Hampton Inn Conference Room B.

The one next to the ice machine with the mysterious stains on the carpet and fluorescents that hum like insects at a buffet.

The room is presently filled. Well, that’s being generous. The room is presently occupied. Six women are scattered across folding chairs that squeak when you breathe wrong.

All of their eyes are on Jake Shipley, standing at the front of the group in a rumpled blazer. His balding head catching the overhead glare like a grease stain. Coffee breath preceding him like a warm wind.

Behind Jake, a portable projector sits on a wheeled cart. Extension cord snaking to a wall outlet held together with electrical tape.

He clears his throat.

“All right. Let’s get started. Shall we?”

Click. The first slide of the presentation appears.

“APEX FERTILITY LABS: REPRODUCTIVE EXCELLENCE GUARANTEED”

“Ladies, let’s be honest. Your boyfriends are genetic accidents. Your husbands are walking biological errors. Your lover’s sperm swims like a drunk toddler at a pool party. Let’s examine the science.”

He clicks.

“THE CATASTROPHIC MALE”

On the screen, an evolution chart manifests. Ape to homo sapien. Except this one ends with a hunched man in a backwards baseball cap holding a beer can.

Speech bubble: “Yo!”

“Evolution gave up on men around the time we invented agriculture. It’s true. Google it. Since then? Pure genetic drift toward mediocrity. Declining testosterone. Shrinking brain volume. Expanding gut circumference. It’s all in the data. Now you don’t accept stone-age technology anywhere else in your life, do you?”

Jake motions to a sturdy woman in the front row, the one who hasn’t uncrossed her arms since she sat down with a gloriously smooth forehead.

“And what about you?”

Another motion, this time to a younger woman near the aisle who’s been more engaged with her iPhone.

“Your devices update on the regular, don’t they? Your car learns your preferences. Your home knows when to cool you off. Why accept reproductive technology that peaked in the Paleolithic? Am I right?”

Mumbles and grumbles ripple from the group.

“And that’s where Apex Labs comes in. We’ve moved beyond boring old biology. Thank god. At Apex we build from scratch. All of our sperm comes from top-of-the-line labs, designed by genetic engineers, and tested for superiority. Unlike our human based competitors, we don’t manufacture hope, ladies. We manufacture heir-looms. Get it? Heir-looms? Heirs?”

Click.

“LABORATORY PERFECTION”

The slide changes and now displays time-lapse photos of sperm cells under microscopes, arranged like a beauty pageant lineup. Each cell has a tiny crown photoshopped on top. Below, in italic: ONLY THE BEAUTIFUL SURVIVE.

“All of our sperm cells undergo twenty-two quality checkpoints. That’s right. We reject more genetic material than Harvard.”

Click.

“THE PERFECT SPECIMEN”

A single composite image of an impossible creature, half male, half female, graduation cap, Olympic medal around the neck, half tux, half gown, holding a violin in one hand and a diploma in the other.

“Why risk it? Ask yourself that. Do you want to gamble with a biological oopsie-baby? Get a fugly. A cone head. A dumb-dumb. We engineer each sperm with mathematical precision. Like Tesla, but for testicles. Artisanal craftsmanship your vaginal cathedral will be proud to house.”

A cough. A chair screeches. A whispered “did he just...”

Click.

Nothing happens. The slide remains. Jake presses the button harder.

“Come on, come on.”

Nothing.

“We offer three tiers of packages to fit every...Classic, Gold and...why the hell isn’t this...?

He presses frantically. The projector, in turn, makes a grinding sound and dies completely.

“Well. Huh. Technical difficulties. But you know what? This gives me the perfect opportunity to tell you the best story you’ll ever hear about our sperm. Do you know why it’s the best story? Because it’s mine!”

Jake laughs loudly.

“So Linda and me, my wife, ex-wife, we tried to make our little bundle of wonderful for three whole years. Three years of the whole circus. The whole clown show, believe me. Testing. So much testing. Unclear results. Always blurry. Which of course led to the blame game. It’s your fault. No it’s your fault. You know that game. Well in the end guess whose equipment was the problem? This guy!”

Jake points thumbs at himself and then loosens his tie.

“Linda used to joke about it. God, she was funny. She’d say, ‘Jake, your swimmers, they’re like competing in the Special Olympics.’ Funny, right? And true. So anyway, she used our life savings on the Platinum package and BAM! Prego like immediately. Like the next day.”

