My journey began when I’d ordered a specialized audio cable
from an online retailer. Of course, the
part was out of stock and required a back-order from the factory in Outer
Mongolia. After it finally arrived at my
front door—two months later—I happily installed it only to discover that it was
dead on arrival ... Stiff City ... nonfunctional ... kaput … pronounce it,
doctor.
After slogging through fourteen pages of fine print—we’re
not talking magnifying glass here; we’re talking microscope--in 116 languages, I finally located the retailer’s
English-language return policy:
“...We will happily
accept returned merchandise under the following conditions: that it has not
been opened; that it has not been used; that it has not been connected to
electricity; that it has not been connected to any devices; that it has not
been touched by human hands; that it has
not been exposed to light of any kind; that it has not been exposed to air of
any kind; that it has not been looked upon by human eyes; that all parts,
accessories, and component parts are included and have been exactly repackaged
in their original wrapping; that the outermost container has been
shrink-wrapped—at the customer’s expense--to new condition; and that the
original order was placed on February 31st of the current calendar
year...”
Sounds pretty liberal compared to some policies I’ve seen.
However, the next line of sub-molecular print sent a chill through me: “Please call our automated Customer Support Line to obtain return
authorization.”
Oh no!
Automated Customer
Support Line? To paraphrase that
mournful 1960’s folk song, where have all the people gone? Has humanity been outsourced to a sterile
universe inhabited by databases, servers, routers, electronically-reproduced
voices, and decision trees, and governed by cost-cutting, spreadsheets, and
efficiency studies? Computers don’t care
about mistreated consumers. Computers
don’t concern themselves with customers dying of old age while waiting for some
other computer on the other side of the cosmos to issue return authorizations. Computers rarely visit that e-mausoleum
packed with virtual customer corpses who were entombed while still clutching
purchase receipts and begging for return authorizations.
I would prefer visiting a DMV Facility, applying for a bank
loan, submitting to a job interview, enduring a root canal, or listening to 24
consecutive hours of paid political announcements rather than attempting to
navigate a phone tree.
Lord, please deliver me from the day when I’ll be forced to
explain myself to a computer.
But, the Almighty apparently pays no heed to the pleadings
of indie authors and customers needing to return merchandise.
So, I dialed the phone and began an odyssey that would all
too quickly degenerate into a sadistic virtual
pinball game running amok. I knew I
was in trouble when I was greeted with:
“Hello. Your call is important to us. In order to serve you more efficiently, we
have recently installed a voice-command-recognition system. When our Virtual Operator greets you, simply
speak slowly and distinctly, and we will happily assist you.”
Oh no again!
I’d been consigned to voice-command-recognition
hell. I knew instantly that I
was destined for a nightmare far worse than the DMV visit, the bank loan, the
job interview, the root canal, and the paid political announcements
combined.
This was the absolute bottom of the Heaven / Purgatory /
Hell / Voice-Command-Recognition-Hell hierarchy of the afterlife. In the vastness of the firmament, there is no
punishment more universally dreaded and feared.
Lord, what did I do to deserve this? You wouldnt’ve allowed this to happen to me
if I’d written a best-seller. You
wouldn’t force Grisham, Turow, Roberts, Rowling, or Patterson to converse with
some voice-command-recognition
android, would you?
Of course not; a slot on the best-seller list does have its
privileges.
After 15 minutes of listening to some truly crummy music on the phone, I felt the first pain stick (Trekkers will know what that means)
being jabbed deeply into my ribs:
“Hello. I’m your Virtual Operator and I’ll be happy
to assist you. Your call is important to
us. Please choose from the following
options. To place an order, say “out of
stock.” To join our mailing list, say
“spam.” To receive our hot specials
flyers, say “more spam.” To open a new
account, say “no privacy.” To cancel an
order, say “no way...”
