Ercep

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A new product has hit the market. RCP, a self-designed man from start to finish. I eagerly pounce on the advertising leaflet.

"Make your dreams come true," the letters scream. "Create your man from toe to the spots on his iris. Doesn't your current partner respect your opinion? Doesn't he listen to your confessions? Does he decide everything? Finally, tell him what you think. Replace him with RCP, a Real Cyber ​​Partner!!!" "

The name makes no sense," I grimace. "Firstly, if it's "cyber," it's not "real," and secondly, it has negative connotations, because how can you call him, Ercep? Although in anger I can forget that "r" at the beginning and he can't be offended that I called him a flail.

I go to the website of the cyber-miracle-dream. The manufacturer explains: cybernetic because it was created online, real because when I finally take it home, I'll be able to touch it, feel it, press it, and it will be real from top to bottom."

"Down, heh heh," I laugh under my breath.

I look at the price. A bit pricey. But whatever, when I remember my previous relationships...

One, a great friend, but an incurable scatterer of his own things and mine. I got a scar from him when I once walked into the house and kicked a pot of tea he'd left by the door, because that's where he'd started playing with the dog and then forgotten. The tea spilled, I slipped and sat down with all my might on the broken pieces, creating little roses. And then one piece got in the wrong place. I was so embarrassed in the emergency room when they took it out. I still blush at the memory.

The other one was brilliant at shortening long hours of the night, but it was embarrassing to be seen with him in public. Sure, not bad, but when he spoke... His name should have been Lech Lepper or Andrzej Wałęsa, your choice. A cross between reason and oratory, all combined in one man. And a man, not a camel, won't walk alone in the desert. You have to go out for company from time to time. With him—it's embarrassing, like trying on a pair in the emergency room.

The third—handsome. All my friends envied him, but I could only hold his hand, go for a walk, and then go home. Whenever we stopped for a break, whether it was at a club, a pizzeria, or even at my grandmother's, who knows how or when, he'd bend over like a Prague pig.

He'd be useful in the days of prohibition. He could smell booze even underground.

Oh, what can I say... Driven by memories, I quickly punch in my card code. My hard-earned money has flown into cyberspace and will soon return in the form of materialized dreams. Okay, here it is. Full-screen survey.

First question: height - well, it has to be decent. We'll give you five feet. Shoe size. They say what kind of feet, so what about the rest? 47, whatever. Hip circumference. Hip circumference? How am I supposed to know what his hip circumference should be? I'll put mine in; a guy should have narrow hips. Chest circumference. Gosh. Oh well, I'll double the hip circumference. Eye color - classic - blue. Hair - thick, no, very thick, color - blond - if you want to go crazy, go crazy. Nose shape - noble. Jaw shape - like Janosik's. Number of leg hairs - 0. He won't scratch at night. Freckles - 0. Wait, let's just have one. I have to mark him somehow, because if other women find out about him soon, how will I distinguish him among all these Erceps? We'll give him a freckle. One. Right where my scar from the rose-patterned mug is.

End of survey. Delivery within twenty-four hours. With the included CD, which I'm supposed to play and which will help me define the character of my chosen one from the ground up. Great. A tabula rasa. The dream of tens of millions of women on Earth.

I can't sit still. While waiting for the blonde wonder, I've cleaned the entire house, done some shopping, and even swept the stairwell. What will I name him? What names are popular these days? Xawery? Miłosz? Daniel? Damn, I always know nothing. I could go to friends' christenings; then I'd know what names are given to children these days. Andrzej. I'll name him Andrzej, after my first love, at thirteen, innocent due to age (and lack of knowledge, as usual).

The doorbell rings. He's there. I open it. In front of me is a fat, bald guy with glasses and white socks. The tip of his bald head is level with my eyes.

"Mistake," I shout immediately, "it's a mistake. "

The bald guy stands there, unresponsive.

"You can't fool people like that; it's unfair." I know you can't believe in ads, my grandmother taught me that, but it said, "Just the way I want it." "Go away," I'm hysterical, "this is a mistake. I don't want you, maybe someone with a good heart or blindness will take pity on you and take you in. I don't want you," I'm almost crying.

"Iwona Sz?" the guy asks dispassionately, as if he hadn't heard my hysterical outburst. "Sign, we'll deliver the goods soon."

