Fully Automated
To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born.
These words are not my own. I borrowed them from the opening paragraph of Charles Dickens' David Copperfield. If I were asked to pen my autobiography, I would begin with the sentence "I am not a people person."
I make reference to Dickens because as a child I loved to read. For hours on end I would hole up in my bedroom with a good book, enjoying such beloved classics as The Swiss Family Robinson, Treasure Island, The Three Musketeers, Great Expectations, The Count of Monte Cristo, A Tale of Two Cities and the aforementioned David Copperfield. As a rule, I did not care much for science fiction. Tales of interplanetary travel and invading Martians bored me. They were little better than fairy tales, and I had long outgrown the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen.
When I passed through the gates of childhood into the land of maturity, I fell in love with a different kind of book: a financial ledger. Thus, after completing my elementary education, I went on to college and became a certified public accountant. False modesty aside, I was considered by many to be a genius at investments and tax laws.
My head was so filled with figures, however, that I failed to notice the importance of subtle changes in the world around me. Library card catalogs began to disappear, replaced by online easily searchable databases. Bookkeepers no longer had bound paper ledgers but instead kept track of debits and credits with computerized spreadsheets. Everywhere day-to-day activities were becoming automated: bank teller machines, self-checkout cash registers, UPC scanners at libraries and ticketing machines in airports and movie theaters.
Like many people of my generation, I appreciated these time-saving advances in technology. I was, after all, a very busy man who routinely worked sixty to seventy hours a week and did not have time to waste standing on lines to be waited on by a human clerk, teller or cashier.
I enjoyed all manner of modern conveniences on a daily basis. I had a robotic vacuum that cleaned my floor and rugs when I was at the office, programmable appliances throughout the house that I could remotely access with my tablet or smartphone, state-of-the-art office equipment and a hybrid car that came equipped with all the bells and whistles the automobile industry offered.
With my head usually buried in my clients' stock portfolios and quarterly tax returns, however, I failed to notice to what extent the modern American workforce was being replaced by automation. I once read somewhere that Milton S. Hershey, creator of the Hershey chocolate bar, when presented with a steam shovel that could do the work of forty people, instructed his foreman to get rid of the machine and hire forty men. Obviously, Hershey's business philosophy is every bit as antiquated as the five-cent chocolate bar.
Given the continuously rising costs of salaries, unemployment and Medicare taxes, workman's compensation insurance and employee benefit packages, I can well understand why modern employers find machines more bottom-line friendly than human workers. As an accountant, I sided with the business owners, but as a man—well, to be perfectly honest, I never gave the matter much thought until one day when the bells and whistles in my fully equipped car stopped playing in harmony and I was forced to pull over to the side of the road.
I turned off the engine, waited a moment and then turned the key in the ignition, hoping the horrible squealing noise would be gone, but it wasn't. After turning the motor off again, I got out of the car and opened the hood. Why? I don't know. It just seemed the most logical thing to do at the time.
Yet as I stood staring down at the internal organs of my automobile, I began to feel like Doctor "Bones" McCoy from Star Trek (Damn it, Jim! I'm a doctor, not an engineer!) I wasn't even a doctor; I was an accountant. When it came to cars, about all I was good for was computing the gas mileage and calculating the distance I could travel over a given period of time.
Finally, unable to find a problem, I got back into the car, took the cell phone out of my pocket and called the auto club. As was the case with companies across America—large and small—an automated answering system presented me with a menu of options. While conducting my business with the club's emergency road service dispatcher unit, I at no point spoke with an actual person, which was nothing out of the ordinary.
When the tow truck arrived about ten minutes later, the driver hoisted my car up onto the flatbed and took it to a nearby mechanic who hooked up my marvel of Japanese automotive engineering to a diagnostic computer that quickly discovered the solution to the problem.
"It'll take a couple of hours to fix," the mechanic predicted.
Normally I would have asked for a loaner car, but since it was the end of April and most of my clients' annual tax returns had already been filed, I had a lull in business. Consequently, I decided to give myself a few hours off, a sort of half-day vacation. I would use it to get some much needed fresh air and physical exercise.
"I'll be back this afternoon," I informed the mechanic and walked out of the shop and onto Main Street.
My pace was steady but slow, for I had no precise destination in mind. I was simply out for a leisurely stroll. I immediately noticed there were few cars on the road and even fewer pedestrians on the sidewalks. This was odd considering it was a Saturday morning, and I had expected to see people out shopping and running errands. Where were the young mothers pushing baby carriages? the fitness gurus out jogging? the pet owners walking their dogs? the children riding bicycles?
It had been so long since I had walked down Main Street that maybe I just never noticed that fewer people were frequenting the mom-and-pop businesses that lined it. I concluded that most of the townspeople preferred going to the mall on Saturday and put the scarcity of cars and pedestrians out of my mind and continued walking.
The first commercial establishment I passed was Aunt Mildred's Donut and Coffee Shop. Only one customer, the tow truck driver who had come to my assistance an hour earlier, was inside. As in the old Horn & Hardart automats, donuts were dispensed in coin-operated vending machines, and the coffee, tea and hot chocolate in large, self-serve pots. Not surprisingly, such an efficient set-up needed no cashiers or servers. My accountant's mind approved the streamlined operation.
