I’m not smart like some others. I have no memories. I just know I’m here, sandwiched between a blender’s vibrating plastic container and a stack of rechargeable hand warmers. Needless to say, it’s hot. And the blender’s gasket may be faulty, as her rattle makes me wonder if her top will pop off. I could move forward slightly, as there’s nothing in front of me; but then I might fall on my face, which is mostly glass, as one of my front feet is only half on the shelf where they put me. So I bear the bumps and grinds.

I suppose it could be worse. In a far corner of the room is a yellow and brown shop vac that blows non-stop at a cordless water flosser, knocking it sideways every time the poor thing manages to right itself. There’s a rusty chainsaw next to the shop vac, that could put a little fear into it, if the chain were intact, and an electric griddle on the other side of the flosser, that could use the gasses from its non-stick coating to knock us all out, if it had a will to do so; but, like the saw, the griddle has no will. It just sits there miserably, craving pancakes.

Some of us, like the rabbit-eared wood console television sets and boxes of electric rollers across from me are ancient, and have little to offer beyond flickering test patterns and the smell of burnt hair. I am bored by sameness until two brawny beasts wheel in a washer and dryer, both front-loaders, as polished as prom queens. The beasts deposit them next to a whining treadmill, doors open. The stink is unbearable.

***

It’s easy to lose track of time when you have no memory. Every day is new, with different noises and smells, sensations and sights. There is a step ladder with a missing safety latch pressing on my face, then it is gone. Boxes appear, then disappear. Smart devices show up, beeping and chattering, then are silent. I think I’m going crazy, but when a shiny red blender blinks in and out I know I’m not. Something is up. But if any of the others can say what it is, they don’t. They simply rattle, blow hard, and try to stay upright…

…and then two beasts come in with a multi-colored box and set it on the floor in front of me.

One beast points at me and says, “This one. Countertop convection oven. Looks new, doesn’t it?”

The other nods, slips a plastic hood over me, and puts me in the box, on a platform of dense foam.

“Seal it up.” The first beast says, the one that knows who I am. “They’ll slap a shipping label on it upstairs.”

***

I’m now on a counter, staring at wall. A woman stands in front of me with a phone in her hand bragging about all the things I can do—bake, air-fry, toast, broil. Functions, she calls them. I want to interrupt and tell her she’s mistaken. I am too mild-mannered to run at high temperatures, it conflicts with my nature, but I can’t. I’ll have to wait for her to discover this on her own. I just wonder what she’ll do when that time arrives…and why I’m having an overwhelming sense of déjà vu….

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