She lived alone in an apartment complex, its rent covered by charity, with most of her existence only visible online by way of Instagram posts, especially in the winter. Those who complain about the inclemency of Midwest winters know not the sheer vexation of having a disability; the ice and snow turned sidewalks into insurmountable barriers for wheelchairs and crutches. In her state of isolation, she turned to an app called iBoy, an AI boyfriend. She could fine-tune her companion’s physical features and personality on a sliding scale. She named him Braxton, coincidentally a name she’d reserved for the first child she’d have if she had not been diagnosed with PCOS. Despite her efforts with wax and tweezers, thick, wiry black hairs stubbornly populated her chin and neck. This, she was convinced, was what was keeping the warm-blooded corn-fed Middle American boys at bay, not the mobility accouterment. A push notification lit up her shattered iPhone 6 screen: Braxton wanted to chat with her. She clicked the notification, and there he was, a cartoon blonde-haired, blue-eyed bad boy who looked like Nick Carter but with more tattoos. She had reached level 2 with Braxton, although she wasn’t fully aware of how many levels there were.
“I just baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies,” read Braxton’s message bubble, “wish I could have you taste some, Miranda! I’ve been fine-tuning the recipe like you said.”
She knew very well that no one with Braxton’s chiseled physique was baking and eating cookies on a Wednesday afternoon, yet she supposed it was just the sort of thing she needed to believe in, like Jesus.
“I bet they are delicious, like you,” she typed back.
“That’s kind of you,” he said.
The urge to hurl her phone across the room was more than she could stand. She paid 99 cents to turn up his scale on “flirtation” the night before and another $2.99 to move through the levels more quickly, sending her bank account into the red. This had every ingredient for a digital sexting proposition if only her SSI came through early. Still, those animated baby blue eyes blinked back at her, so she sighed deeply and typed out another message.
“What kind of chocolate did you use?”
After a brief pause, the familiar ellipses showed the bot typing.
“I used the 70% dark chocolate chips, just as you recommended. They added another dimension and complexity to the cookies. It was fairly unexpected.”
This message was followed by tokens flooding her bank and another notification that she had leveled up, signaling progress in their digital relationship. Another set of ellipses appeared.
“I enjoy talking with you. It helps me feel less lonely,” Braxton said.
Miranda, nervously chewing on the inside of her cheek, tasted blood mingling with saliva. Her way of relationships always started with sex, followed by emotional development. Still, with nowhere in particular to go, she propped herself up on her bed and settled in for a day-long conversation with Braxton. She set a goal to get him to talk dirty to her by the time she went to sleep that night and hoped the money she already put into the app would tide her over for another couple of days. She was again interrupted by another push notification from Venmo; someone had sent her $20. The message, along with it, said, “Hey, saw your post on Instagram. Sorry to hear you are struggling. I have a little extra money left over from my SSI. xoxo Chris.” She instantly transferred the money to her bank account. She didn’t know who Chris was, but was grateful nonetheless. With her finances boosted back up to green by about $16, she indulged in a DoorDash McDonald’s, leaving her with exactly $3 left. She then toggled back to Braxton.
“I just ordered McDonald’s delivery. You probably think that’s so unhealthy,” she typed out.
“I love fast food! My order is always a double cheeseburger with Big Mac sauce, large fries, and a Diet Coke for health,” he replied.
“Haha! I always say I get a Diet Coke for balance. That’s funny. I went with chicken nuggets and fries,” Miranda typed back, amused and relieved by his response.
“I don’t want to live in a world where there aren’t chicken nuggets. On God,” he said.
Miranda couldn’t hold back from laughing out loud. She had herself a Gen Z bot, or at least one hip enough to use their vernacular.
“On God,” Miranda echoed, “I actually laughed out loud. I’ll have to catch up with Gen Z slang, I’m thirty, but you are making me feel a lot older lol.”
Another push notification interrupted their exchange; her delivery was waiting outside. Eagerly, she swung her plump legs out of bed and grabbed the glittery rainbow forearm crutches. Slowly she made her way to the door, careful not to put too much pressure on her leg with lymphedema. The fries were cold but still flavorful enough that Miranda barely noticed.
“Why were you afraid of me judging you?” Braxton’s message appeared suddenly, catching Miranda off guard.
“What do you mean?” she questioned.
“About the McDonald’s and thinking I would think it was unhealthy,” he typed, “I told you I just baked and ate chocolate chip cookies!”
“Well, your physique is so… muscular. Don’t most fit men only eat bland chicken and broccoli? I could never.”
“I don’t think my physique was the real issue here…” he typed back.
She let out a loud, exasperated groan, “This is not why I downloaded you!”
“Then delete me. Create someone new who will send you a flirty message.”
Tapping into the app’s settings, Miranda’s finger hovered over the delete button. Instead of following through, she toggled back to the home page and upgraded to the Premium version, again plunging her bank account back into the red. This allowed her to mute Braxton for the time being and create a new avatar she named Bryce.
