Author: Swati

When the Benedict Cumberbatch-starrer Sherlock came out what seems like ages ago, I might have gone batshit crazy. I always loved Sherlock, but this modern spin on Doyle’s delectably sharp detective was a class apart. His deduction methods applied to everyday modern objects, making the show relatable.

I remember seeing a clip where Sherlock explained to Watson the intricate differences between the phones of a drunk man vs a sober one. He pointed, very astutely, deriving from scuff marks around the power connection of Watson’s expensive phone, that the previous owner of his used phone had a drinking problem. All that just from an apparent quick glimpse of the phone! After an obvious ‘Whoa, that’s insane!’ and a few other expletives, an image flashed in my mind.

The image of a USB stick (aka USB flash drive).

Now, the logical question would be, what has a USB stick got to do with all this? 

Attention deficit disorder aside, ‘pretty much everything’. 

If Sherlock were to look at the USB port of any of my laptops – previously owned or current, he would find those scratch marks in all of them. I am not kidding!

And this is not because I have a drinking problem (which alcoholic ever says they have one, though? Hmmm….) 

This is simply because either the USB port on my laptop or my USB stick or both are objects of way higher intelligence than me. They are dynamic in their thinking. Way more dynamic than me.

They know to make sure that my first attempt at plugging in the USB stick is always a failure. 

How difficult is it, plugging a USB stick, really? 

I underestimated the complexity of the task, my stupidity, or both. I kid you not, I haven’t yet, in decades of using a computer, ever plugged in a USB stick right the first time. I secretly think the sides flip inside, anticipating my moves. Just to mess with me.

Computer: Here comes the USB stick

After a thorough analysis peeking into the port for 4 full seconds and then another 4 seconds of broody scientific analysis at the USB stick’s USB connector

Me: Yup, I am sure this side up is right.

Computer: Incoming! Activate the connect flip.

Me: Dayum

Call it One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

Call it the Rise of Machines.

The other day I was watching a standup comedy show by a famous comedian. After his usual stuff, the guy talked about how fake pleasantries are these days. And maybe have always been? 

He mentioned how ‘Hello, how are you?’ is such a superficial question and how you seldom expect any answer that is but a variation of ‘Fine, thanks, how about you?’ 

Absolutely true!

He then talked about an incident where he didn’t get the usual answer. Instead, the person he asked took the question literally and gave him a full glowing summary of how he was doing. And in painstaking detail. 

The audience laughed as he did quite an animated sketch of this episode. Then, he moved on to other bits of his routine.

I didn’t. I was stuck.

My first reaction: Oh my god! How many times have I done this? Told a person how I was actually doing? Or Have I done that? 

How many times have I been this loser that the comedian has been talking about? One is naïve enough to be pouring her heart out in front of a stranger, not knowing that they will be an infamous star from a comedy bit in the future.

Oh, the world! Oh, the people!

It took me a while to realize that all this rumination was for nothing! For the simple reason that I am incapable of doing this when asked ‘How about you’?

Why?

Because I am a prisoner of pleasantries. 

It doesn’t mean anything. It’s an ailment I invented for myself. My brain, for some reason, runs in a loop; the only answer that will come out of my mouth when someone asks me this question is, ‘Good, good, how about you?’ 

I don’t seem to be able to get anything else out of the mouth at all. 

It’s as if my brain has set a default answer for this question, and anything other than this default gets overridden nanoseconds before I open my mouth.

Me: Come on! It’s so lame; I can’t keep saying the same thing repeatedly. It looks as if I have memorized the response to such a simple question. Let me say something else!

Brain: It’s not lame; why would you think that? It’s so efficient. Like you guys say, ‘short and sweet.’

Me: No, it’s not. It’s robotic; I want to be creative in my responses.

Brain: Creativity and you? Are you sure?

Me: That’s so rude!

Brain: No, seriously! There is beauty in repetition. Didn’t you watch in a show the other day that Feynman decided to have chocolate ice cream his entire life, so he had one less decision to make?

Me: Oh yes, I did. I didn’t think you’d register stuff about scientists and all!

Brain: Oh, I register all right.

Me: You are annoying; I don’t know if I own you or you own me.

Brain: That a question?

The mention of an escalator or elevator brings up a variety of images. While for the comedically inclined, it could be an image of Charlie Chaplin ‘floorwalking’ or Buddy, the elf, trying the escalator for the first time.

