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CHAPTER FIVE:

Ever since I fired Polonski, I felt the usual weight which had grown quite attached to my shoulders over the years become even heavier. As I watched our employees every day on the cameras, witnessing their displays of buffoonery and ineptitude, I couldn't help but wonder where Polonski was, if he had found a new job, and if he had, what company was receiving the merits of his competence, when those skills rightfully belonged here at the power plant.

As I reflected on it, I grew increasingly angry with myself for what I had done. Although I knew that it was my job, although I knew that I had to do what Mr. Burns told me, I still felt like I not only robbed a man of a job he earned but also robbed the plant I adored so dearly of at least one example of what it so sorely needed.

Mr. Burns would continue to complain to me about the workers each day, criticizing them with archaic drivel and outdated humor at which I was forced to laugh. He would carp to me personally, as if I was the one responsible for everything that was wrong with the employees, and I suppose that at one time, I might have been; I was the one who hired them, after all, but I was also the one who had tried to fired most of them at some point before Mr. Burns conjured up some bizarre reason to keep each one employed. Therefore, I was quite frankly sick of hearing him whine, sick of his voice, sick of trying to understand references from long before even my parents were born, sick of listening.

So, for a while, I stopped listening. One day, right as Mr. Burns was pointing out the laziness of even the drool on some worker's mouth as he slept on his control panel, I decided that I was too weary to listen any longer. The words went into my ears but never reached my brain for processing, and for a while, Mr. Burns didn't seem to notice. He continued blathering on, and every once in a while, I uttered a "Yes, sir" and then returned to my thoughts.

It had been about an hour before I heard Mr. Burns' voice impede. At that point, I looked over at him and was startled to see him staring back at me. "Is everything all right, sir?" I asked.

"Yes. But why aren't you answering the question?"

Now I knew my own incompetence the last hour had caught up with me. I should have figured as much would happen, but I didn't really care.

"Um…I didn't hear the question," I offered, realizing with a bit of shame that even my excuses were becoming lazy.

"I asked you who that man was," said Mr. Burns.

When I saw that he was pointing to the one and only Homer Simpson, I snapped. "Dear God, Mr. Burns, that's Homer Simpson!" I exclaimed. "He's worked here for 10 years, and I've reminded you of his name thrice that number this week alone! What the hell is wrong with you?"

I couldn't believe that the enraged voice I heard screaming at Mr. Burns was my own, but I couldn't help it. After my impulsive bout of ire had calmed a bit, I felt fear take over, but then I realized that I wasn't the only one. I had never seen Mr. Burns look as scared as he did then.

Seeing his eyes awash with shock and his mouth agape in trepidation, I wanted to take him in my arms and tell him everything would be all right. Just like I had done once before; one evening when Mr. Burns was positively terrified that a comet was going to hit Springfield, I had approached him bravely, believing too that it may be the end, and had comforted him in a rather intimate fashion.

I surmised afterward that Mr. Burns had taken it as a friendly thing and nothing more, but nonetheless, there was a certain awkwardness between us after we had learned that the comet scare had been assuaged. It didn't last long, though, and the next day, we were back to our usual routine. I presumed that the event was already forgotten by Mr. Burns, but it was not by me. And sometimes, when I felt particularly lonesome, lying in bed alone, with only the eyes of my dolls staring down at me for company, I would remember that day, those long minutes of tacit closeness, and it was sometimes the only thing that could get me to sleep.

But now, looking at the anxious face of my boss, the desire to comfort him was not as strong as the enjoyment of seeing him afraid of me. For once, I wanted to strike him more than embrace him, although I knew that I would never go that far. Still, I wasn't about to apologize for raising my voice. I wanted to be provoked again.

After a few moments of silence, Mr. Burns asked, "What do you mean 'what the hell is wrong with me'? What the hell is wrong with you, Smithers?"

"A lot, but this isn't about me. I want to know what's wrong with you."

Still in shock, Mr. Burns said, "Well…I'm getting older; my memory is fleeting. How am I expected to know by name every employee that works here?"

"Good Lord, we're not talking about that anymore!"

"Then what are we talking about?" He looked genuinely confused. I couldn't fathom how he could possibly be.

"Your hatred for me. That's what we're talking about."

"Hatred for you? Nonsense, Smithers; I don't hate you! Egad, man, what ever gave you that idea?"

I tried to remain composed. "It's not an idea; it's truth. You made it quite clear to me the other day when you made me fire Polonski. By that, you told me that you find my lifestyle despicable, that you wanted to see me pained by my duty, that you thought the whole thing was good for a smirk, and you knew how guilty it would make me feel, and that was probably the best part of all, wasn't it?"

Mr. Burns chuckled, much to my surprise. "You're reading much too much into that, my friend."

"Don't call me that when you don't mean it," I riposted quickly, realizing that I hadn't used the word 'sir' during the entire argument. I couldn't bring myself to do it. It was a term of respect, and for Mr. Burns, I currently had none.

Mr. Burns looked taken aback as he continued, "Smithers, I didn't do it because I hate you."

"Then why?"

Mr. Burns opened his mouth but no words escaped it. I suppose he was searching everything that was still left of his soul and found no ulterior motive. "Well, I…maybe you're right. I don't want to hate you. I hate enough people. But…" he began, a bit reluctant to continue. "I think I do hate you, Smithers."

I swallowed hard and breathed harder. I almost could feel the trickle of blood sliding down my insides from the heart Mr. Burns' words had knifed. But then I realized that that very blood had turned cold; it had been cold for days. I realized that Mr. Burns was not alone in his hatred. And so I uttered quietly, "Likewise, sir."

"You hate me too?"

"I do." I had always imagined saying those words to Mr. Burns at an ornate, romantic wedding some day, surrounded by snowy roses and the faces of Springfield and love, not here, surrounded by those stupid surveillance cameras and emptiness, professing something I never dreamed I would have even felt for this man.

We both looked away, and my whole world felt like it was collapsing like a brick house upon me. I was frozen there, not knowing what else to say or do. I didn't even feel like myself. Gone was that love, that one constant thing that had been present within me for twenty-five years, and I felt like I was dead.

Then Mr. Burns spoke: "I'm sorry I hate you, Smithers, but you must understand that I can't help how I feel."

"I'm sorry for the exact same thing." My words felt like heavy lead on my tongue. "But most of all, I'm sorry for seeking out love wherever I want it to exist."

"Oh, Smithers, don't let me stop you from engaging in your little perverted acts with the male auxiliary. What's done is done, and you've already forced me to hate you, so there's no rationale to stop now."

"I…I didn't mean it like that, sir," I said, looking into his eyes for the first time since our proclamations of mutual hate.

"Then how did you mean it?"

I wondered if this was the time to tell him how I had felt about him all these years. He was right: he already hated me; I couldn't make it any worse, could I? I might as well have told him then, got it all out in the open, given him a real reason to hate me.

But I couldn't do it. Because even as I thought of the words—the well-rehearsed admittance of love—I had no credence in them anymore. My love had turned to hatred so quickly that I could hardly believe it, but it was true. There was no reason to confess to a love that no longer existed.

So, instead, I said, "Never mind, Mr. Burns. Forget I said it."

"I'll try, but the things you say nowadays have been very difficult to forget about."