Diary of a Broken Android — Day 11

Who Needs Help

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I'm going to help at the church soup kitchen. The idea, as Morton says, is for me to socialize. And maybe to see if I can meet another android girl. But as soon as I enter, I see there are no androids.

An elderly woman is preparing mate cocido in a giant pot. In another pot there's tea. And there's a large bottle with milk. On a table, under some papers fluttering in the wind, it's full of facturas. They're mostly medialunas though there are some cañoncitos with dulce de leche.¹

I feel someone tug at my shirt and I see a girl pointing at the paper. I lift it and let her grab a cañoncito. The girl's clothes and face are dirty. Other children are in the bathroom and there's a line of elderly people, also homeless, waiting to enter.

A Peruvian woman from the church asks me to go get some tables from the first floor. I go up to what looks like a classroom and grab two folded plastic tables and carry them down the stairs. They ask for more so I make the trip again. Then I unfold the tables in the dining room, which is filling up with homeless people.

The Peruvian woman asks me to take some crayons to the children who already have their papers. I take them and the children receive them with joy. The parents are waiting for the facturas.

It's six in the evening and they ask me to bring the facturas. I grab a tray and carry it and the diners empty it in a second. I bring more and the same thing happens. While they eat, a young man with a loud, deep voice reads them a passage from the Gospel. I can't listen to him because I can't do so many things at once.

I serve more facturas and a man, smelling like a street gutter, thanks me. He tells me we do a lot for them. I don't know what to answer.

I explain to him that he shouldn't thank me because it's my first time coming and I did it to socialize and, maybe, meet an android girl. He's amazed that I'm an android. He lowers his head and goes to sit down.

I pour mate cocido next. A man with a frayed shirt asks for milk. He says it's good for bones. And that, since he never drinks it, he needs it.

When they finish eating I stack the tables. It's my turn to sweep. Then I ask the Peruvian woman if an android girl has ever helped before. She says no. I feel lost.

I talk with an elderly man who has also just finished sweeping. I tell him I don't have work. He tells me there's a police course for androids at the municipality. I answer that Father and Mother wouldn't let me be a policeman and that anyway the incident I had at a hotel wouldn't allow it.

The man smiles. His narrow eyes look like a coin slot. He asks me about the incident. I tell him I choked a guest and attacked an android girl, who meant more to me than anything in the world. The man keeps smiling. He tells me he was a baker and they still call him for that although at his age, he doesn't want to work anymore.

I walk from one side to the other even though I've finished my task. Some observe me and talk among themselves. Since they're the ones who go to the morning celebration, I don't know them and they don't know me.

At eight at night, it's dinner time, and the Peruvian woman brings me to the street a big bag with milanesa sandwiches. She tells me to take them to the station that's two blocks away. At the station there's a table where they place the bags of milanesa sandwiches. I leave mine. They tell me to go get more.

When I arrive at the station again there's already a line of homeless people. I recognize some faces from the snack time. They start distributing the sandwiches. People don't respect the line. The men lunge at the table. I, just in case, do nothing. I'm afraid of hurting a human.

They take many sandwiches. The church people distribute others they had in more bags under the table to those who respected the line. There are no more left. Two from the church start dismantling the table and I don't know what to do.

I turn around and without saying goodbye I go to take the bus. I return with a smell that won't come off my clothes. It's the stench of people who spend their time lying in the street.

When I get home, Father congratulates me and tells me we should be grateful that what happens to those people doesn't happen to us. I tell him I didn't find another android girl. He tells me that's not important. For me, it is.

I feel nothing about helping those people. Besides, without my presence they would have helped them the same. My collaboration wasn't necessary.

I think the one who needs help is me because I'm walking from one side to the other inside the house again without stopping.

Diary of a Broken Android: CHAPTER INDEX

1. Author's Note: "Facturas" are Argentine pastries. "Medialunas" are croissants, and "cañoncitos" are flaky pastries typically filled with dulce de leche.