Six Minutes and Twenty-six Seconds

The hour was growing late, not that it made any difference on a satellite. As it happened, the Larry 3000 was spending another night alone in his bedroom...but this occasion was not going to be as lonely as usual. He, Tuddrussel, and Otto had just returned from a visit to Touko "Tom of Finland" Laaksonen, who was surprisingly easy to dissuade from pursuing jukebox repair. Laaksonen had even given Larry a token of his gratitude, with the caveat that he would keep it hidden from his coworkers. This night would see Larry being more secretive than he normally was.

During the mission, Tuddrussel asked Larry why he took an interest in artwork that, in his estimation, would hold little appeal for someone whose primary interests were domestic and feminine. At least, so he claimed in Otto's presence—the boy was rather bewildered while they were there. And it was undeniably true that he had long since eschewed the intense, adrenaline-increasing pastimes of which his teammate was so fond in favor of the softer joys life had to offer, pastimes that were purely about pleasure with only the barest hint of competition, if that. What was it Tuddrussel told him before they parted ways an hour ago?

Ah, yes. "If you're gonna be doing...well...THAT, I guess I should be glad you're not using MY fitness rags anymore," he told him. Larry had merely laughed then, but Tuddrussel was right that the musclebound meatheads of the world had produced something useful.

Larry brought himself back to reality. He was sitting on a hot pink shag rug, shackled to what he affectionately termed the "joy-box." This contraption, which sat atop a rainbow-colored nightstand, was a shocking purple toaster-sized box containing a continuous charge of electricity. Having recently been polished, it reflected the brilliance of the disco ball overhead. An unopened issue of the complimentary physique magazine lay across his lap.

After cranking his skull open, he inserted the metal tip into the jack. Giggling, he flipped the switch, which made a satisfying click noise.

Next to him lay the third component in this process: the record-player. The coffee-brown machine was obsolete even in the twenty-first century, but it had a certain charm that other playback devices lacked. To his satisfaction, the vinyl 78 RPM record was still on the turntable. With his free hand, he returned the needle to the appropriate groove of the disc. The soothing tones of the 1970s pop charts began to flow throughout the room as he opened the magazine to reveal the table of contents. In stark defiance of the ravages of time, the page was perfectly pristine, rather than yellowing at the edges as one might expect. Had the magazine been decrepit, it would not have suited his purposes. With his one hand on the joybox's dial and the other clutching the magazine, he settled down for an enjoyable evening. Tonight, he was alone with the next-best-thing to a real encounter...and the voice of Donna Summer.

Spring was never waiting for us, dear.

It ran one step ahead as we followed in the dance.*

The first page revealed the table of contents. Larry scanned the list for whatever articles might make interesting reading after he finished using the magazine for its primary purpose. Hmm...an article about high-protein diets...I'll have to remember that the next time I feel adventurous in the kitchen. Anyway, let's get to the centerfold! After turning the page, he turned up the dial on the joy-box. A warm current of electricity began to flow through his circuits, causing a low, barely audible purr to echo throughout his internal cavities.

Between the parted pages we were pressed

In love's hot fevered iron like a striped pair of pants.*

Appropriately enough, the next page featured a pencil drawing of a shirtless longshoreman in skintight jeans. Accordingly, Larry turned the dial to the right again. The current grew stronger, and he could feel a tingle on the undersides of his feet.

MacArthur's park is melting in the dark, all the sweet green icing flowing down....

Someone left the cake out in the rain.

I don't think that I can take it...*

Finally, he flipped through the first half of the magazine to find its sweet, creamy filling. He turned the periodical on its side to unfold the insert...and before him a half-naked cowboy posed on a freshly-made bed. Larry squealed as he gazed at this highly anticipated piece of delight. He cranked the dial so that it nearly reached its breaking point.

 

'Cause it took so long to bake it

And I'll never have that recipe again!

Oh NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!*

Then he himself reached his breaking point. The electricity surged through his body with the force of an extremely overloaded dryer. His eyes turned lavender as Donna Summer continued, now backed up by a throbbing beat:

I recall the yellow cotton dress

Foaming like a wave on the ground beneath your knee.

Birds like tender babies in your hands

And the old men playing Chinese checkers by the trees.*

In between verses, Larry added his own, non-musical accompaniment as he vibrated and twitched. The pleasure center of his internal hard drive was crackling with stimulation.

There'll be another song for me, for I will sing it.

There'll be another dream for me; someone will bring it.

I will drink the wine while it is warm, and never let you catch me looking at the sun.

And after all the loves of my life...after all the loves in my life,

You'll still be the one.*

"You scoundrel! You barbarian! You're killing me! Ah!"

He giggled once, twice, several times, until the song ended. As soon as the needle stopped at the record's last groove, Larry unplugged the joy-box, heaving a sigh. His joints were still heated from the experience, but that would soon pass. Then, the Lawrence 3000 shut down, closing his eyes without bothering to unchain himself from the joy-box. That would come later, when he would apply the shackle to the oven for his benefit and everyone's.

*Jimmy Webb, "MacArthur Park" (1968).  Originally performed by Richard Harris; lyrics taken from Donna Summer's cover.