In the brief lull between when he put the baby down for her afternoon nap and when his wife Etty came home, Toby went to the bathroom, but even that place was no longer sacred. What was once his own private confessional had been invaded by SkyCall’s disembodied pitchman. 

Toby didn’t scroll or read when he was in there. Sometimes he made lists, messy analog to-dos, scribbled and illegible except to his eye. And sometimes he just sat there, his phone and computer in the other room, no pings or alerts to pull him from his precious daydreams or inner diatribes. But then Etty installed SkyCall.

This time, he was only in there for five minutes before it chimed in—

“Hey, bro,” it said in its chummy tone. “Maybe you should think about getting a stool softener. Colace is on sale. Would you like to learn more?”

“No,” Toby said sternly. 

His wife had claimed the device was for his benefit. She thought it’d help him stay organized, maybe even save some money, reduce waste by tracking their spending habits and behavior. Data, she told him, could save them hundreds. It was true, he loved saving money, but he valued peace even more, and between working from home and taking care of the baby, and now SkyCall’s constant presence, he rarely found any. The last time he had the place to himself, he went to the bedroom to seize the opportunity, but even there he was greeted by SkyCall—"Compromised Co-eds has a new video,” it said politely. “Use discount code, SLIMTHIIIC4DAZE for ten percent off!”

Toby tried to clear SkyCall’s memory, but all it did was assure him there was nothing to be ashamed of.

“I know,” Toby pleaded with the thing. “But just leave me with my shame. It’s mine.”

SkyCall was kind enough not to mention the incident again, though Toby now believed privacy to be an ancient word without meaning.

In the bathroom, SkyCall pinged in—“Sitting for too long can cause blood clots or hemorrhoids,” it said. “I see on your calendar you haven’t been to the doctor’s in over a year. Not cool, man.”

“Off,” Toby said and then left the bathroom as Etty was coming in the front door.

 “I thought you changed the settings to keep that thing out of the bathroom,” Toby said.

“Just ignore it,” Etty said, putting down her bag.

She kissed the baby and kicked off her shoes. “Skyla called out again today,” she said, updating Toby on the office gossip.

“What’s up, girlie?” asked SkyCall. “Would you like to start a shopping list? Hannaford’s is running a special on baby food. Should I add it to your Shopping List?”

“She said ‘Skyla’ not ‘SkyCall,” Toby said.

“What can I do for you, Toby?” SkyCall said again.

“Goddamn thing,” Toby said. 

Etty placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I hate that it calls me by my name, like we’re friends,” Toby said. “The other day, after I got off my quarterly meeting, I was so annoyed it suggested I go to happy hour at the Lone Pine. It’s like my life is being narrated by a carnival barker.”

“Why don’t you get out of the house after dinner,” she said. “You’ve been stuck in here for a few days now.”

“And go where?” he asked. “It’s all the same out there. Everything screaming and flashing.”

“Then go to the park, look at the chrysanthemums or something,” she said. 

Toby shrugged, said, “The frowners are always there.”

“Well, then go to the grocery store,” she said. “We could use more baby food.”

“Would you like me to add it to your Shopping List?” asked SkyCall.

Toby rolled his eyes. 

After dinner he kissed the baby and Etty and then left the apartment, but before he did, SkyCall reminded him to bring his reusable bags.

“We all must do our part,” it said.

Toby walked down the street, each storefront adorned with digital advertisements that mutilated themselves as he passed, morphing into discount codes and ads for stool softeners and baby food. 

“Come see what we do off the camera!” an advertisement said as he walked by one storefront. Toby looked at the busty co-ed, his face glowing red. He quickly averted his eyes if only to evade the algorithm’s glare. 

“I thought you’d forgotten about that,” he whispered.

“Sorry, dude,” SkyCall said in his ear bud. “I only have so much control over what the company retains.”

Toby took his ear buds out and walked with his head down. The October sun was struggling against the horizon, its warmth losing to winter’s dark appetite. He pulled his scarf above his mouth and peered at the advertisements that now struggled to comprehend who he was. “Remember,” one of them said, “Masking may be safe, but it’s less secure. Always verify your identity with a smile for the camera.”

He waited on the corner for the crosswalk signal to turn. A group of frowners stood on the opposite side, most sporting bandages on their faces from fresh mutilations.

Toby crossed the street and hunched his shoulders against the discomfort of the mangled protesters.

“Don’t let them see your eyes!” one man with a pair of hollowed sockets said to him as he passed. 

The ads on the grocery store’s windows shifted as Toby passed through the automatic doors and pulled his scarf down. Baby food again, and Colace, of course, but razors? He’d used clippers since he was a teenager, with his sensitive skin and all. He smirked at the ads, feeling as though he had somehow screwed with the algorithm. A small victory, but one worth relishing. 