I sign and sit down on the couch. I need a breather. He scared me, the little bastard. I thought it was him. Oh well, I knew it was a mistake. Ads lie, but not that much. Besides, the contract says you can return the goods.

The door slams. Because of all this, I didn't even hear them come in or leave. So, it's here. I turn around slowly to remember this moment as clearly as possible. Maybe I'll have to tell my grandchildren about it someday? Damn, there should be some music playing, as usual, I forgot. Oh well, I'm not going to kill myself. It'll be playing in the story. That's it, I can almost see him, I can almost see him....

I blink my eyes. I close, open, blink again. The image stubbornly refuses to change. The first thing I see are enormous feet. I didn't know number 47 was so big. Where am I going to buy him shoes now? He looks like Donald Duck. Oh well, at least he'll be good at swimming in the pool. The rest? His hips are ridiculously small for a guy his height, but with those shoulders, he won't even fit in my armchair. Johnny Bravo walked straight off a bedtime story. Where is he going to sit? And what are the kids going to watch on TV now? The nose is fine, those eyes, but that chin!! Yes, he's just like Janosik's, only twenty years later. Add to that the exceptionally thick hair, and before me stands Donald Duck, Johnny Bravo, Janosik from "Sara," and the blond Rumcajs. I call the producer.

"How do I name this?" I see the creation form here, and everything checks out. It's exactly what you wanted...

" "Yes, but I didn't know it would turn out so awkward.

" "You should have drawn it first.

" "I can't draw," I shout.

"I can't imagine it either," I hear him laughing.

"I want to exchange it, or give me my money back.

" "We can't."

"What can't you do? The contract says you can return it.

" "But not the ones with distinguishing marks. It has a freckle. No one will take that anymore."

Oh, right. It must have been written somewhere. But as a rule, I don't read contracts to the end. I only have patience until about the tenth sentence.

" "So what am I supposed to do now?

" "Get used to it.

" "Great. What now? I'm not going to throw it in the trash like I do with other unsuccessful purchases that, as usual, no one wants to take back." I look at Jędrek, who's still standing in the same spot where I left him. He's alive because he's blinking. If he weren't alive, I'd put him by the door. He'd be holding jackets and umbrellas. Oh yeah? I sigh and load the CD. I have to do something. I set the characteristics of the ideal man. Gentle, but not too gentle, sensitive, but not a whiner, clean, but not a pedant, intelligent, but not boring. After two hours, I finish by asking about appetite and how often he burps after meals. Jędrek springs into action.

I last a week. But I haven't gotten used to it. Those bare, duck-like feet, my back taking up half the couch, my hair growing back right after a haircut. I turn on the CD. I write down sleeping during the day and being active at night. I'm hoping it'll be easier without light.

This time, I last five days. This pace would kill anyone. I'm tottering during the day, because for Jędrek, if it's all night, it's all night. And that predictability. Unfortunately, the program doesn't have an "improvisation" option.

I swap "sleeping" for "cleaning." Let me finally get something out of it.

And so I have it. No peace, because Jędruś not only runs around with a rag, but chases me with it to help him.

Next in line are: writing my papers for me, walking the dog, visiting my grandmother, taking care of my appearance, fixing problems in the apartment, and taking care of official matters. Nothing works. I've gotten used to him, I even like him, but I don't know what to do with him.

I miss a normal guy. An ordinary, "human" guy who throws things around, whines, has fits of jealousy, thinks only of himself, constantly stares at the TV or computer, snores, blames me for everything, scratches his legs at night with his hair, and burps loudly after drinking beer. I miss a normal, ordinary, human guy.

I get an idea. For a few days, I teach Jędruś the difficult art of independent thinking. Then I play a CD and type words that someone already wrote down, millions of years before me. For the next three hours, Jędrek types furiously at his keyboard. Finally, he stands, straightens his enormous back, and looks at me.

"I'd like to move out.

I don't know where he'll go. I don't know how he'll cope. I know he'll contact me to tell me what's going on. I see the joy in his eyes and something I've never been able to capture on a computer—his humanity. Frankly, I'll worry about him. If only about where he'll buy his shoes. But I won't stop him. After all, I just typed in his Free Will."