Wednesday 29 May 2013

Speaking with robots will be socially awkward

Sometimes I ponder what the future might be like, you know, after I'm dead. I think about the things I'll never get to experience, which you might argue impossible, since I've never experienced them. Either way, it's kinda sad.
Recently I thought of those annoying automated phone operator thingies that force you speak to make conversation with them. They suck, mainly because I never know what to ask for until I'm given the choice. And instead of giving you choices, they simply ask, "What's your enquiry?"
And I reply "I received a letter telling me to-"
And they cut me off, "I don't understand whatever it is you just said," which, of course, defeats their very purpose. So frustrating. But what if this didn't just occur on the phone but everywhere else, too? The future would suck. Take, for instance, the following scenario.

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Deep down, we all know that machines will rule the world one day. And even if not 'rule', then at the very least replace checkout operators.

Self-service checkouts are only the beginning. Supermarket franchises will soon be offered human-like robots to replace checkout staff. They'll be individually groomed (by other robots, who work in factories), so that no two robots look the same. They'll even have nametags, like 'Sue' and 'Hal' - mostly three-letter, one-syllable names to cater to a wider audience; but on occasion you'll meet a 'Maximilian' or a 'Jacqueline'. It's more realistic that way.

Say, for instance, you reach the checkout with your trolley of groceries, and Hal greets you with a wave and a smile, and says, "Hi there, Jesse." (He knows your name from an online passport database).

As this is the future, the world is overpopulated and supermarkets are perpetually aflood with customers. Naturally, quite the queue is lined up behind you: impatient eyes watch as you formulate your generic response to Hal's equally generic, albeit automated, greeting. And in those split seconds between voice prompts, you ask yourself, "How do I do it?"

Not minutes ago, you heard the previous discourse between man and machine, and you shake your heard as your mind replays the scene.
"Hi there, Geoffrey!"
"Hey, Hal."
"How is your day going, Geoffrey?"
"Well, my car broke down on the way to work. But a man pulled over to help out, so I stole his car and ended up making it in time. It was hectic, but I'm here now, so that's good, right?"
"I'm sorry, Geoffrey. I do not understand, 'Well, my car broke down on the way to work. But a man pulled over to help out, so I stole his car and ended up making it in time. It was hectic, but I'm here now, so that's good, right?' Please try a shorter answer, like 'Good, thanks.'"
"Oh, well… it was good."
"Wonderful. Cash or credit, Geoffrey?"

You shudder at the memory of Geoffrey walking off, an abashed expression pasted onto his face. It was so awkward. Everyone was laughing at him, except Hal. Hal doesn't laugh.

Years ago, when you called the tax department, they didn’t ask for verbal responses, only numbers. '5' for general enquiries. It was always general enquiries.

Then businesses got all obnoxious with their tech, forcing people to talk instead of push buttons on the keypad. As if saying 'general enquiries' in a tone that implied the recipient was both foreign and deaf was ever easier than pressing 5. Half the time you'd get a response, "Sorry, was that 'student loans' or 'tax returns'? The answer, of course, was neither. And it certainly wasn't fun if you were in a public space.

Even then those were the good old days. You know, when supermarkets had real humans at checkouts. Now, not only are there less jobs, but you have to contend with robots everywhere you go! They don't even blink, and the ones that do are always on a five-second timer. Sometimes, if you're at the end checkout, you can look down at all the other operators and notice that they all blink in time with each other.

It's not right; the conversations aren't even real! But if you don't greet them back, they stare at you in a perpetual stasis, wide eyes and creepy smiles waiting for your reply.
Hal is no different. As you reminisce on times past, he looks at you with false anticipation on his plastic face, and crane-like hands hover over the conveyor belt, set to move upon your reply. But who wants to talk to a robot and risk looking like a total loser? Who wants to converse with someone who doesn't really converse? It's then that you remember the scarcely advertised 'code' for a free discount.
"Hi," you then reply, all moping and whatnot.
"How was your day, Jesse?"
"Bad."
"Oh!" Hal pauses. You take his creased brow as a sign of pity. "Well, let me offer you a box of Coke Zero for 25% off."


The black box of sugar-free goodness sits atop all other items as you wheel your trolley across the car park. You realise you were only given the discount because you spent over $100 on everything else. Below that, and Hal would've said, "Oh, that's too bad," and nothing more. You wonder if the awkwardness was worth it. I mean, you only get the discount every three months, and it doesn't roll over if you don't use it.

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If we think of the future in this light, it doesn't seem so amazing after all. Of course, though, the deeper meaning underlying whatever it is you just read is the overarching metaphor about the mundane uniformity with which we live our lives. Jokes. I just made that up at the end.

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