Saying hello to my new little friends
Saying hello to my new little friends
To dad… a few people are here now. I just realized. They don’t know us. I should have made intros. My bad. I was raised better. Maybe telling your new fridge story is a good place to start.
I’m in my late ‘50s. By most basic standards, I’m a success. I have a job, pay my bills, and visit my folks — Ed and Rachel — usually on Saturdays.
Last Saturday they got a new fridge. I heard about it like this. “We got a fridge today. Actually, Simon got it for us.” Of course he did. “You’ll see it when you come later.” Of course I will. “He can’t join us. I’m making Shake ‘N Bake.” Of course you are. “Be here around Five-thirty.” Of course.
Our dark hair and Romanesque noses suggest Greek or Italian heritage. Broadly, yeah, we’re Mediterranean. We love even when we’re loud. And, we’re loud. A lot. Especially me.
I called at 5.18pm and to let them know I’d arrive at 5.23pm. Not because a new fridge is a cause célèbre worthy of Extra Crispy Shake ‘N Bake because I like to be prompt. My parents like me to call five minutes before I arrive so my dad can let me in the building’s side entrance. Why should I park in the controlled climate comfort of the underground garage and buzz up? If you ask that question with the lilt of a Borscht Belt 60s comedian, you’ll hear my mom.
My dad always meets me at the side door. Tonight, a rarity. Mom. “That nice fridge that Simon got us… it was tall. The man who delivered it… bumped it into the wall.” Apparently, we’re speaking in Cat in Hat verse. “The fridge doesn’t even have handles. What was Sy thinking?” Oh, you thought my brother was the favorite? “The deal seems too good. Do you think he paid more for it then he told us?” Early onset schizophrenia. Very early.
Mom and I made it upstairs and dad was in full fridge prep mode. Remove the shelf. Rip off the plastic. Put back the pieces. Remove the next shelf. “Plastic,” he complained, “is the bane of my existence.” Too much plastic in the fridge. Too little with the Shake ‘N Bake. “Do you know they don’t include those bags with Shake ‘N Bake anymore?” Riveting.
“I mean what’s the point of buying Shake ‘N Bake if there’s no bag. Where am I going to get a plastic bag at four o’clock on a Friday?” My folks live across the street from a grocery superstore bigger than the cruise ships they used to go on. I could see the big green building flooded in light from the spot in the kitchen where he was explaining this to me. Where indeed?
We ate dinner. I’ll leave explaining a typical dinner for another day. After dinner, we shifted to the living area. End tables that adorned our wood paneled basement in the late 70s flanked a 90s-era purple, floral-patterned Barcalounger. The fancy kind with the handles that pop out footrests. Charitably, you can call it eclectic.
My dad settled in to read LG’s how-to guide. “Thirty-eight pages. LG needs to explain how a fridge works. Thirty-eight pages? Can you believe it?” Sigh. “Page 1…” Yes. He read it out loud like he was Olivier and this was a phonebook. “…What’s a QR code?” Sigh two.
“If we connect the fridge to the Internet, the AI will analyze our use. It can let us know if we open the door too often. That has to be good for the environment.” The fridge dispenses water and it spits out ice in two different ways. It’s not connected to… water. But, yeah, sure, Internet.
When did tools become semi-sentient?
The next morning, I woke up in my own bed in my own home. I came down to the plush yet modern wood-paneled splendor of my own kitchen. Adorned with fresh purple orchids. I’m so lazy, I designed secret buttons to open cabinets for me. Awesomely, I call it splendiferous. I turned on the plumbed coffee maker and made my way to my AI toaster.
Until fridge night, I considered these things tools. You don’t talk to tools. When I ask Google something, I don’t add a question mark. It’s implied. I don’t apologize to my hammer for bludgeoning it against the dowel on the Trůhatten I bought at IKEA. Come to think of it, I don’t thank IKEA for shipping it to me. Manners don’t apply to things. Right? I wasn’t raised poorly.
Recently, I read this story that kids are spending hours talking to AI on an app called Character. Glad to see we’re raising them right. They greet their one-day AI overlords with happy salutations like, “Hi.” Hi. To a machine. Like that’s not nuts. The AI says, “Hi,” back. Then, they start to chat.
So now… what? I have to chat with my toaster? Ask it how its night was? About its feelings? Is that going to make my slices come out just right? “Hey buddy, how are you doing this morning?” No! Dammit I’m taking a stand. The darkness knob is gone. The handle to make the bread go down is gone. I’m left standing here thinking about talking to a toaster…?
As I stare at my toasting tool… contemplating the meaning of artificial life… wondering how to introduce myself to my toaster… I swear I heard my coffee maker chortle… was it laughing at me? Nah. Just my imagination. It was just blowing off steam. Right?
Oh, what the hell. It can’t hurt. “Hey, Toaster. I’d like my toast warm enough to melt cold butter and sturdy enough to support a weighty amount of marmalade. But not done so well that I might think it burnt. Oh, and I just met this fridge. Tall, smart, cares about the environment, no handles. You might hit it off. I’m Alvin, by the way. But you can call me, Al. Most people do.”