Like everyone else, I am a repairman. All there is to do is to repair the machines with my toolbox. I don't know how many machines there are. Some are broken, others run properly, but they are all different from each other.
At first, I repaired whatever machine I came across, learning as I went. The further along I went, the larger and more complex the machines became. I began to spend days on a single machine. It became increasingly difficult, but it felt good to repair. The days would pass, and I would meet new repairmen along the way who would teach me about machines I've never seen. Sometimes I'd work together with other repairmen on a particularly large machine. Those were the best days. I haven't repaired any machines in a while now, but I still carry my toolbox around with me.
I don't know when it was, but I slowly began to avoid new machines. I would look for ones that had similar fixes to machines I've repaired before. By doing this, I could repair twice as many machines as I was before. It became muscle memory; I didn't even have to think of how to repair the machine before working on it. That was the problem.
I began to think of other things. How many machines were there? Why do we repair machines? What would happen if we stopped repairing machines? What else is there to do? What is the point of all of this? The questions were relentless, and they exhausted me. I couldn't focus on repairing anymore. I needed to share the burden of these questions with other repairmen, perhaps they had an answer that could quell my anxieties.
...
I once found another repairman and asked him, "how many machines do you think there are?"
"Beats me," he said tinkering with a machine.
"Well, don't you have any guesses?"
"I couldn't tell ya."
I grew frustrated, he obviously hadn't thought about these important questions like I have. "Come on, haven't you thought about this before?"
"I'm too busy repairing."
"How about you stop repairing and think about it with me? These questions need answers and they-"
The repairman turned around from the machine violently and stepped towards me, his face now a few inches from mine. "Do not distract me from my work or I will make sure your arms can never repair another machine again."
I backed away and left him to his work. That monkey probably didn't have the intelligence to think beyond repairing. No, I shouldn't call him that. I am no better.
...
I asked many other repairmen, who shrugged my questions off. I no longer walked to machines to repair them, but to see if there was anyone there to answer my questions. I don't know how many repairmen I asked before someone finally gave me an answer. He only had a right hand and I could tell he lost his left in a machine accident. His hair was gray and thin, and his beard was unruly.
"I think there are two machines here," he said with a playful smirk. I was confused with his answer.
"How can there be only two machines here? There are at least ten around us right now."
"Okay then, there are ten."
"There can't be only ten. I passed hundreds before I found you."
The repairman paused for a while, staring out into the endless sea of machines. He slowly turned to me, then asked with a challenging smile, "It seems you know better than me on this issue. How many machines do you think there are?"
I hesitated and felt embarrassed with my answer, "Well... maybe a million?"
He threw his arms up and his right hand opened in delight, "Alright, that settles it! There are a million machines here," he said contently.
"Wait, you can't come to a conclusion that quickly just off my answer alone... How am I supposed to know how many machines there are? I'm just a repairman like you."
He dropped his arms and his face tightened, in a serious yet calm manner he asked, "Then why would you think I have the answer?" He waited for a response, but I had none. He walked back to the machine he was working on in silence.
I felt stupid and a little offended. I felt my stomach boiling. As I walked away I said, "You are just like every other repairman, blindly following the herd. Only someone with an intellect as small as yours could lose a hand to these machines."
I became hyper-aware of the steps I took away from him and of the accompanying silence. I looked back to see his reaction, but all he did was inspect a machine.
...
I now sit among machines that have already been repaired. I no longer repair and I no longer ask. I just exist. I've been sitting here for days, perhaps deluding myself that there are no more machines to repair. A repairman approaches me with fast and anxious steps. He fidgets incessantly.
Out of nowhere, he bursts as if he was trying to hold it back with all his will, "How many machines do you think there are?" I'm taken aback, it feels strange to hear the question come out of another repairman.
My chest feels heavy, I don't want to move a muscle to respond. I take in a deep breath and say, "A million," without looking up to him. I don't really believe it, and I no longer feel embarrassed by the answer. I just want him to leave me alone.
He let out a sigh of relief, "Oh good! So you've thought about this before?"
"Yes."
"So you have the answers!" His eyes lit up, "Say, why do you think we repair?"
"Because we have no other choice."
"Yes, but why?" he snaps his fingers uncontrollably.
"Beats me."
"You have to have a better answer than that!"
His comment infuriates me, but I have no energy to do anything about it. I sit in silence.
He clasps his hands together, begging, "Please tell me! Why do we repair? This question has been gnawing at me forever!"
I now look up and glare at him, "I told you, I don't know." I now notice his bloodshot eyes that can't stay fixated on one thing.
He shouts out and yanks a handful of his hair out, clenching it in his fist, "Just like the rest of them! What a waste of my time! You are all idiots!" He turns around and pushes a small machine down. He angrily stomps on it a few times before letting out a sigh and walking away.
The machine lays there, broken. The only broken machine around me. A few moments later I find myself next to it. My eyes are drawn towards the broken parts. I extend out my hand and inspect the damage. It's an easy fix.
I push the now-repaired machine back on its feet. I see another machine that needs to be repaired in the distance, and I find myself compelled, walking towards it.
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