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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