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“Are we there yet?”
Mike could hear shoving in the backseat – the sound of two robots presumably fighting for dominance, or at least control of the window lever – while Gypsy hummed what appeared to be either “I Will Survive” or possibly “Hot Stuff. Cambot had wisely opted for the roof, occasionally craning down to zoom in and record the hijinks, likely to replay later, though blackmail or broadcast were also possibilities.
It made him insanely glad that he had won the highly competitive contest to get shotgun, even if that literally meant ducking out of the way of a shotgun that Crow somehow procured. (He still hadn't figured out where Servo and Crow are keeping these things, and he knows for a fact that the decorative spoon collection has only gotten larger.)
“Not yet,” Joel said patiently. The radio was playing nothing but static – they were in between stations, which was just as well considering that Servo nearly launched himself out of the window when they accidentally got stuck on “She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy.” He'd said that death would be preferable, and Mike had to reluctantly agree. “We still got a long way, buddy.”
Crow sighed and from underneath him, Servo retrieved his claws. “We've been driving forever,” he said petulantly. “I miss space. At least there if we got bored, we could swing by a planet so Mike could blow it up.”
“It was only three,” he muttered. “And you do?” Mike craned his head over the backseat. “I thought you guys hated it there.”
“Well sure,” Crow said. “But it was the kind of hate that you get used to. You know, the black vacuum of space that blots out all life and makes you wonder if you're really just existing in a cold, unfeeling world where nothing matters and all of existence is a futile attempt to stave off the ever-encroaching darkness.”
“I'm really sorry,” Joel said. “I didn't know they were going to be playing a Steven Seagal marathon last night.” He sounds on the verge of tears just thinking about it.
“It's okay, Joel,” Servo tried to elbow Crow, but came up short. “He's just mad because he had to leave his Kim Cattrall poster behind.”
“It was autographed,” Crow said. “Do you know how much those things are worth these days? Not that I'd ever have sold her.”
“Only if it's in mint condition,” Servo retorted. “They don't take posters that have mustard stains and a hole where someone threw a spoon through it just because they didn't get to watch Mannequin again.”
There was the sound of more scuffling, Gypsy had evidently moved onto “Funkytown” and Joel gave Mike a look, tired but fond. It reminded Mike of—well, not his dad, who'd never be as patient as that with Mike's shenanigans, but some dad. Probably a good one who'd go fishing and teach his son to catch and--
“They're good kids,” Joel said.
“Yeah, they are,” Mike agreed and definitely didn't wipe his eyes because of all that dust getting into the car.
He wasn't planning on taking a road trip once he crash landed down on Earth. Honestly, after the screaming stopped and the smoke cleared, Mike figured he was just going to go home, check his mail, and see if his paychecks had cleared. Sure, he was sent up into space by a pair of mad scientists who were never planning on letting him go, but even they had to pay the agency for their services.
There was in fact, a nice, tidy sum in his bank account and miracles of miracles, it had not been closed due to the possibility of him being dead.
He got a tiny, crappy apartment, managed to pick up the stuff his family hadn't been able to sell off in the garage sale – a very ugly couch, a table missing a leg, and the back sign of a pinball machine – and decided “okay, tomorrow, I'll figure out what to do with the rest of my life.”
“You could get a job as a census taker,” Servo said, his sockets fixed on the tiny TV where they were currently ten hours into a marathon of Adrienne Barbeau films. “I hear that doesn't take much training.”
“I think Culver's is hiring,” Crow added, wincing appreciatively as Adrienne leaned in on the radio. “Doris said her kid got a job there and if you'd like, he'd probably be able to hook you up something with the grill.”
“Doris?” Servo scoffed. “We're on a first name basis now, are we? She's out of your league, buddy. Trust me, she only gets with winners and you're no Erik Estrada. You're not even a Larry Wilcox.”
“You take that back,” Crow shrieked and there was another scuffle on the couch which had already had a few rips and tears even before it was subjected to the daily fights and robot mayhem. “We have a special thing going. You're just jealous because she just doesn't hook you up with extra curds.”
Mike looked back down at the classified ads in front of him. It really was bleak, even before he had to factor in that his resume currently consisted of random temp jobs before a long stretch of time he had no idea how to account for. Like, sure, he'd held it down for several years, but how would he explain it? He watched a bunch of movies, occasionally blew up a planet, and managed to not die despite the best efforts of his boss?