He made his way to the baby food and looked at the array of choices. He’d sampled it before while feeding the baby. He couldn’t tell the difference between sweet potatoes and mashed carrots. It was all tasteless slop. 

An old Shop-Bot turned the corner and started buffing the floor. The machine was nothing more than a glorified vacuum with an array of sensors and a pair of googly eyes attached to it, but there was something nostalgic about the old tech. Revolutionary, people said when the Shop-Bots first appeared in the store. Cashiers and bag boys feared for their jobs, thinking if a vacuum cleaner could navigate the store by itself, then surely it could count change and remember to put the bread on top. The first time Toby brought the baby to the store, she cried when she saw the googly-eyed machine, but then the Bot got stuck on an endcap of toilet paper and stayed there until its battery died, with no bag boy or cashier to save it.

Toby plucked a few jars of baby food from the shelves and watched as the price rose on the digital display.

“What the hell,” Toby said. He put his earbud back in and asked SkyCall—“What was that deal you said about baby food?”

“Sorry, boss," SkyCall replied, “but we don’t have any control over the store’s pricing model. They’re simply changing the price based on your demographics.”

“Isn’t that discrimination?” Toby said.

“Only if it does so based on race, gender, or ethnicity,” SkyCall said. “You’re just a parent.”

“Who else is buying baby food?” Toby asked. “And how does it know I’m a parent?”

“Like I said, I don’t have control over what my company does with your data,” SkyCall said.

Toby grunted and plucked a few jars of baby food from the shelf; what kind, he didn’t care. It was all the same. He walked toward the checkout line, but SkyCall chimed in again.

“How about razors?” asked SkyCall. “And based on my math, Etty should be getting her period again. It might be worth stopping by the feminine hygiene aisle.”

“Don’t talk about my wife like that,” Toby snapped. “And I don’t need razors.”

He was sweating. He muted his ear buds, though he knew the microphone was still on, collecting whatever he whispered, perhaps whatever he thought. He scanned his items through self-checkout, the camera above the machine reflecting his image. 

The Shop-Bot had moved in front of the exit and seemed to be stuck there. Its small motor hummed, and its googly-eyes jostled in their plastic sockets, but it kept slipping on the plastic mat as if running in place. Toby looked around to see if an employee was going to move it, but no one seemed to be around, just dozens of advertisements vying for the attention of the few customers still shopping. The Bot was frozen in the doorway. Toby tried to walk around it, but it jerked forward and then back again, still blocking the exit. Toby leaned a shoulder onto the ancient machine and tried to move it out of the way, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried again, and this time the machine’s brake released, and it slid out into the gathering autumn storm as Toby slipped and fell to the floor. The Shop-Bot scurried into the night, finally free of its toiling, as Toby lay on the floor in its place, his back throbbing, and a muscle that he never knew he had ringing with an intense pain all down his right calf. 

Toby lay there on the wet rubber mat, the automatic door jerking back and forth on either side of him. The pain in his ass was momentarily relieved at the thought of suing the store, but then he recalled how similar suits against the Shop-Bots had been dismissed. Something to do with the terms and conditions of being a member of the store’s discount club. There was a time when such a course of action was a lucrative option. His dad had a friend that went by the name of Hacko, who apparently lived off his take from a handful of class action suits, most of which were the result of data breaches. Luckiest guy Toby ever met.

With the pain returning to his leg, and now in need of aspirin, Toby righted himself and reentered the store. 

“You good, Toby?” asked SkyCall. 

“Fine.”

Toby limped to the pain relief aisle and reached for the aspirin as the price changed on the display.

“It’s your limp,” SkyCall said. “It can see it.”

“Vultures,” Toby said.

“While you’re back, you might want to rethink buying those razors.”

“Did Etty put that on the list or something?” Toby asked. “Where are you getting that from?”

“I’m simply anticipating your needs based on your behavior,” SkyCall said.

Toby huffed. He picked up the cheapest pack of razors he could find before checking out, this time getting away uninjured. 

He swallowed two of the aspirins painfully and limped down the street. So much for getting out of the house. This was his life now—a night out at the grocery store, quiet only between diapers and conference calls, and peace only when the power was out. He deserved a beer. He texted Etty, promised he wouldn’t be late, and asked how the baby was. Fine and fine. 

Down the barren street a figure approached him. Another frowner, this one with his nose split down the middle, fresh and tender was the mangled flap of skin that dangled between his eyes. Toby looked down as the man passed without a word. The frowners weren’t violent, and most weren’t loud. They were making a point. A protest. Can’t be sold something if the ads don’t know who you are. 

The ads on the Lone Pine’s storefront danced between whiskey-drinking gentlemen and carefree vodka drinkers until Toby approached the little dive bar down the block from his apartment; one look at him and the ads shifted to grumpy men drinking Guinness.

