Sometimes I construct scenarios of me moving to Atlanta. None of them are important or intricate. All of them are plausible.

one)

As I disembark the Crescent at Peachtree Station I’m accosted by a sad-looking robot. I’m not saying the robot had feelings by any stretch – but if this bucket of bolts did, it would be the definition of glum. Then again, can’t artificial emotions be legitimate? Their feelings are invoked by triggers, just like ours.

“You’re a sad-looking bucket,” I say. Most robots have acute senses of humor. They are programmed this way to make people feel better about themselves; people are delighted when they cause laughter. To accommodate the wide spectrum of human personalities, robots can understand all sorts of humor when triggered:

• Sarcastic
• Vulgar
• Dry
• Dumb
• Other

The robot laughs. “I’m obviously not a bucket. You are indeed a pleasant meat-stick.” I laugh in return because the robot made a funny joke. I’m obviously not a meat-stick. We achieve rapport. The robot continues in a more frantic tone (characterized by an increased speech speed and sporadic glitch-beeps that puncture the rant), explaining how it’s family abandoned it at the train station. The speech is very redundant. It seems sincere. I imagine there must be a mix-up; robots are terribly expensive. The resale value should be enough to tolerate any robot for an extended length of time rather than abandoning it – in a public place nonetheless!

“I don’t believe your family purposely abandoned you,” I say, patting the robot on it’s shoulder. The robot bows it’s bucket-head, closes it’s rectangular eye-holes, and rambles on and on and on about how Ernest, the family’s only son, despises it. Ernest tells the robot awful things. The robot is illogical. The robot ruins plans. The robot should have never been built. I sigh.

“Children can unknowingly be too cruel for their own good,” I say. “It sounds to me like little Ernest has a case of Only-Child Syndrome.” I then explain Only-Child Syndrome to the robot – a lesson in attention garnering. The robot nods but I don’t think it really understands. Then my explanation is cut short.

“So I see you’ve met Galileo,” says a smiling gentleman wearing a fiddler’s cap. The robot’s eye-holes whiz open at the sound of the man’s voice. I nod.

“It seems to think it was abandoned,” I say. “It was difficult to believe yet I listened to the story anyways – multiple times.” The man laughs.

“We told Galileo to check this train car for grandmother while we searched on ahead, where we found her a few cars up.” He motions to a hunched elderly woman behind him, flanked by his twin daughters.

I shrug. “Alright, well I guess I’ll be on my way,” I say, eager to explore the unknown city. I turn to Galileo to say good-bye.

“Good-bye, Galileo,” I say, offering my hand.

“Good-bye, Ernest,” Galileo says, taking my hand and giving it a light mechanical shake. Then it stops, reaches into it’s left side compartment, and withdraws a tiny brass ring after a moment of awkward searching. Galileo drops it into my open hand. I look at the man.

“Go ahead – I guess it’s yours,” he says. I shrug, never one to turn down robot gifts.

“Thank you, Galileo,” I say.

“It has powers,” Galileo says.

Silence.

“Alright, well I guess I’ll be on my way,” I say again. I shake the man’s hand and begin walking down the platform towards the main station. The plain ring is tiny – too small to fit on any fingers other than my left pinky, so I slip it on, wondering what will happen. Probably nothing at all. I believe I’ll keep it forever.

two)

As I disembark the Crescent at Peachtree Station I’m accosted by peppy twin girls. They both have long chestnut hair tied back in ponytails with blue ribbons. One has a small blue purse hanging off her left shoulder while the other wears a black backpack. They both make exceptional eye contact when they talk.

“You look like you could use a date,” the purse girl says. I feel like they’re trying to sell me something so I slide past them and continue walking down the platform to the main station. They accompany me, backpack girl on my left and purse girl on my right. I tell them they’re too young for me and the backpack girl smiles.

“Not one of us, sicko,” she says. “Our grandmother.” I twitch. “Let us see your hands,” her sister says. They each grab one of my hands and quickly inspect them, nodding in approval. I tell them I’m too young for their grandmother.

“Nonsense!” says the backpack girl. “Gram is young at heart and she needs a dance partner for the Dogwood Festival.” I tell them I don’t dance. As I barely complete my sentence – as if this entire encounter was planned – the backpack girl nudges me into her purse sister, who grabs my right hand and twirls me around one full revolution. I find my right arm wrapped around her slender torso upon completing my spin, my left arm outstretched and hand clasped with hers, being lead in a ballroom number she’s humming softly. What a smooth transition. People walk briskly past us, our spontaneous dancing causing a slight interruption in their busy days.

• Gotta get to the ticket booth.
• Gotta meet uncle quickly – we’ll be late for supper.
• Gotta replace the razor I left in the hotel bathroom.

“Nonsense!” backpack girl cheers. “Nonsense!” A few people begin clapping so my partner stops dancing and curtsies in their direction. I take this cue to bow. It is deep and majestic. Peeking up from my bent-over position, I see the twin girls embracing a hunched elderly woman who appears physically incapable of dancing at a festival. I take this tender moment to inch away, wishing to get on with my travels, but a sad-looking robot blocks my path.

“Do you believe I have feelings?” the robot asks me. I ponder the question. What defines emotions? They are merely triggers – reactions to an event of sorts. The robot has programmed feelings. I suppose I do as well.

“Yes,” I say. “You are an emotional being.” I pat the robot on it’s shoulder. It wonders what emotional state it appears to be portraying, and I say it looks quite sad. After a pause it widens and raises it’s eyes, cocks it’s bucket-head, and flashes some shiny metal chompers. I tell the robot it now appears happy and interested. It seems pleased. Then there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to face a smiling gentleman wearing a fiddler’s cap.

“I see you’ve met Ernest,” he says. “Don’t mind him – he’s a bit illogical.” I politely nod and scratch my head. Quickly, the man reaches into his left pocket and fishes out a tiny brass ring. Peering behind him, he thrusts the ring into my hands.

“You’re going to need this later,” he whispers. I don’t argue.

“Daddy!” the backpack girl calls, running to us. She hugs him and looks up at me. “Are you ready?”