and far between? With no urgency but the coinage of his bladder and no relationship but a shell within a shell, he floated, awake and asleep, tucked and suppressed, liberated and nauseated, savage and serene. Was he spinning or rolling or inching through miles along a straight line, the stairs, scents, libraries shifting and moving him like pages turning, dog bark noise and trailing effluvium scattering mind to the wind that feeled out these ancient yet newly erected hallways and tunnels of basalt and cherry orchard tapestry, a room within a room and again a mirror, a stone, a well. A deed to do.
    His pants unsealed and a yellow string hosed beneath him in sync with the well music , mirrored