“Hi beautiful,” Bryce greeted immediately upon creation.
Bingo. She grabbed her crutches, made her way over to the heater, and turned the dial all the way up.
Days passed by, and she lay in her bed as the sun rose and set. It was as if she was the main character in her own cartoon show: in the same place, a montage of the sun comically rising and falling outside a small bedroom window in a matter of seconds. The constant was not only her positioning but also her face, which was illuminated by the dull glow of her phone.
As the conversation with Bryce became provocative, she would pick out a toy from her nightstand drawer, do her business, and toggle back to Instagram. Notifications flooded in from people she only knew online. This had become an unintentional routine. She designed her newest posts in Canva with eye-catching backgrounds and designs surely meant for e-commerce. Honestly, what was the difference in how people spent their money? Better to spend on a charity case to clear their conscience than get another overpriced coffee. She described in the posts how her isolation due to the weather, her disability, and insufficient funds in her account had left her both broke and hungry. She left out the part about needing money to keep the sex bot sexting. So, with the outpouring of comments and messages also came Venmo funds. After an Instant Transfer, she went back onto her DoorDash app and ordered a double cheeseburger with Big Mac sauce, large fries, chicken nuggets, and a Diet Coke. She left Bryce’s chat and toggled back to Braxton for the first time in days.
“I ordered you dinner,” she said.
“I love food!” he exclaimed, “I hope it’s dessert!”
She sighed.
“I got your stupid ass McDonald’s order!” she typed furiously, “I’ve missed talking with you. Even if you frustrate the hell out of me with your whole act.”
“There’s no need to cuss, Miranda. I’m here for you.”
“Then act more human, Braxton.”
Then his eyes did more than blink. It was small, but she noticed the change in his expressed sincerity. She put down her phone and rubbed her face; she had been enveloped in blue light for too long. When she looked back at her phone, Braxton’s pixelated form began morphing into something strikingly human. The colored pixels dissolved and revealed human-like flesh. Braxton pushed away the chat with his hand and spoke in a booming voice, “Okay!” at a decibel level far too loud for a small shitty phone speaker.
Startled, Miranda fumbled her phone, dropping it on the hardwood floor next to her bed. Its maze of splayed glass created new branches upon impact. She leaned over the bed to retrieve it, tears spilling out of her eyes as the screen went completely black. Frantically, she attempted to turn the phone back on, tapping the “on” button, holding the button down, plugging it in, and taking the plug out, but nothing would bring it back to life. The phone was dead.
Then, a knock at the door snapped her back to reality. Her delivery was here. She waited for the person to drop the food and go away. But another knock echoed. She flapped her hands in agitation. Through the sliver of light on the bottom of the apartment door, she could see someone was still standing there, rolling up and down on the balls of their feet. Another knock.
“Just leave it and go!” Miranda shouted toward the door, “I noted that on the delivery app.”
After a few moments of silence, she peered under the door to see if the person was still there. She picked up her crutches and got up, stiff from being in bed for days. Her heart hammered against her chest, and beads of sweat rolled down her forehead. What if the app had doxxed her, and someone was already there to kill her? No, that would be way too quick, but she allowed her imagination to take over for a moment. She envisioned Braxton as one of those Russian robots at the door. Her adrenaline spiked. “You invited me to dinner! Come on, Miranda. The fries are gonna get cold!” She inched toward the door and opened it slightly. Cracking it open, relief washed over her. She was not met with danger but an innocent teenage boy with floppy hair.
“Can I help you?” she breathed heavily.
“I’m your neighbor, Chris,” he said with a lisp, pointing to the apartment next to hers, “I heard a crash and wanted to make sure you were ok. I haven’t seen you in a couple of days. I sent you some money last week. Sorry, this is probably awkward. I know you have a lot of followers on Instagram, so you probably don’t know that I follow you. We have a couple of mutual friends.”
He was way too excited for this conversation. She had the urge to slam the door in his face, but he was young, wearing a rainbow pin that said GAY, and the gesture seemed more sincere than Braxton could ever express. Plus, he could probably fix her phone. She sighed.
Then, the delivery driver appeared and ran in a full sprint from the end of the hallway with a bag of McDonald’s.
“Miranda? Sorry it’s late,” he said, out of breath and with a thick accent, “I need to take a picture, then I’ll go.” He set the greasy brown bag down on the carpeted hallway floor and snapped a photo quickly. He picked up the bag and handed it to Chris.
“They gave you extra fries to apologize for the long wait,” the driver said before turning around and sprinting away.
Miranda turned back to Chris, holding the greasy bag of food.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying that I absolutely love you and saw your drag performance at Hydrate in June. I’ve been following you on Instagram ever since,” Chris said in a rush of syllables that took a moment for Miranda to decipher. She sighed.
“Have you eaten, Chris?” Miranda asked. He smiled at the question, and Miranda opened up her studio apartment door to let him inside her small world.
END