The Laundromat was the next building along the route I was walking. Although several washers and dryers were working at optimum speed, there were no patrons in the building, nor was there an attendant on duty to dispense change since the machines took prepaid cards only.
Sabrina's Beauty Parlor, just next door to the Laundromat, was also empty. A hand-painted sign in the front window instructed potential customers to telephone ahead for an appointment. Obviously, the beautician kept busy with other tasks when she wasn't washing, cutting or styling hair.
There was no one at the corner service station either since the self-service gas pumps accepted only debit and credit cards as payment. Apparently, the old days when teenage boys, working for minimum wage, pumped your gas, washed your windshield, checked your oil and sometimes put air in your tires were as obsolete as free maps and trading stamps with every purchase.
It was much the same with all the storefronts I passed except the electronics store on the corner of Main Street and Evergreen Avenue. In comparison with the other businesses, the number of people in the electronics store was staggering: there were at least three dozen customers and not one but two sales clerks on duty.
"I guess it figures," I told myself.
The world ran on technology, and even the most advanced, high-priced, well-designed operating systems occasionally failed. Their bells and whistles, like the ones in my car, had to be tuned from time to time.
It was when I got to the far end of Main Street that I finally noticed something was amiss. Unlike the shops on upper Main that were open for business, those on lower Main were closed. Had it been a Sunday, I wouldn't have thought twice about the locked doors and dark windows, but it was a Saturday, as I've already said, the busiest day of the week as far as retailers and service-oriented businesses were concerned. Yet the real estate office, the travel agency, the jewelry store, the trendy boutique and the dry cleaners were all closed for renovations. Lower Main Street might have been a ghost town except for one building at the far end of the commercial district. A sign above the door identified it as Walt's Repair Shop.
A tired-looking, middle-aged man—most likely Walt himself—stood behind the counter, waiting on a customer. As I peered inside the shop's window, Walt turned in my direction and raised his eyebrows in a look of surprise.
There was something vaguely disturbing in that look—one of recognition, perhaps? Yet how would I know him? He wasn't one of my clients, nor did I ever frequent his establishment.
When the customer paid for his newly repaired microwave oven with his debit card and left the shop, Walt turned his full attention to me. He raised his right hand and signaled for me to come inside. Curious, I complied.
"What seems to be the problem?" the shopkeeper inquired.
"Nothing," I answered. "I was just taking a walk down Main Street."
Walt frowned.
"Out for a walk? What's your job?"
"I'm a certified public accountant, specializing in investments and taxes."
The repairman left his post, walked around the counter and stood in front of me, barely a foot away.
"Let me have a look at you," Walt ordered in a brusque tone of voice.
My heart rate quickened. What was wrong with the fellow?
"Come on now," the shopkeeper impatiently urged. "I haven't got all day. Tilt your head back and open wide."
"The hell I will!" I exclaimed angrily and turned to leave.
"Oh, no, you don't," Walt declared, reaching out to grab my arm.
"Let go of me!" I cried.
"Stop disobeying me or else I'll have to call your employer."
"I don't have an employer. I work for myself," I insisted.
"Sure you do," Walt laughed.
What is wrong with him? I wondered. He's behaving like a certifiable lunatic.
While the repairman enjoyed a private joke at my expense, I made a fist with my hand and swung as hard as I could. The blow caught the shopkeeper by surprise, and Walt crumbled to the floor at my feet. I then dashed out of the shop, anxious to put as much distance as was humanly possible between myself and the nutcase.
"Get back here!" Walt shouted as he unsteadily rose to his feet.
I never slowed my pace. I ran at full speed out onto Main Street—and right in front of an oncoming car.
* * *
I could not move a muscle. I could not utter a word. I could not even focus my eyes. Only my ears seemed to be functioning properly since I could clearly hear the approach of the tow truck, the same one I called when my car had broken down earlier that morning.
Although I had trouble distinguishing the features of his face, I recognized the voice of the tow truck driver.
"Today's not your day, is it?" he asked.
His question was rhetorical, but even if he had expected an answer, I was unable to reply. I couldn't even nod my head. I was forced to remain silent and immobile, apparently paralyzed and nearly blind, while I was placed on a gurney.
* * *
"Him again?" I heard the auto mechanic ask the tow truck driver. "What the hell happened to him? He only left here a few minutes ago."
"Ran out into the road and got hit by a car," the driver replied.
"Well, help me get him up on the workbench, and I'll run a few tests on him."
I had never experienced such terror in my life. What was I doing in a garage? Why hadn't I been taken to a hospital? And why hadn't Walt called an ambulance? Why had he phoned a tow truck instead? Why? ... Why? ... WHY?
* * *
I must have blacked out at some point, but when I came to, I could move and speak again.
"Where am I?" I asked, attempting to shake off the lingering confusion that clouded my brain.
"Easy now," the mechanic cautioned as I tried to sit up.
"What happened? The last thing I remember, I was walking down Main Street."
"You were hit by a car. You had quite a severe head injury, but you're okay now."
"Why wasn't I ...?"
I stopped mid-question, struck dumb with fear. In the corner of the garage on top of a pile of discarded car parts was a robotic head, the face of which looked exactly like my own.
"Yes indeedy," the mechanic continued as he unhooked me from the diagnostic computer. "You're all set to go, Model 11692. All your bells and whistles are in working order again."
Sorry, Salem. I don't think the automat sells Godiva chocolate.