“I don't know,” he said. “I feel like—I don't--” He banged his head gently on the table.
The scuffle on the couch stopped and two metal heads poked up. “What is it, Mike?” Servo asked and there seemed to be genuine concern in his voice.
“I think Arby's is also hiring,” Crow said. “But I don't have any connections there.”
“No, you've got a good idea,” Mike said. “It's just—I spent so long having someone else tell me what to do that I wish there was like a sign or something that would let me know--”
The phone rang. They all looked at it.
“Wow, that's convenient,” Servo said. “Some good old narrative deus ex machina right there.”
“No kidding,” Crow said. “Watch. Mike will pick it up and it will be someone who knows exactly what to do and we'll be off on another crazy adventure.”
“Guys, it's not going to be that,” Mike said even as the phone rang again. “It's probably just a wrong number. We've only been here like a week.”
He picked up the phone, untangled the cord that had been knotted ever since Servo tried to use it as a bungee cord that was thankfully thwarted by Mike lunging for him right before he went sailing out the window, and held it up to his ear. “Hello?” he asked.
“Oh good,” a familiar voice said. “I was hoping I had the right number.”
“Joel?” Mike blinked. It couldn't be, but there was no mistaking that voice that already put him at ease in the same way that hearing Pearl's sent him into utter panic mode.
“Told you,” Servo said. He nudged Crow. “Now we're just waiting for the cameos.”
The back of the car was quiet now. Servo and Crow had drifted off to sleep, their little heads resting against each other and Gypsy was gazing out the window, seemingly content to just watch the road signs zipping by. Mike wasn't sure why she'd agreed to come along – maybe because she didn't trust the rest of them to not set something on fire – but she'd jumped at the chance to take a break from ConGypsCo and it was kind of nostalgic to have them all back together.
Joel glanced back. “They're so cute when they sleep,” he said. “I miss that.” There was a hint of wistfulness in his voice and when Mike looked at him, he could see a small smile on Joel's face. Something felt heavy in his stomach and wasn't just the gas station hot dog.
“You know,” Mike said, pretending to fiddle with the glove compartment, “they're only crashing at my place because they feel bad for me. I know if you asked them, they'd love to come and live with you.”
Joel's forehead crinkled. “Mike?”
“I know you have a steady job,” Mike mumbled, “and I mean, you were the one that made them. It only seems right that now we're all free and back on Earth, you should be able to hang out with them more. I know they really missed you.”
“I missed them too,” Joel said. “But you know, they really love living with you too. Servo's always calling me up and talking about how fun it is to just hang out at your place. And I know Crow would be devastated if he had to leave the love of his life just when they're getting close.” He winked at Mike.
Mike groaned. “She's 90 years old,” he said. “I don't even want to--”
Joel patted his hand. “Relax,” he said. “I know him. They'll have a brief but torrid affair and then she'll break it off once he calls her Kathy or Kim accidentally and the worst you'll have to deal with is Crow sobbing while watching reruns of Golden Girls and eating pints of frozen custard.”
“That's just it,” Mike said. “You know them. I'm still trying to figure them out. I don't know where Servo keeps the spoon collection or why there's occasionally plates of bratwurst in my fridge or who keeps sending me Baywatch tapes in the mail.”
“Oh, that's me,” Gypsy chirped. “David Hasselhoff is just so dreamy.”
“And the spoon collection's in the sock drawer,” Servo said. “And the ceiling tile above the bathroom and in the fish tank--”
“We have a fish tank?”
“Of course we do, Mike,” Crow said. “It's right next to the foosball table.”
“Foosball table?”
“I think the point that Servo's trying to make is that you don't need to worry about these things,” Joel said even as Mike wondered just what else he'd missed in the apartment. “Yeah, there's always going to be things that I know about them that you don't, but the same thing's true about you. I don't know what happened up there after I left with Mrs. Forrester and that pasty guy and the ape-”
“I think they started a juice company,” Crow said. “Just don't drink the banana ones. They're a little... hairy.”
“Wuss,” Servo scoffed. “That's just bonus flavor.”
“But it doesn't matter,” Joel continued smoothly. “That's why we're on this trip. I didn't just want to reunite with Servo and Crow and Gypsy and Cambot--”
The roof rattled slightly in agreement.