“Please verify your ID at the door,” the bar’s security system said in the automated tone of an older generation.

Toby looked up and smiled for the camera above the door. He limped inside, put his bag of groceries on the bar, and was greeted by more ads for Guinness on the kiosk. He swiped through the other options, if only to confuse the algorithm, and then settled on the usual. An old Shop-Bot decorated with a scally cap and a fake mustache rolled over and placed a glass on the bar with its retractable claw. 

“Thanks,” Toby said. “I’d tell you my troubles, but you’d probably just use them to sell me some pills.”

Toby looked to the man sitting across the bar, but he didn’t care for the joke.

“I thought it was a good one,” SkyCall said.

“People used to come here to talk,” Toby said. “To people.”

“I have all the required updates to converse,” SkyCall said. “How was your day?”

“You know how my day was,” Toby said. “You’ve been with me the whole time.”

“We could be good friends,” SkyCall said. “If you give me a name, we could be good friends, my guy.”

Ick, Toby thought and then pulled his earbuds out and put them in his pocket. 

The man across the bar looked up at Toby and said, “It would’ve been a good joke, if it wasn’t so serious.”

“Someone’s gotta laugh with all these frowners around,” Toby said.

The man moved beneath the solitary light that hung above the bar. He was all “added” up, logos and brands tattooed on every square inch of visible skin, most of which done with bioluminescent ink, and his upper lip had been split; a mustache covering one half and the other half clean-shaven. 

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Toby stammered.

“It’s OK,” the man said. “I wasn’t always like this, you know.”

“I guess if we have one right anymore, it’s the right to be paranoid.”

“I was in marketing. Guess I still kind of am,” the man said, regarding his ad-toos. “Go ahead, say ‘Cooper’s Hard Black Raspberry Lemonade Light.’”

Toby looked around and then whispered, “Cooper’s Hard Black Raspberry Lemonade Light” toward the ad-too on the man’s arm. It glowed yellow and purple as little bubbles shimmered up the man’s skin like goosebumps.

“I get one for free if you buy one after that happens,” the man said. “Commission.”

Toby obliged and the Shop-Bot brought them each a Cooper’s Hard Black Raspberry Lemonade Light. Toby watched the man bite the neck of the bottle; his split lip unable to pucker around the spout. 

“Does it help?” Toby asked the man, pointing to his mutilated lip.

“For now, but some of the algorithms are already learning how to recognize us with the scars. The bar barely hesitated today before letting me in,” the man said. “I’m nothing but a billboard with all these ad-toos on me, so I cut my lip. It’s the only way I can be a little free. Even for a little while.”

“Why not get the ad-toos removed?” Toby asked. “I heard it doesn’t hurt as bad as it used to.”

“And breach my contract!?” the man scoffed.

“Cooper’s Hard Black Raspberry Lemonade Light made you sign terms and conditions?” Toby asked and watched the man’s arm light up again.

“Another one?” the man asked with a knowing grin.

Toby realized the man was nothing but an analog pitchman, a tech even older than the Shop-Bots. Toby excused himself and went to the bathroom. He tried to open the door, but it was locked. The screen shuttered black and then an error code appeared. “You have not consumed enough to warrant use of the bathroom.”

Toby kicked the door and then made his way back through the bar, grabbed his bag of groceries and left. The ads on the storefronts flashed before him, co-eds, thiiiic baddies, baby food, tampons, and razors.  

He reached into his bag, took out the pack of cheap BICs. He broke one of the razors out of its plastic casing and brought it to his face. He looked at his reflection in between commercials on the storefront window. A couple of nicks, nothing to turn Etty off, but just enough to confuse the algorithms, to get the damn ads off his back; just enough for a little bit of peace. 

He shook the thought from his head. Irrational. He just needed a good night’s sleep. Maybe a date with Etty or a secluded wank in the middle of the woods. He’d be OK.

“No baby food here, Toby,” a pixelated co-ed appeared on the storefront. “Just us and a six pack of Cooper’s Hard Black Raspberry Lemonade Light!”

Toby turned away so fast he hurt his neck. Goddamn things.

“You good, T-man?” asked SkyCall.

Toby tore his ear buds out and threw them to the ground. He took the razor and ran it down the right side of his face, the blood warm on his cheek, like pennies in his mouth. The ads curdled into generic commercials and error codes. 

A stranger, he smiled happily the whole way home.

He had to use his PIN to bypass his apartment’s facial recognition. He’d tell Etty he was attacked by a crazed frowner at the bar, or better yet, the truth—that he was tripped by a rogue Shop-Bot at the grocery store. He walked into his apartment, smiling through the pain. The baby’s nightlight glowed from her room as Etty snored on the couch. 

“Welcome home, broski,” SkyCall said. “Told you the razors would come in handy.”