The Tartan Homunculus

It was, in fact, a homunculus. There were elements of the creation that resembled an orangutan, primarily in the shape of the head and shoulders. It had the lurching and striding gate of a primate as well. This synthetic creature did not trigger the disorientation of the uncanny valley, but was nonetheless disturbing in a deeply unnatural way. Mrs. Airis paid handsomely for this prototype and even had its “skin” custom-designed into a green and white, almost tartan color pattern. This color pattern matches the aesthetic that runs through the rest of her high-rise mansion.

Over the years, I had been hired by the elderly heiress on multiple occasions. I, through sheer perseverance, had established myself as a trustworthy hand to many of the elite and ultra-wealthy who lived high above the remnants of our crumbling cities. Many of these elites were incapable of even the smallest tasks and would outsource them. My career didn’t have a neat description, but I could perform a variety of tasks, ranging from general decoration to chopping wood. My position within this community was more about trust and familiarity than any skill or competence.

These types of people are not as eccentric as you think they would be; that would require some kind of effort or even interest in themselves, which they rarely have. They often believe they curate personality through purchasing alone.

Mrs. Airis was about the worst of them. On several occasions, she had summoned me either extremely late or extremely early to open a box or move a letter from one end table to another. I was happy for the pay, but her behavior was challenging at best. Sometimes she would comment on a menial task I performed. She would watch me carry a shoe box and say something along the lines of, “Oh, I can’t imagine being able to do something like that,” as if I were performing a miracle. I can’t claim overtly that there was an element of sexual objectification to some of her gazes or comments, but there was an observational detachment to her humanity that often made me uncomfortable.

I received a direct text message from Mrs. Airis one early dawn. The text read:

You will need to be here early this morning. I am receiving a new item and expect you to help me unbox it and place it appropriately. It will be a long day. This purchase was quite expensive, and I need your full attention.

There was nothing about this text that was odd, and despite it being out of the blue and more a demand than a request, I was not put off by it. The sentiment of this message was in line with how Mrs. Airis usually booked my service. She expected and never took into account that I might be otherwise occupied. In this instance, I was free, and I told her to expect me early enough. I was anticipating another cast-iron basin or marble statue. I was not expecting a Homunculus in tartan.

I arrived at her building around 8 A.M. and, after proving my identity, the doorman escorted me to the service entrance. The elevator man escorted me to the penthouse, and another doorman brought me to Mrs Airis’ section of the building. I was not looking forward to the niceties I usually had to perform when meeting her again, but this time she was not interested in niceties and immediately took me to a back room where the homunculus waited.

Mrs. Airis was either proud of this purchase or pretending to be so. It was an odd construction, before I described its general shape, but to elaborate, it was about 4 feet tall, and the bulk of it was synthetic plastic wrapped in that thin tartan fabric. It had no facial features, and the “head” portion of it was mostly ornamental. There were pinprick eyes and ears, but I never got close enough to inspect them.

The thing was animated already and methodically busying itself in this small room. Its right arm ended in a traditional five-fingered hand, but the left was a raw titanium simulation of an arm. The shoulder of the left arm was a socket, and different arm-like tools could be attached to that socket. Mrs. Airis said,

“Vacuum,”

And I watched in wonder as the homunculus detached its duster arm and picked up one off to the side that functioned as a vacuum. It affixed this new titanium attachment and began vacuuming the ornate Persian rug that covered the floor in this room. Mrs. Airis said,

“Gentle now, that rug is expensive.”

The homunculus stopped.

Turned its head-like shape toward the heiress and stood silent for a moment before beginning its task again in a more delicate manner.

I watched for the remainder of the day as this thing unpacked box after box of its arm attachments. Mrs. Airis purchased all available options, including packages she would never need, like construction, gardening, and automechanics. I would haul the empty crates down to the dumpster below, as the garbage chute could not handle crates this size. Mrs Airis made several half-jokes about how I would be out of a job. I laughed politely. I think sometimes she believes me to be exclusively her employee. I have never corrected this assumption and wouldn’t even know how to explain it to her.

I asked her a few questions about this purchase and how she felt about it. I don’t know what I was expecting as a response, but all I could elicit was,

“I think it’s just wonderful.”

It was not long before the tragedy; Two weeks to the day. The homunculus was drifting or hallucinating, and it had attached a small rototiller from the gardening package. The homunculus bore through Mrs. Airis while she slept. The tiller bore first through the heiress and continued through the mattress, the box spring, the slats, and ended only when deep into the marble floor beneath her bed. There was a lot of damage to the marble.

I got to see the divot in the floor that the titanium rototiller made. It was nearly half a foot, and the friction had singed the white marble as well. I was there to pick up the bedframe for a gallery. The frame miraculously remained undamaged. This was fortunate because its provenance can be traced back to the Habsburgs.