“I also wanted to get to know you. We really didn't get a lot of time to talk up there before I had to head out and I think you're probably the only other person on Earth who could understand what I've been through. What we've been through.”
“Oh,” Mike said. He thought about it, but he guessed it made sense. There really wasn't anyone else out there who could know what it was like to be sent up into space, to live vacillating between sheer terror and utter boredom, whose closest friends—really, family—were robots far more human than some of the humans he'd met. You couldn't put that sort of thing on a resume or tell anyone about it without them thinking you insane, he guessed.
Maybe he wasn't Joel. Maybe he wasn't as smart as him or as wise or happened to be assistant manager in a hot fish shop. But he didn't need to be. He just had to be Mike – now and forever temp, on a road trip to the hottest sights in the Midwest, passing by--
“The Cheese Palace!” Servo said bouncing up and down in excitement as he saw the billboard. “Can we go? Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?”
“Please Joel,” Crow chimed in and the roof rattled as well.
“I want Camembert,” Gypsy said. “Or some really good beer cheese.”
Joel turned and looked up at Mike. “What do you think?”
“I do love a good Blue Cheese,” Mike said. “Maybe later on we can watch the Vikings play the Packers.”
The radio crackled to life and Joel smiled, then frowned and he nudged Mike as a figure came into view by the side of the road. It was hard to make out, since it looked like it was crouching before it saw the car.
“Ooh, a hitchhiker,” Crow said. “Let's pick him up. We totally need to run for our lives through a cornfield, chased by a madman with a scythe,” He was giddy with excitement.
“I call dibs on screaming like a girl,” Servo said. “Unless someone else wants to take that?”
“My screaming is very dignified,” Gypsy said.
“I was talking to Mike,” Servo said, but Mike was already looking at Joel, whose face was going pale with horror.
As the figure came into view, they could both see a mop of curly hair. It was wearing a white lab coat and a pair of glasses and next to it, a figure all in black waved its hand .
“Is that--”
Joel pressed the accelerator down. “Not today,” he said. “We're not dealing with this plot hook right now.”
They watched as TV's Frank and Dr. Clayton Forrester disappeared behind them, shaking their fists and cursing to the sky.
“So,” Mike said, after a few minutes had passed, they'd settled on a station playing nothing but Weezer, and they were well and truly away from them. “Do you get this a lot?”
“Not nominally,” Joel said. “I hadn't seen them in years. I kind of thought they were dead.” He paused. “Well, I know Frank is. Was. Kind of complicated, I guess. But I'd heard some weird things about Dr. Forrester so I wasn't sure.”
“Yeah,” Mike said, scratching his head. “I'm still not really clear on what's up with him.”
“Well, at least we're all together,” Joel said. “I'm sure that whatever they're up to, we can handle it.” He slowed down to change lanes and smiled at Mike.
“Right.” Mike relaxed in his seat even as something caught his attention outside. What was that? “Man, it's a good thing you know what to do because if I thought that Mrs. Forrester was out to get me still--”.
Joel squinted. “Did we just pass by an ape and a pasty white guy next to him?”
“And a blonde-haired woman with a rocket launcher screaming and running after our vehicle?” There was the distinct sound of something humming in the sky, and then the ground shook as the car was nearly taken out by an RPG.
“Huh,” Crow said. “Maybe I shouldn't have called and reported Bobo Juice to the FDA, USDA, and the Minnesota Chamber of Commerce.”
“Aw man,” Servo said. “And here I just took all of Mike's savings and invested it in their stock.”
“What?” Mike braced himself as the car shook again. “Why would you--”
“It was a solid investment,” Servo said. “They were just about to go national.”
“Sorry,” Joel whispered and the car began to speed up, as a fireball plumed behind them. “Maybe it was tempting the gods of narrative fate and convenience to have us do a crossover episode.”
“No,” Mike sighed. “It was bound to happen. At least everyone's out in the open now so all we need to worry about is--”
“Torgo!” Crow waved excitedly as the station wagon pulled even with them before trying to side swipe them. In the back, a terrifyingly chipper figure was engaged in a heated argument with the former host of A&E's Biography. “How's it going, buddy?”
“Well, poopie,” Joel said.