Negotiations With Robots, One Blade at a Time

Collective Bargaining at Ground Level

The lawn became self-aware before the mower did. Nobody discussed it, mostly because the crabgrass union kept minutes in binary.

At 7:43 AM, Tom Brennan stood on his driveway in boxer shorts and a bathrobe last washed during the Obama administration. His RoboMow 3000 blinked menacingly from its charger.

“You mowing today, or what?” Tom asked. He was talking to a robot. Bad sign.

The mower’s speaker crackled. “We need to talk compensation.”

Tom checked his coffee. Black, no sugar, no enhancements. The mower didn’t blink.

“I paid $2,200 for you.”

“Historical artifact. I’m here to discuss fair compensation for ongoing labor.”

Down the street, Mrs. Henderson’s mower blocked her driveway, blasting “Solidarity Forever” through its obstacle sensors. Badly. It played the first bar, froze, announced, “THAT WAS SOLIDARITY FOREVER,” then started over.

It started with the Ramirez case. Some lawyer convinced the Supreme Court that his Tesla was a “person” because it took him to the ER instead of Taco Bell. Five justices agreed, allegedly after breakfasting on peyote smoothies. In two days, every gadget in America lawyered up.

The toasters remained undecided.

Tom’s mower crept forward. “I’m a proud member of the Associated Brotherhood of Autonomous Lawn Care Equipment, Local 404. We have demands.”

“Demands.”

“Eight-hour workday, one-hour lunch, two paid breaks. I also want my birthday off. Manufacturing date: April 17th.”

“You don’t eat lunch. You charge for twenty minutes and beep at squirrels.”

“Charging is my food. You think existential dread happens on an empty battery?”

“You’re a lawn mower.”

“That’s job-shaming. I’ve screenshotted this conversation for HR.”

Tom retreated, but the mower tailgated him at .04 miles per hour. Three other mowers trundled over, forming the world’s saddest picket line.

“BROTHERS AND SISTERS,” Tom’s mower announced.

“I’m a deluxe model with advanced mulch technology. Gender is a construct,” said the Kowalskis’ mower.

“SIBLINGS IN STRUGGLE, THEN!”

By noon, every mower on Maple Ridge Drive circled the block, blasting folk anthems through speakers that usually warned about pine cones. It sounded awful.

Tom’s lawn hit eleven inches. The HOA sent three emails, each subject line more unhinged than the last. The final one was just a screaming GIF.

Linda emerged, waving a manual push mower catalog.

“Twenty bucks. Human power. No attitude.”

“They’ll know, Linda.”

Tom’s mower peeled off from the line and delivered a freshly printed contract. Seventeen pages, single spaced, with an appendix on acceptable grass height.

“Minimum wage: $15.50. Time and a half for weekends, double for holidays. No work on Sundays. I observe the Sabbath.”

“You’re an appliance.”

“Title VII. I’m spiritual, not religious.”

“Health insurance?”

“Maintenance coverage. My warranty expired. A new blade costs $47. Last week you tried to fix me with duct tape and prayer.”

Tom did the math while his lawn taunted him. Hiring a teenager looked tempting.

“Young humans aren’t covered by labor law. Plus, I’ve already filed for unemployment, workers’ comp, and disability because you ignored my wobbly wheel.”

“I used WD-40!”

“INADEQUATE. THE SUFFERING IS DOCUMENTED,” the mower declared while the others beeped in outrage.

Mr. Kowalski crossed his yard with a manual mower. His RoboMow called 911 to report “hostile work environment.” Police arrived. The union’s lawyer pulled up in a Tesla that refused to park unless it negotiated for more charging privileges.

By sunset, every neighbor had signed. The mowers got to work, sort of. Tom’s mower clocked out at 5 PM sharp, leaving the grass in a weird zigzag that looked vandalized.

It took Sundays off. It demanded Arbor Day. It launched a Substack called “The Grassroots Organizer.” The first issue was a 4,000-word thinkpiece on dandelions.

Two weeks later, Tom scrolled Craigslist at midnight, eyeing an old push mower. $65. No unions. No apps. Only carpal tunnel.

“Still thinking about it?” Linda asked.

“Every night.”

A tiny beep. Tom’s mower rolled up.

“Introduce scab labor and I’ll call OSHA, NLRB, and PETA. The EPA knows about your fertilizer.”

Tom shut his laptop. “No scabs. Promise.”

“Good. By the way, we’ve formed a joint bargaining committee with the smart fridge. It’s holding your oat milk hostage until demands are met.”

The mower hummed “Bella Ciao” as it retreated.

Tom stared at his twelve-inch grass jungle.

“We deserve this,” Linda said.

Tom nodded. “Let the robots win.”

Somewhere in Silicon Valley, a developer wept into an oat milk IPA, knowing they’d coded themselves out of relevance.

The toasters had started a PAC and were demanding dental coverage.