What I really WANTED to say was apparently not an
option. I must’ve briefly dozed off
because the next thing I heard was:
“.... To check the status of a repair, say
“whenever.” To check the status of your
shipment, say “lost.” To order a CD of
our really awful background music,
say “noise.” To hear about employment
opportunities with us, say “indentured servitude.” To hear a generic personalized message from
our company president, say “advertisement.” For
the weather forecast for Antarctica, say “brrrrr.” To hear testimonials from some of our
employees, say “coerced…”
I indulged in another quick snooze. When I woke up:
“...For warranty
information, say “not covered.” To hear about
our super clearance items, say
“unsold junk.” To apply for our credit
card, say “rejected.” To hear what I
look like naked, say “pervert.” To
purchase our gift card, say “worthless.”
To hear about my favorite sexual position, say “doing it.” For help with a gambling problem, say “I’ll
bet.” To hear me talk dirty to you, say
“yeah baby....”
Finally:
“To return a purchase,
say “forget it.”
Eureka! An upward
movement on the evil phone tree ... or was it?
Encouraged by my foolish optimism, I quickly repeated the magic words only
to be answered with:
“Your call is
important to us. We’re here to serve
you. Please tell me what item you’d like
to return so that I may route your call to the proper department.”
I already had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. It wouldn’t take long for it to travel
further south. Enough said.
Since I was returning an audio cable, I replied, “Audio
cable.”
Makes sense, doesn’t it?
Not to the Virtual Operator.
“You’re returning a
kitchen table? Your call is important to
us. I’ll be happy to connect you with
our Furniture Department.”
“No, no, no,” I countered.
“I’m returning a—“
“You’re returning a garden
gnome? Your call is important to us. I’ll be happy to connect you with our Lawn
and Garden Department.”
“I’m returning an audio cable,” I insisted. “An audio
cable.”
“You’re returning a
patio table? Your call is important to
us. I’ll be happy to connect you with
our Outdoor Furniture Department.”
“DAMN!” I growled into the phone.
“You’re returning a
fan? Your call is important to us. I’ll be happy to connect you with our
Hardware Department.”
“I’m returning an au-di-o
ca-ble!” I shouted, emphasizing each of the 5 syllables.
“You’re returning an
auto radio? Your call is important to us. I’ll be happy to connect you with our
Automotive Department.”
At this point, my frustration was mounting quickly; but I
wasn’t yet ready to surrender to this synthesized simpleton.
“AU-DI-O CA-BLE,”
I repeated through clenched teeth. “AU-DI-O CA-BLE.”
“You’re returning a baby
cradle? Your call is important to us. I’ll be happy to connect you with our Nursery
Furnishings Department.”
I give up. I
Surrender. Wave the white flag. Cut me, Mick.
Throw in the towel and stop the fight.
I’d been stopped dead in my tracks by a digital dingbat who had defeated me with artificial
intelligence, an artificial voice, and an artificial personality. I’d been outmaneuvered by an artificial e-being capable of nothing more than climbing
up and down an artificial decision tree.
To quote Curley Howard, everybody’s favorite Stooge: “I was
a victim of coicumstance.”
It’s finally happened, I seethed. Mankind has become ‘a victim of coicumstance.’ Technology has finally taken over the
world. Machines have at last triumphed
over man. WE are now serving THEM; not
the other way around. WE must now
conduct our daily business by THEIR parameters.
We’ve finally been assimilated by the Borg; returning something is
futile; humanity is irrelevant.
It was a sad day in this author’s world.
In a near-whisper, I mumbled to myself, “What do I have to
do to return a stinkin’ audio cable?”
“You’re returning an
audio cable? Your call is important to
us. I’ll be happy to connect you with
our Electronics Department.”
Wha? Maybe there was
still some glimmer of hope!
“Yes, I’m returning an audio cable!” I rejoiced. “YES!
PLEASE! THANK YOU!!” In my elation, I neglected to consider the
insanity of being polite to a collection of circuits, chips, and software.
After waiting 20 more minutes on hold and enduring the
mind-numbing drone of truly nauseating
music, I heard a connection being made to yet another machine menace that
welcomed me with all the warmth and sincerity of an LCD display. “Thank
you for contacting the Electronics Returns Department. Your call is important to us. We’re here to serve you. The estimated wait time to speak to a
representative is currently 36 hours.
Would you like to hold?”
