Resistance is Futile

Thanks to advances in modern technology, it has become theoretically possible to carry out most of the rites and rituals of daily living without ever having to engage another human being. In truth, we can all cite examples of the many imperfections in today’s human-proof “systems.” It will only take the ITers a little longer to work out the remaining kinks in the architecture. In the meantime, I fear that most of the temporary human custodians of these imperfect systems may have already turned to the dark side.

Yesterday, I stopped at the Public Library. I picked out three books, two by John LeCarre and one by Wally Lamb, and approached the check-out desk. To my surprise, there were two self-checkout card readers. I passed my library card under the infrared light, but was immediately informed that there was “a problem” and was instructed to consult the librarian.

When she scanned my card, she looked at me severely, as librarians are prone to do, and declared that I “wasn’t even in the system,” in a tone that unambiguously suggested it was my fault. How could I not be in the system? I was issued a card based on my application. She commanded me to “show some ID,” which I did, whereupon she properly entered me into the system, checked out my books, gave me a receipt, and sent me on my way. There is no doubt in my mind that the “Borg” has assimilated this woman, at least partially, and that she and her colleagues are well on their way to full integration into the Collective.

Last week I went to the newly renovated grocery store in my neighborhood. All the grocery checkers were wearing new outfits, which carried the new logo and reflected the colorful décor of the store. It was as though the company had ordered more material for the curtains than was necessary and so decided to make uniforms out of the excess. At least they weren’t wearing those ghastly company hats. More surprising, however, were the self-checkout machines that had been installed in the aisles that heretofore had been reserved for “express” checkout, formerly staffed by people with a pulse.

Having had prior bad experiences at these automated machines at the Home Depot, I hesitated. Eventually, I decided it was better than waiting in line. Plus, I noticed a clerk milling about who had been assigned to help the risk-averse customers like myself. Everything was going well, until I tried putting my scanned items in a place where they didn’t belong. Next thing I knew I was caught in an automated error loop. I couldn’t proceed to check out, or pay, or receive a receipt.

Just as I was about to call for help, an alert was broadcast from the speaker on the side of the machine: “Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.” Immediately, the clerk came running. He was pressing buttons faster than a guy stuck in an elevator with a snake. We never spoke. Upon resolving my problem, he moved on, C3P0-like, to help the next bewildered, hapless human. As I passed him on my way to the exit, I caught a glimpse of his name tag. Just as I thought! It read: “I, Robot.”

Of course, these days we can accomplish just about anything from the comforts of our homes. We have online banking, shopping, job hunting, travel planning, and entertaining. With these conveniences, however, comes even more dehumanization. We believe we are the kings and queens of our castles. We are not! We are just Users, with unique electronic IDs and Passwords. And we are communicating with disembodied cyber entities that send us electronic messages from unattended sites to which we cannot respond. For anyone who has forgotten or lost an account password, you know exactly what I am talking about.

If you don’t want to wait for 24 hours and are brave or foolish enough to call the company instead, all that you can hope for is an automated message that informs you that you have been placed in a virtual line, with virtual humans, where you can expect to wait for 724 minutes before your call is answered. The only thing worse than the wait, which you can’t even complain about with the other poor souls in line, is having to listen to Barry Manilow doing a cover of the Bee Gees’ “Staying Alive.”

Just when you thought things could not get any more impersonal, you realize it’s time to refill a prescription. All you need is your touch-tone phone and your empty prescription bottle, and “Ready-Refill”, the automated system at your local drug store, is at your disposal. In this case, however, you’re not even a User ID and a Password. You are simply the Rx number in blue on the label at the bottom of your medicine bottle.

The situation isn’t any better at work. For security reasons my multiple passwords change every three months. New software systems are introduced. Updates and patches are applied every so often. When things go wrong, I’ve been instructed to call the Help Desk. One or two failed simple fixes later, however, the “helpers” always take control of my computer, remotely, from wherever in the world they are sitting, while I am reduced to watching the cursor bounce wildly around the screen. It’s Pong all over again! Windows are opening and closing so fast my head spins and I eventually go in search of an Advil.

Whenever this happens, I often wonder whether these IT folks ever have trouble checking out books or groceries. I am betting they don’t. I’m sure they have all crossed over.