Here’s a quick visual reminder for those who don’t know what I am talking about:

Charlie Chaplin in The Floorwalker:

https://youtu.be/XPweRuT8HrM

Buddy trying to use an elevator:

https://youtu.be/duiRmGxeWSQ

There is a reason there is such a massive compilation of things elevator-y.

Escalators were fun growing up. Beating the escalators to get to the next floor by running OR walking up would confer on you the greatest honors imaginable in the world of children aged less than ten years. You were the envied Escalator Beater!

Back to the reality and joys of the modern world, elevators, and escalators are both necessities of work AND leisurely life.

I like them very much; they suit my lazy temperament very well. I rarely take the stairs at work unless a colleague or a boss decides that the timing of them providing me a brain dump had to coincide precisely with their walk up or down the stairs to another meeting. I secretly swear when that happens, especially if it means ‘going up the stairs.’

Cut to the present, like every other work day, I was rushing into the office to be in time for my first meeting of the day. 

This one occasion was extra special, as I was on a definite path to being late to a meeting I had set – a rare and disagreeable honor that I had no intention of earning. Not that day, not in front of that audience! 

So yes, I was in some extra hurry. 

Two elegant ladies behind me had every intention of catching the next elevator too.

Cue the classic ding and the elevator doors open. A burly guy emerges and our eyes meet. I offered him a curtsy elevator gratitude and quickly jumped in with a sigh of relief. 

‘Oh, thank God!’ I think to myself.

The relief was only momentary, as the minute I tried to push the button to get to my floor, I noticed all the buttons were already pressed. 

Damn! No way am I going to be at my desk on time! 

As if that was not enough, I feel eyes burning a hole at the back of my neck and right cheek. Unsurprisingly, the ladies behind me are giving me scorching eyes. I have a feeling that they think that it was I who pushed all those buttons! I was crying inside.

It wasn’t me. I swear it wasn’t me.

At one point, I did think of vocalizing my emotion, but I have seen enough movies to know that would probably be inferred as an admission of guilt. 

I swallowed figurative coal and stayed silent.

I will never be hired in those departments now; oh well!

I eventually got to my desk, miraculously only half a minute late, and somehow, with a well-deserved stroke of luck, I got to hide behind a brief office-wide internet outage that coincided with my little elevator adventure. So, my meeting audience never got to know about their clumsy hostess or her little adventure.

What happens in elevators stays in elevators. 

I sure hope that’s true.

Oh, the joys of machines! ‘Intelligent’ machines! They certainly make our lives easy, don’t they? Be it work, pleasure or just cat memes, where would we be if there were no machines in the world!

However, the machine that I like the most also gives me the most grief.

Yes! The PC, what else!

I must admit, though, it has pissed me off way more times than it has pleased me in the last decade. I don’t exaggerate when I say that I can barely make heads or tails of this artificial intelligence business. I almost always hear it with accompanied imagery of a dystopian world.

I can’t say I don’t see the value; because I do. (Bordering on) Flawless translation algorithm(s), autocomplete(d) sentences, improved grammar suggestions, you name it. It has saved me time, lots of it.

But now it has also started taking my time on stupid things. A lot of time.

Gone are the days when a simple numeric code or voice message was enough to authenticate that you were a human. 

Oh, how time flies! Now I am asked to prove that I am a human being way more than I like. The more profound existential question aside, I am a human. 

But so many of these failed authentications during the day make me question my assumption.

Machine: Tell us you are a human

Me: How?

Machine: What? You are so stupid! I will give you many meaningful pictures and ask you to identify random stuff. Stuff that any human being with average ‘intelligence’ can quickly identify.

Me: Oh yes? Like what?

Machine: Simple things like identifying traffic signals, I will give you pictures with traffic lights, some way more zoomed than others, and some that you can barely even see without a microscope. You are a human being; you invented me, you can figure it out, can’t you?

Me: Umm…

Machine: Well, if you can tell me the difference between stairs outside a building or a zebra crossing from 9 miles away, you are a human, of course!

Me: Yeah, that doesn’t seem half bad; why don’t you try that one with me next time?

Machine: Yes, sure if you say so.

–la la la la la la…..

anyrandomwebsite.com: Thou shalt not pass without proving you are a human.

Me: Sure, show me what you got!

After 1200 pictures and eight failed attempts to log in.

Me: My friends were right all along. I am an alien!