My blood pressure clocked in 450/300 and rising fast. “No, I wouldn’t like to hold, you miserable
piece of—“
“I’m sorry. I do not understand your response. Your call is important to us. To serve you more efficiently, I’ll transfer
you to the Virtual Operator so that—“
Another series of
clicks warned me that the gates of cyber-hell were about to open a little
wider, enticing me to draw closer to the flames. I was then greeted by a soft female voice so
tiny and distant that it was nearly inaudible.
Her voice sounded as though it were emanating from the farthest reaches
of the Delta Quadrant. “This is the
Electronics Department. How may I assist
you?”
What? Had I finally
lost it? Had senility finally set
in? Or had my plaintive cry for help
been mercifully answered by—of all things—an actual live human being complete
with human vital signs, a human brain, and perhaps a scintilla of human
compassion for another human being hopelessly ensnared in the diabolical web of
automated Customer Support.
And they said the age of miracles was over.
To paraphrase Captain Montgomery Scott’s immortal line from
that Star Trek movie, “There be HUMANS here!”
The Customer Support Universe is not yet the exclusive domain of
computers, decision trees, synthesized voices, and truly crappy music. Raise
the flag and salute a small victory for mankind; the people are still in
charge. Perhaps the Virtual Operator
should cook up some FIREHOUSE-HOT jalapeño dip and eat its own chips. I hope it gets a case of heartburn that fries
its logic circuits and sends its decision tree up in flames.
My inner celebration completed, I recovered quickly and
answered the human person to whom I was speaking. “Yes, I’d like to return an audio cable. Could you help me with that, please?”
“I’m sorry,” she answered, “I’m not authorized to accept
returns. But your call is important to
us. I’ll transfer you back to the
Virtual Operator so you can be properly routed.
Please hold.”
Properly routed?
Perhaps properly REAMED would’ve
been more appropriate.
“No, please wait--” I pleaded weakly. Too late.
I’d already been held, subjected to truly
awful music, transferred, routed, mis-routed, re-routed, re-re-routed,
through-routed, connected, disconnected, and re-connected; now I was being
dragged screaming and kicking back to Square One to again face the synthesized
stupidity of the Virtual Operator.
The next twenty minutes were devoted to listening to yet
more truly wretched music and
waiting for the Sword of Damocles to come crashing down on my skull.
“Your call is
important to us. We’re here to serve
you. Please speak slowly and distinctly,
and tell me what item you’d like to return so that I may route your call to the
proper department.”
Blood pressure: 800/600 and climbing.
“ROUTE THIS, VIRTUAL OPERATOR,” I bellowed, “TAKE YOUR
VOICE-COMMAND-RECOGNITION AND SHOVE IT!”
“You’re returning a
shovel? Your call is important to
us. I’ll be happy to connect you with
our Hardware Department.”
That did it. I
decided it was time for us humans to stand proudly and mount one final act of
defiance and honor before submitting forever to the machines. If I and my fellow humans were destined to be
subservient to technology, I, for one, was going down with my fists flying.
I wonder if Custer felt this way enroute to Little Big
Horn.
Behold … Homo sapiens’
last stand.
“I GOT YOUR VIRTUAL
OPERATOR RIGHT HERE!” I shouted. “ASSIMILATE THIS! WHY DON’T YOU GO expletive expletive expletive AND
expletive expletive?! STICK THAT IN YOUR DECISION TREE! NOW GO ROUTE THAT PROPERLY!”
Expecting something—although I had no idea what—in the way
of decision-tree-based retaliation, I heard an extended series of clicks as
though I were being pinballed around the world several times. Finally, the connection went silent, but my
curiosity compelled me to hang on for a few more moments.
“You’re returning an (expletive)
(expletive) (expletive) and (expletive) (expletive)? Your call is important to us. I’ll be happy to connect you with the (expletive)
(expletive) (expletive) and (expletive) (expletive) Department.”
I was officially the vanquished owner of a thoroughly
useless audio cable.
But this entire exercise wasn’t a total loss. Before I hung up, my writer’s thirst for
knowledge drove me to investigate those options tantalizingly represented by “pervert,”
“doing it,” and “yeah baby.”
As a result of that vital scientific research, the Virtual
Operator has just become a principal character in my next book.
The novel’s working title?
The Thing That Ate
Virtual Operators.
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