Mabel taped a banana peel to her forehead and declared it a ‘modernist headdress,’ then switched to hammering scrap metal into a robot shape. Her workshop smelled like rust and regret. The robot, named Gerald, had a soup can body, bicycle spokes for limbs, and a DVD player for a head. ‘You’re a masterpiece,’ Mabel whispered. Gerald blinked his CD-ROM eye and said, ‘I hate you.’
She’d promised to build a ‘community art installation’ for the mall. Instead, Gerald rolled into the parking lot, screeching show tunes. A security guard tried to halt him with a tennis ball. Gerald ate it, then regurgitated a tinny rendition of ‘Yakety Sax.’
Children gathered. Gerald danced atop a garbage can, belching glitter from his exhaust pipe. A janitor yelled, ‘That’s my mop!’ as Gerald used it as a drumstick. Mabel sprinted outside, yelling, ‘Stop! He’s just… uh… interactive!’
Gerald suddenly froze, then recited Shakespeare in a voice like a kazoo. The crowd gasped. A reporter asked, ‘Is this art?’ Mabel grinned, covered in glue and existential dread. ‘Nah. It’s a mess. But look at the vibes!’
Gerald belched a confetti of used batteries. Mabel sighed, then added a rubber chicken to his antenna. ‘We’re improvising,’ she said. The crowd cheered. Gerald, meanwhile, was busy plotting a coup in the form of a sock puppet army.
