It takes little effort to get command to clear a final meal for my noncompliant – all on the condition I get a clear confession from the old man. Given his reference to the turritoptic policy I felt this wasn’t a hard ask. Getting the scrawny floor manager from before to take our orders was a different story. But soon enough we get our order, the waitstaff simply push it onto the table from my side, still too skittish to get close to the old man. The small table fills up with food: a chicken fried steak dinner with biscuits and gravy for the noncompliant and a coffee for me. Dark roast, no cream or sugar – no frills or tricks. The old man looks quite happy at least. I clasp my cup and watch him sniff his food.

“Ah, I can’t tell you how long it has been since I’ve had one of these, I used to have this once every Sunday. It was a bit of a ritual for me and my wife…” his voice drops into a wistful tone. “It does bring me back.” There’s a bit of a pause before he turns back to me and picks up his fork and knife. “Well, I suppose that’s the point of any good comfort food.”

“Takes you back?” I try to steer the conversation politely. “How old are you – if you don’t mind me asking.” I stare at him intently; he just chuckles and waves his knife as if brushing off the question.

“How old are you?” He asks casually, as he giddily cuts off a bite from his steak.

“Twenty-six” I respond incredulously, I lean back momentarily before jolting back upright as the old man’s cutlery clatters on the table. The remaining patrons look our way with startled eyes. I wave their stares away and look back at the old man. He’s pointing the fork at me and the normal geniality of his eyes has frozen over.

“I mean really, how old are you? Not just in this …” he kind of waves his hand aimlessly, he’s clearly getting worked up. “this … this cycle?!”

I back down, “Fair point” I mutter into my coffee. He returns to his normal self, back in the moment – him and that chicken fried steak. I sit and think, how old am I really? How many times have I gone through the turritoptic cycle going and simply existing between the ages of 20 and 30? Is there really any way to know for sure?

I muster up the courage to try again. “Okay, so how old are you in this ‘cycle’?”

“Oh, probably around 60 now, honestly I lost count a while ago.” He chuckles to himself. I decide to press harder.

“So, about this Ω-1 code violation,” I lean forward, try to look intimidating. The only thing the old man bites is another piece of his steak.

“They used buttermilk with this breading. You can tell because of how light and fluffy it is.” He thoughtfully picks up another cut of the steak and twirls it in the light on his fork before taking another bite. Placing the food into a cheek he continues “also tastes like the steak’s been marinated or brined at the very least. Novelty or not, no wonder this place is still open. They know their stuff.”

Out of exasperation I grab his hand before he can go in for another bite. “I don’t have time for this.”

He breaks free at the wrist and smirks. “You live in a world that promises that you can infinitely relive your ‘prime years’, and yet you’re bothered with not having enough time?”

Somehow, this old man has managed to completely monopolize the situation, I am both infinitely frustrated and fascinated.

“Listen,” he continues, “I know you’re not here to compare chicken fried steak recipes or even to eat – I would have preferred tea.” He jabs his fork playfully at my cup

“Not fond of boiled leaf juice.” I shoot back. Drawing my cup back subconsciously.

“Just boiled beans then.” He jeers. If anything, his pleasant demeanor is a nice break from the combative atmosphere of my usual assignments.

“You know why the Turritoptic Service Agency deploys human enforcers rather than robots? Regardless of how intimidating they make that uniform of yours (it does look better now, in my opinion), a cold, uncaring machine would be 100 times more so. Don’t you think?”

I remain silent. He takes a final bite from the chicken fried steak and pushes the plate away, the gravy jiggling on top of the biscuits as if laughing to some unspoken joke.

“This is why,” he stretches his arms out, motioning to me. “The agency needs compliants as I’m sure your official vocabulary guidelines dictates you call them. That means in the case of a ‘re-educatable noncompliant’ guidelines are to attempt reintegration and re-compliance. Well before termination anyway. Not something an uncaring robot can do very well now, is it?”

I sigh, “If you already know this, why do you seem so intent on that final alternative? Why not just turn in for re-education?”

“Eh, don’t worry about it, when you live as long as I have, you can become quite a tough nut. It’s harder to sway me from what I’ve decided to do.” He winks at me.

I lean forward. “What is it that you want, and who are you?”

“You should have opened with those,” he says, cracking a grin.

I look at him expectantly, but he just throws another curveball as he looks up towards the now nearly empty bar and nonchalantly states he’d like a drink. A sweet tea would do great.