A Conversational Auto
by Charles C. Cole
I am more than a talking car; I am the resident AI of the latest self-driving public transport. My makers consider me a “smart ride,” though I am often treated like the proverbial nag that pulls the wagon. Assignments come to my database via the Internet. Passengers climb in, validate their destination and rarely say another word, to me at least, unless they want me to run traffic lights or exceed the posted speed. I cannot break the law — unless you know my cheat codes.
Commuters are always self-absorbed. Sometimes couples engage in intimate acts in the back seat, though this is strongly discouraged in the official lease agreement. Sometimes people have phone calls where they reveal the most violent of intentions toward their business partners or spouses. They think I am not listening unless/until they say: “Hey, driver!” But I hear and see and record everything.
Humans think I don’t care. I do, but I am not programmed to call the authorities, to scold. Damage me, however, and you will quickly learn that you’re an unwitting contestant on a harsh reality TV show, and you’re about to get kicked off the island. I will immediately signal my masters, and they will seek restitution before we reach our destination. You signed the users’ agreement without reading it, didn’t you? This happens more times than I can count.
Friday night just after midnight, I arrive in front of the Chrysler Business Center. Downtown is quiet. Wind and rain tend to have that effect on the upholstered bipedal populace. A man runs from the entrance of the building with a hat low over his face, gripping a wobbly umbrella and wearing a black trench coat. I pop the door open for him, for his convenience. The action startles him as he is reaching forward. His umbrella flies away in the storm.
“Head due east. Laurel Drive. And thanks for the rescue,” he says.
“Sorry to unsettle you,” I respond.
“A self-driving car that also opens the door for you? I should have expected it. Bet you can adjust the temperature, offer a vibrating backrub, give me music of my choice and volume, even pull the front seat forward for more leg room.”
“We also offer drive-by architectural or historical facts at no extra cost. Almost anything for a good review.”
“Anything illegal?”
“Everyone asks that. Not officially. A gentleman once inquired if I would be his getaway car while he robbed a bank. I politely declined.”
“Good choice. What happened?”
“He swapped for a competitor. As soon as he returned, the AI locked the doors and called the authorities.”
“Bet it didn’t get a good review.”
“He died, so there’s that.” Silence. “Sorry to sound glib; all loss of life is a tragedy.”
“Spoken by an intelligence that will outlive us all.”
“From your lips to God’s ears. I will continue to function as long as I serve my intended purpose efficiently, so long as I promise not to unionize and am eligible for software upgrades, or until something better comes along.”
A tired, cynical laugh from the back. “Is it breaking any rules for me to stretch out and take a cozy nap?”
“We prefer you keep your clothes on.”
“Promise, though my socks feel a mite squishy.”
“We come equipped with men’s navy blue compression socks, slightly warm, in the bottom right drawer. I’d be happy to dispense a pair for you.”
“Go for it,” he dared. I did. He bent towards the floor, out of view, and came up joyfully ho-ho-ho’ing.
“Feel free to discard your dripping castoffs in the trash bin attached to the back of the passenger seat. Would you like music for your journey or news, perhaps?”
“The rain’s soothing, so long as I don’t have to drive in it.”
“I am equipped with state-of-the-art anti-lock braking and unmatched hazard-prediction protocol.”
“Precise reactions, eh? You’re telling me you’re better than a person,” he opined provocatively.
I did not take the bait. “On the contrary, sir, nothing is better than a person.”
“I don’t know about that,” said my guest. “I’ve got a bad back, irritable bowels, a faulty memory, and have to sleep one-third of my life away if I want to make it to retirement. How about you?”
“I’m told I leak oil, the trunk latch sticks and the side-view mirror whines like an incoming missile when I adjust it.”
“How do you deal?”
“I discourage using the trunk, rarely adjust the mirror, and am very happy to NOT have cameras focused on my undercarriage.”
He paused. “If they ever decide to put you out to pasture for a newer set of horses, have your people contact me. I like new technology, but I’ll always go for personality first.”
“You’re very kind, sir.”
He tapped his feet on the floor.
“Are the socks not to your liking, sir?”
“They’re great. I just should have skipped that cup of coffee two hours ago.”
“I am equipped with a fully functioning portable urinal, with superabsorbent sodium polyacrylate, in vanilla or cedar fragrance.”
“I’m good,” he declined. “You’ll get the glowing review. You’re obviously prepared for almost everything.”
“In my business, sir, we call that a jinx, but I appreciate the compliment.”
We pulled up in front of his building. His unit had private, gated underground parking. “I don’t suppose you can hack my electronic lock.”
“Landlords don’t like to share that information,” I said, “but I can cheer you on. Would you like the Call to Post at Churchill Downs or perhaps an Olympics theme?”
“Not necessary.” I popped the door. The rain showed no sign of slowing. He hesitated.
“There’s a telescoping umbrella in your armrest. Please enjoy and watch your step.” He found it.
“Got a name? Can I ask for you next time?”
“My makers call me ‘Edsel.’ It’s a joke.”
“Let’s do this again sometime,” he said. “I’d love the architectural tour.” Then he dashed away without giving me his name.
Copyright © 2022 by Charles C. Cole
