Freshwater Literary Journal 2022

Jean Rover Smart This, Smart That Tracy plopped down on her sofa pleased with the great deal she got on a new Smart-Tek furnace and air conditioning system. Sure it was expensive, but after enjoying cooled air for the last few days of a too hot summer, she was ready for the blustery weather that would follow.

Not only was Bret, the HVAC installer cute—jet black curly hair, muscles popping out of his tight-fitting T-shirt, Johnny Depp eyes, and gold chain adorning his neck—but her new system had a programmable thermostat. The house would automatically heat before she got up and be toasty by the time she returned from work. How good was that? Tracy was like a delighted child with the latest electronic toy.

In no time, wind and cold rain arrived, but Tracy was cozy. Sitting in her chenille robe, she sipped a cup of freshly brewed coffee, savoring the aroma, letting fragrant steam open her sinuses, when she noticed the furnace thermostat lit up. The touch screen said: You have an alert.

Ah, clever. Tracy tapped the message button.

You are no longer connected to the Internet.

Tracy grabbed her user guide, hit the settings button, and followed the instructions. Next she selected Wi-Fi, entered her network password, and hit connect.

You did it! the message screen said.

Yay! Technology was wonderful, and so-o-o convenient.

The next day the sky dropped three inches of snow. The thermostat touch screen lit up. You have an alert.

The message said: Turn me up. It’s too cold in here.

How cool, Tracy thought—a furnace that talks to you. Bret, The HVAC man was right. Smart-Tek systems were cutting-edge, not to mention, bold, reliable, and fun.

Each day, while her furnace cheerfully hummed, she checked for another message.

Turn me down when you leave. How thoughtful.

I love warming you. Sweet.

You’re so cute when you wake up. Wait. What?

Was she losing it or was the furnace getting too personal? Unfortunately, there was no way to type a response, so how could she tell it to back off?

The messages continued.

You’re hot, it said one morning. Just sayin’.

How could this be? And, who could you talk to about a cheeky furnace?

The next message was the last straw. Let’s meet. Be at the Court Street Coffee Shop at three p.m. I know you like coffee, and you turn me on. No pun intended. Heh. Heh. 129