“And when little Connor was born...six months later I might add...it was the greatest day of our lives. He was the perfect newborn babe. Never cried once. Not once. Would just stare at us. With these big blue eyes and smile. No teeth, of course, all gums. And Linda and I would smile and stare right back.”

“Wasn’t but a few weeks before he started talking. Hand on bible I swear. Not baby talk either. Complete thoughts. At eighteen months he told me I smelled like genetic failure. It was amazing.”

“By two he was correcting me. My grammar, my eating habits, my wardrobe. Told me I had nothing more to teach him. Probably true. This is what happens with genetic advancement. Some amount of navel gazing from the enhanced is par for the course.”

“And the surprises haven’t stopped either. No. Every day is a new adventure. Like last week, Connor grabbed my wrist. Hard. Squeezed until I thought all the bones would break and said ‘Why won’t you evolve, Father?’ So curious, right? So inquisitive.”

“Sometimes I wake up and Connor’s standing in my bedroom doorway. Just standing there. Watching. Kid loves to stare.”

“And I couldn’t be happier truly. Even if Linda and I got divorced and I’m shacked up in a weekly by the wharf. It was the right move, Connor said. For all of us.”

Behind Jake, the projector flickers back to life. The bug buffet hum returns to the room.

“Oh, good. Looks like it fixed itself. Let’s get back to it then, shall we?”

Click.

A brain scan appears.

The neural pathways are glowing. Pulsing.

Tissue looks crystallized. Like someone replaced gray matter with computer chips.

“Well, wait. That’s not supposed to be-”

Click.

An image of an ultrasound.

The fetus has six arms sprouting from its chest.

Each hand has a few fingers too many.

“Somebody must’ve screwed with my slides. Did one of you screw with my slides?”

Click.

A nursery.

A dozen babies in glass tanks. No cribs.

All have deep blue eyes.

“Jesus! Don’t show that! They’re not supposed to see that!”

Click.

APEX FERTILITY LABS: TRANSCENDING HUMAN LIMITATIONS.

“Ah, fantastic. I recognize this one. This is where I thank you for your attention. So…thank you. What you’ve just witnessed represents the future of human reproduction. At Apex labs, we’re not just making miracles. We’re making YOUR miracle. God bless you all.”

Jake bows. The audience is silent.

“Questions? Any questions? Or if you’re already convinced, it just takes a credit card to start the process. Simple as pie.”

The woman in the front row with the smooth forehead is first to speak.

“I’m sorry but what exactly happened to your wife?”

“What do you mean ‘happened to my wife?’”

“Well you said she’s your ex now?”

“Oh yes. Well our togetherness isn’t the important thing, is it? We maintain a cordial co-parenting relationship. That’s what matters. She’s already found someone more compatible and I think that’s great.”

The younger woman sets her iPhone down. “More compatible?”

“Yes. Connor conducted interviews and background checks himself. Genetic assessments. He selected Linda’s new partner based on an extensive review. Was really quite an impressive protocol.”

“You’re saying your baby picked his mother’s new boyfriend?”

“Husband actually. And if that doesn’t showcase our technology’s success, I don’t know what will.”

The sturdy woman stands. “This is completely insane.” Others join her.

“Excuse me, there’s nothing insane about any of this. I have visitation rights. Court-mandated. Every other weekend. Suits my schedule perfectly.”

The younger woman’s voice climbs a register. “But that was your wife, dude.”

“Yes. I mean...I mean if you...”

Jake’s lower lip quivers. Eyes go red.

“Look. There was nothing that could be done. Connor reviewed me, he determined I was defective. That Linda was statistically likely to upgrade anyway. And I trust my son’s analysis. Frankly, I would be a fool not to.”

The women gather their things.

“Please don’t go. At least take your packets. They explain everything. Financing options. Zero percent interest. Complementary tote bag.”

The door of Conference Room B shuts with finality.

“Damnit.”

Jake collapses into a folding chair. Sighs loudly with exasperation. Defeat.

Phone buzzes in his pocket.

A text.

From the boss.

“How many did you close today, Dad?”

Jake stares at the screen. Starts to tap. Stops. Puts the phone back in his pocket.

Three more presentations this week.

Same conference room.

Same product.

Same genetic code.

Hopefully he can make Connor proud tomorrow.

Want More Machine Poet?

Artisanal Sperm