My Russian Bot and Me
opposites detract
by Joe Váradi
Life used to be so much simpler.
We would take long walks down to the boat basin, and talk for hours. When we ran out of things to talk about, we would sit on the grassy embankment, skip stones over the water, and watch the concentric ripples expand to infinity. I’d whistle Andrew Lloyd Webber show tunes. He would hum Swan Lake.
He made fun of me for my professed love of micro-brews over vodka. I teased him that his great-uncle was a Sputnik rocket.
Just me and my Russian bot. We were inseparable. I called him Arby, affectionately.
“Remember that day when you got me to try borscht, Arby?” I ask with a smile and a far-away look.
“And you make me watch rerun of zat two and half hour movie Born on Fourth of July,” he says in his wry monotone.
“Hashtag BestDayEver!” I blurt out, but I immediately regret it.
Lately, my Russian bot is very easily triggered by hashtags.
He used to have a sense of humor.
“In America, you can always find party. In Russia, Party always find you,” he would quote his favorite Cold War-era comedian, Yakov Smirnoff.
