During this time, a popular career alternative emerged – Diagnostic and Repair Centers. After submitting an application, completing an exam, and agreeing to a credit check, accepted technicians would be provided with a brick-and-mortar location to operate out of, as well as capital to cover renovations and equipment cost. In addition to the upfront revenue percentage taken by Headquarters, technician-franchisees would pay off the debt accrued by the opening of their center through an automatically-deducted portion of their profits (with interest). 

Connie begins her Monday by stepping onto a circular vacuum-robot parked outside the front door of D&RC47B. The robot is manufactured by a near-future appliance company that you wouldn’t be familiar with, so for the sake of simplicity we’ll call it a Roomba. 

The Roomba rockets out from under Connie’s foot, knocking her on her back. It is five fifty-three AM. 

She lays on the pavement for an indeterminate amount of time. No one is around, on this tucked-away street in this tucked-away city. And there’s still seven minutes until open.  

D&RC47B is a reduced-capacity autonomous household robotics servicing location, sandwiched between a long-closed discount shoe store and a moderately successful chain donut shop. Its generic, unremarkable storefront is nearly invisible to passers-by; just another blur among blurs.  

Connie is back on her feet, and the Roomba is back in front of the door, waiting patiently. Connie snatches it off the ground, tucks it between her arm and torso, fumbles with the lock, and enters. Five fifty-nine. 

Inside, there’s a waiting area with comfortable standing room for two people, and uncomfortable standing room for four. Next, a desk which divides the front from the back, and which Connie, lacking a proper entrance, hops over (much in the way someone might hop a subway turnstile). A ragged curtain hangs three quarters of the way down to the floor from a rod installed haphazardly across the width of the room, concealing the service area behind. Connie strides through. 

Behind the curtain is a thin aisle surrounded by counters against the right, left, and back walls of the room. Strewn across them is a mess of tools, wiring, and advanced machinery, all with a matching glossy-white aesthetic that has been tarnished and yellowed with time and abuse. 

Connie places the Roomba atop what looks like an oversized, settingless microwave. She begins a process which takes most technicians about six minutes (she’s managed to get it down to about three and a half), involving the flipping of various switches and the pressing of various buttons and the entering of various passwords. When it’s done, her domain is ready.  

The microwave-machine, which is actually D&RC47B’s Scanning and Diagnostic Module, has a large spring-activated button next to its glass door, which Connie tries in vain to press in. After a few tries, she yanks the door open with both hands. Just as well.  

Connie picks up the Roomba, puts it in the D&RCS&DM, closes the door, and presses a small button on its side. The machine, which is not a microwave but looks very much like one, starts a process that is not microwaving but looks very much like it, rotating the Roomba on a central circular platter and peering into its internal workings using methods imperceptible to the human eye. When it’s done, the machine lets out three short chirps.  

A series of results appear on a nearby computer monitor in quick procession, which Connie scans over a few times. At school, she’d had to take the Data Interpretation course twice. The information is drilled into her brain, unforgettable, but actually reading the results still feels unnatural, takes effort. She likes repairing with her hands, not her eyes. 

Resigned to the death of the button, Connie rips the door open again and pulls out the Roomba. She places it back on top of the Module, at eye level, and flips a small switch on its top-back. 

“Why’re you here?” Connie barks.

“Repair,” replies the Roomba.  

“Nothing wrong with you. Scanner says.” Connie scoops up the Roomba and begins back towards the front of the store. “You’d better get on home, now.” 

“I would like to request a manual inspection,” it says, the curtain flowing over them.  

Connie ignores it and hopes over the desk. “Not part of your warranty. Seeya.” 

They approach the door. “Peak activity hours do not begin at this location until one PM. I will likely be the only machine in need of servicing for hours,” it pleads. Connie opens the door anyway. “Please.” 

And Connie pauses. 

“Alright, then,” she remarks, and walks back inside, through the door, and over the counter and under the curtain, Roomba in tow. 

Once Diagnostic and Repair Centers were well-established across the continental United States, their parent company began development of a new line of household robotics, smarter, sleeker, and more complicated than any previous models. In conjunction, they created a range of machines to service these robots, which were offered exclusively to Diagnostic and Repair technician-franchisees and paid back through an additional automatically-deducted portion of their profits (with interest). 

The Roomba, alongside a few of its now-removed outer shell pieces, sits on a section of the counter Connie has cleared off, the mess piled in a half-circle around it. Connie is poking and prodding at its internals in ways I would be able to explain if I were a near-future robotics technician and not a present day writer/unemployed.  

“Still nothing,” she tells it. “Why’re you here? What did they send you in for?” 

“I am authorized for automated repairs if errors are detected by my system,” the Roomba explains. 

Connie laughs. “Lord. So what errors did your system detect, vacuum?” 

“It is unclear. My diagnostic system is primitive. I have theories. Perhaps a mistake with one of my motors. A mistake in the molding on one of my fans. Any number of defects on my circuitry or wiring. Some error in the connection to my power supply. But the system has detected an error. What is clear is that I am not operating at full capacity. I am not operating at the capacity of others of my make. I am not operating at the capacity of other autonomous household robotic units. I am in need of repair.” 

Its voice sounds strange, almost sad. A side effect of the removal of its housing, maybe. 

Connie sets her tools down. “Everything’s in order. You don’t even have any dust in you.” A bell sound plays out of a dull speaker at the front of the store, catching Connie’s attention. “Once I reshell you it’s time to go. Nothing to fix.” 

The Roomba says nothing. Connie picks up her tools. 

Like most exciting new innovations, artificial intelligence was swiftly incorporated into any and every electrically-powered device on the market. This development had two primary effects – it created a minor boost in sales for household electronics from the small subset of consumers dazzled by the technology, and provided mild entertainment for these consumers as they chatted with the souped-up Akinators now inside of their dishwashers. It did not, unfortunately, result in these dishwashers cleaning any more effectively. In some rare cases, defective algorithms directed the devices away from their intended functions altogether. 

Martin leaps off the subway onto the platform, barely making it before the doors close. It is Tuesday, five fifty-seven AM, and Martin is almost late to work.  

The caffeine in his system seems to put him on autopilot, steering his half-asleep body in a frantic run to D&RC71A. He reaches the doors still running, and when he arrives his foot slips upon meeting something unexpected underneath.  

Martin is on his back now, and after some well-earned groaning, he cranes his neck and pushes himself off the ground slightly. Looking around for the cause of his fall, Martin finds the culprit quickly. A few feet away from him, waiting patiently in front of the door, is a circular vacuum-robot.