She’s Going To LOVE TrejoBot!
(I am working out at my gym on one of the recumbent bikes. Beside me, a technician is working on four of the eight treadmills. He’s sealed up two and tested them. A woman walks up and points to one of the machines still being worked on. The technician is Latino.)
Woman: “That’s my favorite.”
(The treadmill in question is still in pieces. Trying to be helpful, I point to the two that have been completed.)
Me: “These two are done. I just watched him test them.”
Woman: “I don’t trust you.”
(She gets on one treadmill and declares that the belt is uneven. I just watched as the tech check the belt with a laser; the belt was straight. She gets on the other treadmill that was serviced. After thirty seconds of walking…)
Woman: “Ugh! This belt needs to be replaced!”
Technician: “Ma’am, the machine monitors the belt and tells us when it needs a replace—”
Woman: *cutting him off* “I don’t trust robots or Mexicans.”
(She then flounces off to the free weights. As the tech is packing up, his phone rings with a song by a semi-obscure metal band I’m a big fan of. We talk about the band for a few minutes before he finishes packing his gear and leaves. As I’m finishing up on the bike, the woman comes back, wags a finger in my face, and tells me I shouldn’t talk to Mexicans.)
Me: “But he wasn’t Mexican; he’s Honduran.” *pause* “And so am I.”
(To preclude any questions, I have a Honduran mother and a Swedish-American father, so I’m light-skinned.)
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