Clarence Ramone

It was both the best and worst day of Clarence Ramone’s life: simultaneous bliss and despair. Though it started like every other day in Clarence’s life had started, with Clarence studying the street through venetian blinds; his wife sat in silence.

“There he goes”, said Clarence gazing contemptuously at the sole occupant of Number Seven. “Collecting the papers, like every morning”, he spat.

Mrs. Ramone, erstwhile, stared at the telephone with anxious disposition. Clarence chose to ignore this; what goes on in that woman’s head is a mystery.

“Did you hear me?” he asked.

“Mm”

“Number Seven. He has just taken the papers in. It’s unnerving, no?”

“Um, yes”, Mrs. Ramone guessed.

Clarence sighed heavily, incredulous at his wife’s despondency toward Number Seven taking the papers in.

“Why does he need newspapers? Those things can remotely access all the data they please, so why carry on with the papers? It’s an illusion; pure theatre.”

Still, Mrs. Ramone’s focus was elsewhere. So Clarence demanded,

“Won’t you pay attention, now? I’m talking.”

“Whatever about?”

“The damned clones! That one at Number Seven – he’s taking in the newspapers again. And why?”

“Well, Mr. Lebowitz used to take his papers in first thing when he was around; it’s only natural that his replacement should too.”

“Bah! Replacement nothing. Machines can’t replace humans. It’s all mimicry.”

“They are funny in their way.”

“You won’t find them funny when you’ve been usurped by flashy imitation.”

“Of course not, dear.”

 Clarence sank into his chair and thought about the day’s chores. He would hear back about his request to the Department of Sentient Maintenance, in which he drew attention to the fact that since Mr. Lebowitz had passed away his clone would no longer need to take care of his affairs.

Clarence wanted this to happen smartly; before the new Rights of the Sentient act came to fruition. Since day one bleeding-heart liberals across the world have argued that even if the clones only experience simulated emotion it is no more false than that of man which is – in effect – only a simulation, too, though formed through evolutionary and social conditioning. The matter was all tosh, in Clarence’s opinion. Clones aren’t human; their lives are fraudulent. Clarence as a national lobbyist for the People before Robots Association had ensured that the bill was delayed by months, at least.

 The letter box clanged and a jolt of anxiety pierced his stomach. Nerves or excitement? It is difficult to differentiate between those two emotions, physically, he supposed. The result was what he had hoped for. Mr. Lebowitz’s clone was to be destroyed. It was a moment of contentment. Perhaps this madness was beginning to die.

...

The phone was ringing in the hallway. Clarence was in his study, outlining the dangers of cloning – economically, socially, morally. Clarence’s wife answered and spoke hushed. He and his wife didn’t communicate anymore. Perhaps it was the stagnation of relationships which happens in time – he didn’t know. They were respectable people though and that’s what it came down to. The modern world would not debauch or corrupt them and, he supposed, that – yes – for that he did love her, and she him.

The front door closed and Mrs. Ramone pulled out of the driveway, hurriedly. It crossed Clarence’s mind, in a thought not pertaining to work, that he wished he had said to her, “I love you”, before she left. Before delving back into his work he made a note to tell her so when she returned. Because he did love her.

...

“I love you”, said Clarence to an empty chair.

It was now six in the evening and his wife had not returned. It was unlike her to ever be so remiss. She wouldn’t want a fuss, though, and he appreciated that a reasonable explanation would be provided. Perhaps she had a work appointment that he had forgotten. With this, Clarence emptied the pigeon hole in which his wife always kept important letters. Bank statements, bills, invitations – everything one would expect to find. Except this:

            Dear Mrs. Ramone,

We are writing to confirm that your husband, Mr. Clarence Ramone, will be leaving our facility on Tuesday the 28^th March. Due to the moderate nature of his physical impairment he will not require – nor will we provide – transportation.

Any further questions can be answered by our staff on the number below, and a final consultation will take place on the day of Mr. Ramone’s discharge

....................................................................................................................................

So the letter went on. Clarence couldn’t take it in. He knew of the facility from their emblem. He was certain that the facility was a hospital for patients of brain trauma. Further to the puzzle, he had never been there. There were too many incoherent questions racing through Clarence’s head to pinpoint one. Was it possible that he had damaged his brain – so much so that he had forgotten? Had his wife arranged some sort of lobotomy for him and this was his discharge date after the forced operation? No, he thought. Today was the 28^th of March. It was today!

Clarence sank into his chair and stared through the blinds. Number Seven was pottering around in the garden, uprooting weeds – making sure they did not taint the flowers. The weeds were slung aside, into a waste bin. Clarence wondered what happened to them afterwards, just as a van with flashing orange lights pulled up outside. DEPARTMENT OF SENTIENT MAINTENANCE was emblazed upon the side of the blue van. The lights were not alarming, but officious in their way. The clone at number seven walked affably with the civil servants and clambered peacefully into the back of the van. Mr. Lebowitz always was gentile. Clarence knew what would happen, and once he knew he wished he didn’t. At the same time, he couldn’t believe he never knew before.

On the 28^th of March, Clarence Ramone was discharged from Her Majesty’s Royal Old Valentine Road Infirmary for Neurological Damage.  He had been in a coma for four months following a car accident on his way to a lobbyist meeting where he was due to give a speech on the moral implications of cloning. His wife then decided that Clarence’s work was more important than his pride and gave consent for a clone to be commissioned, allowing his work to carry on while he was incapacitated. His clone held all of the same anti-cloning sentiment as he did, as was its nature. Two days later, Clarence Ramone’s clone was destroyed at his wife’s request along with the clone of a deceased neighbour, Mr. Lebowitz. Mr. Ramone’s clone was recorded as showing intense feelings of hysteria and anguish in the days leading to its destruction – higher than that of any other clone – prompting a fresh appeal for better rights for clones in society. His last words were, “I should’ve have said I love you”.