CHAPTER 18
Becker
"WELCOME BACK TO another episode of 'Teach the Robot How to Human,' the only podcast where we attempt to transform a hockey-playing cyborg into something resembling a functional member of society.
" I hold my phone up to capture Kane's annoyed eye roll as we approach the sliding doors of Farmer Fred's Grocery Emporium.
"Today's mission: teaching Kane how normal people shop for food. "
"I know how to shop for food, thank you," Kane protests, trying to duck out of frame. "I've been feeding myself for years."
"Protein powder and meal-prepped chicken breast isn't food." I spin the camera around to show our teammates piling out of two rental SUVs behind us. "And we've brought reinforcements to witness your transformation."
Wall grins to the camera. Petrov waves enthusiastically. Groover and Mateo are already halfway to the entrance, deep in conversation about what looks suspiciously like a shopping list.
"Are multiple angles really necessary?" Kane asks, eves darting to Wall who’s already pulling out his phone.
"Absolutely." I grab a cart and thrust it at him. "Fans demand content, and watching you attempt to interact with produce is premium entertainment."
Kane takes the cart with a sigh that could wilt the flower display we're passing. "I am actively, continuously not consenting to this."
I steer us toward the produce section, where nature's bounty awaits in all its overpriced, suspiciously shiny glory. The fluorescent lights make everything look like it's been dipped in plastic.
"First lesson in human shopping," I announce to the camera, "is selecting proper avocados. Not that pre-portioned, vacuum-sealed abomination you get from a meal service."
Kane looks genuinely offended. "Those are perfectly fine avocados."
"They're avocado-adjacent food products at best." I grab one from the display and hold it up. "A proper avocado should yield slightly to gentle pressure, like this." I demonstrate, squeezing it with what I consider expert precision.
Kane watches with the intense concentration.. "That seems subjective."
"Shopping is an art, not a science." I hand him an avocado. "You try."
He takes it, examines it, then gives it the gentlest squeeze I've ever seen, like he's afraid it'll explode.
"More pressure than that. It's not a baby bird. There you go. Now check a few more. They should all feel similar."
He selects another, testing it with newfound confidence. "This one's harder."
"That one needs a few days to ripen." I grab a third. "And this one's too soft—it'll be brown mush inside."
Kane's brow furrows. "You realize avocados have approximately 240 calories each and 22 grams of fat?"
I turn to the camera with a pained expression. "Do you see what I'm working with here?"
"I'm simply pointing out—"
"Nope." I put a finger to his lips, and he goes cross-eyed staring at it. "No nutrition facts in the produce aisle. It's against the law."
"What law—"
"It's the law of humanity, Kane. Normal people don't memorize calorie counts."
From behind a towering cereal display, I spot Petrov poorly hiding while filming us on his phone. He gives me a thumbs up.
Kane sighs. Fine. What's next in this human shopping experience?"
"That depends. What do you actually eat? Besides the souls of opposing forwards and protein shakes."
His eyes narrow. "I eat normal food."
"Name one thing in your fridge that wasn't portion-controlled by a meal service."
He thinks for a moment. "Hot sauce?"
"Condiments don't count."
"Coffee?"
"I said fridge."
He sighs. "Fine. I don't cook much."
"And that," I declare triumphantly, "is why we're here. Robot learns to feed himself, part one."
In the pasta aisle, we run into Groover and Mateo, who are actually shopping like functional adults. Mateo has a list. Groover is comparing two different brands of pasta sauce with excessive concentration.
"Look at you two," I coo, pointing the camera their way. "Shopping for your little love nest. So domestic."
Groover flips me off without looking up from the jars. "At least we don’t eat take out for ten nights in a row."
"How dare you. It’s six nights, tops." I turn to Kane. "I have salad on Tuesdays."
"Putting lettuce on a pizza doesn't make it a salad," Groover points out.
"Traitor," I mutter.
Mateo grins at the camera. "For the record, we're just being efficient. Unlike some people who are treating grocery shopping like a reality show."
"It's content, Mateo. You wouldn't understand—you're an academic."
"I understand that you've got Pop-Tarts, Red Bull, and what appears to be every flavor of Ben & Jerry's in your cart," Mateo counters.
"The essentials," I confirm.
"Oh, you two are adorable," an elderly voice chimes in from behind us.
We all turn to find a tiny old lady with a purple rinse and rhinestone-studded glasses beaming at Kane and me.
"Oh, we're not—" Kane starts.
"You're the feelings boys!" she exclaims, clapping her hands together. "I saw you on the internet! My grandson showed me the video. The hockey players who fell in love during a game!"
Groover and Mateo are suddenly very interested in pasta sauce labels, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
"That's... not exactly what happened," Kane tries, his face turning a shade of red I didn't know humans could achieve.
"Oh, it was so romantic," she continues, oblivious to Kane's discomfort. "When you said you wanted to kiss him? I told my Mabel at bridge club, 'Now that's how you declare yourself!' Not like these dating apps the kids use nowadays."
I'm torn between wanting to die on the spot and wanting to adopt this woman immediately.
"Thank you?" I manage.
She pats my arm. "Don't let this one go, dear. A man who can admit his feelings in public is worth keeping."
And with that sage advice, she toddles off, leaving Kane looking like he might spontaneously combust.
"Well," I say after a moment, "that was—"
"If you put that on your podcast, I will end you," Kane mutters.
I grin. "Too late. Live streaming, baby." I glance at the live chat. "And, yep, the feelings boys are officially a thing now."
By the time we reach checkout, our cart contains the strangest assortment of items I've ever seen: protein powder (Kane), two cases of Red Bull (me), twelve different varieties of coffee (both of us, after a heated debate about roast levels), actual vegetables (Kane), three pints of ice cream (me), and an alarming amount of pasta (compromise).
The cashier—a bored-looking teenager with impressive green hair—surveys our haul with raised eyebrows. "Bodybuilder and insomniac?"
"Hockey players," I correct.
He shrugs and starts scanning. "Same thing."