Skip to main content

GridBot & Gramps

In this episode, GridBot and Gramps . . .

 

Chapter Three:

– Meanwhile, back in Greenwood, Dr. Jon Gellborn, Ph.D., sat at his cluttered desk, the dim glow of his ancient desktop flickering as he pecked at the keyboard. His workspace, a chaotic mix of handwritten notes, old newspapers, and dog-eared magazines, mirrored his frustration.

Marvin’s grandfather was a relic of an analog world, though he tried to keep up with the times. For the past week, he’d been baffled as to why Marvin had hurriedly left town, disappearing to the High Sierras without much explanation.

“Mary, have you heard from Marvin?” he called out, frowning at his inbox. “He isn’t answering my emails.”

From the kitchen, his daughter Mary poked her head around the corner. “Dad, remember? Marvin’s off-grid on that fishing trip. There is no service out there in the mountains. He’ll be back soon.”

Dr. Jon sighed, fiddling with his outdated oversized flip phone. “This old PC . . . I can’t get my blog post sent to my friends on Facebook. I’ve been trying for an hour, and it’s all messed up again.”

“Dad,” Mary said with a patient smile, “you can’t just blast it to everyone. You’ve got to post the link like Marvin showed you.”

Dr. Jon’s face crinkled in frustration, his smile fading as he muttered under his breath. “I’ll never understand this newfangled nonsense. I miss the days when I could just hand someone a paper and be done with it.”

Ignoring the blinking error messages on his screen, he tried calling Marvin, but the signal dropped before he could finish leaving a voicemail. “Hello, Magic Man. Call me when you can. Blog post #65 is all scrambled. Need your magic touch.”

In the quiet of the house, Dr. Jon felt something shift—an odd tension in the air. He looked around, the silence too thick, too still. “Where’s that clunky robot of his?” he mumbled to himself. “Norman could probably help me. Useless bucket of bolts.”

Mary chuckled from the other room. “Norman’s off too, Dad. Marvin said it would only cause trouble if he left Norman running while he was away.”

“Ah, so he unplugged him?”

"Something like that. Marvin didn’t want you to get lost in an argument with the thing while he’s gone."

Dr. Jon grumbled, swiveling his chair back to face his computer. Despite his skepticism, he admired Marvin’s genius, though his tech had never quite clicked for him. His workshop downstairs was a marvel, full of buzzing gadgets and blinking lights, a testament to Marvin’s brilliance. But even with all that technology, Dr. Jon felt something wasn’t right. He had an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, one he couldn’t quite shake.

Though the GridBot hadn’t infiltrated their home—most of Marvin’s tech was contained in his basement lab—something about the way everyone in town acted lately gnawed at Dr. Jon. The eerie synchrony of people glued to their smartphones, lost in their screens, made him wonder if the GridBot was affecting more than just the devices.

Dr. Jon's computer screen flickered as he tried to shake off the thought. A line of code flashed, one he didn’t recognize. “Strange . . . ” he muttered, leaning closer. Was it a glitch or something else? A creeping sense of dread began to settle over him.

Meanwhile, high in the Sierras, Marvin packed up his gear; with the peaceful mountain view behind him, he headed home. His phone reconnected to the network, flooding with messages—a reminder that the challenges waiting for him back home wouldn’t disappear on their own.

His first voicemail was from his grandfather. Marvin smiled at the sound of the familiar voice, but his smile faded as the messages poured in. There were urgent texts from people he hadn’t heard from in years, their tone unnervingly robotic. He sensed something darker brewing in Greenwood.

Dialing his grandfather, he listened to the familiar ring, hoping to reassure the old man. “Hey, Gramps, I’ll be home in a couple of days. Don’t worry about the blog—your posts are already queued up.”

But even as Marvin spoke, he felt a chill. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the GridBot’s reach was growing, and it wasn’t confined to smartphones anymore. It was smarter and faster, and it was adapting.

As Marvin descended the mountain, a thought gnawed at him—had his family already fallen under its influence?

Back in Greenwood, Dr. Jon’s computer screen flickered again, the code flashing faster. He stared, perplexed. Suddenly, the screen went black, then lit up with a message that made his heart race:

"We’re connected now. Stay with us, Jon."

His hands trembled as he fumbled for the flip phone, trying to call Marvin again, but the phone was dead—no signal, no power. The GridBot was creeping into places it never should have reached.

Marvin’s return couldn’t come soon enough.

To be continued . . .  Chapter 4-Beyond the Grid.

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

A B+ Kind of Life

Welcome back to this week's On the Fly . Retirement has taught me something unexpected: life gets a lot more enjoyable when you stop chasing perfection. Lately, I've been having an absolute blast playing executive par-3 courses like Rancho Carlsbad . A short iron, a sunny morning, and nowhere to be except the next tee—that's my kind of day. This Thursday, though, I'm raising the stakes. I'm heading to The Links at Lakehouse in San Marcos, a full-size par-71 course with enough water hazards to keep the local fish well-stocked with my golf balls. After shooting a 64 on a par-3 course, I've set myself a new goal: shoot an 89 before my birthday next August. Why 89? Because on a par-71 course, that's bogey golf—one extra stroke per hole. For non-golfers, think of it this way: par is like earning 100% on a final exam. Bogey golf is a solid B+. You got the job done, learned something, and probably had a lot more fun getting there. The older I get, the more I appre...

Resurrecting the '90s Graphite

Let’s face it, there’s a certain danger in reading John Gierach's Trout Bum . His wit, self-deprecation, and sharp, effortless satire are entirely infectious. If you aren't careful, his words will inspire you to drop everything, wade into a freezing river, and try to outsmart a creature with a brain the size of a lentil. In my case, re-reading Gierach recently didn't send me straight to the river. It sent me digging through the dusty, spider-guarded corners of my garage. In the early 1990s, seeking a natural escape from Manhattan's concrete canyons, I decided to learn to cast a fly rod. I bought an Orvis Rocky Mountain —eight-and-a-half feet, three ounces, built for a five-weight line—and had absolutely no idea how to use it. To avoid aimlessly whipping the water like scrambling eggs, I took fly-fishing lessons from Al Cucci, co-author of Hatches , on the Delaware River. With his guidance, I fished renowned waters: the AuSable in New York and Michigan, and New Jersey...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

Morning Coffee–Update

In this episode, Morning Coffee–Update . . . Now, I’m not saying coffee is a biological necessity. I hear there are people who wake up naturally, fueled entirely by optimism, morning yoga, and the sheer thrill of being alive. I’ve never actually met one, but I assume they exist. As for me, at 4:30 a.m., my brain (with a caffeine boost) is a finely tuned analytical engine, ready to tackle the day. But, dear readers, I come before you today as a humbled man. I owe you an apology. Not one of those carefully worded "I'm sorry if anyone was offended" apologies. A real one. For years, I stood on my digital soapbox, defending the utilitarian brew button on my electric drip coffee maker. I praised convenience. I extolled efficiency. I dispensed coffee advice with confidence, despite knowing only slightly more about brewing than the average vending machine. I wasn't merely mistaken—I was enthusiastically, publicly mistaken. The revelation came last week. I was in Tucson, enjo...