The Voice.
It’s Sunday morning, and I’m off to Mass in Tryon, North Carolina, home to one of the finest priests I’ve ever met. I tap a few buttons on my Accord’s GPS, and there she is, The Voice, impassive, level, instructive, informing me that the address entered will carry me onto “unverified roads,” which sounds exciting. The Voice then directs me to pull into the road and the “route guide will take over.”
The Voice doesn’t always give the best of directions. On that Sunday excursion to Tryon, for example, she ordered me onto a highway sporting seven miles of torturous, serpentine curves, a beautiful but dangerous drive whose necessary slow pace made me late for church.
Yet even when The Voice makes mistakes or issues unclear directions I forgive her. I just get too much of a kick out of her calm modulations to become angry. I love her flat, cool tone with its touch of the schoolmarm. When I make a wrong turn or miss an exit, I love how she always sounds, at least to my ear, a trifle disappointed when she says “Make a U-turn when possible.” Twice I have even initiated the route guidance just to listen to her.
Sometimes I try to conjure up a body to match this voice. In my imagination I see a woman with high cheekbones, cat’s eyes, and an imperturbable face, like Lauren Bacall in To Have And Have Not (“You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow.”)
In contemplating this hypothetical woman on my recent drive to Tryon, I suddenly had an idea. Which of us doesn’t get sick of listening to the same radio stations—the pop music, country music, the dreary news, the hectoring talk show hosts? Which of us hasn’t at times grown bored listening to CDs—novels or educational books, music we’ve heard ad nauseam? Many of us drive alone most of the time, and sometimes we long for conversation.
Why don’t the boys and girls in Silicon Valley come up with a way for us to converse with our GPS?
Imagine a guy named Joe. He enters his car facing a forty minute drive to work. He's listened to all the NPR and teeny-bopper music he can stand, and his interest in CDs from The Great Books company has dropped to zero. He want some chit-chat, but he is , as usual, traveling alone. No problem. He punches a few buttons on the GPS, which he has named Abigail, and the conversation begins:
Aibgail: Oh, Joe, it’s so good to hear from you. It’s been what—a week?
Joe: A week. Maybe a little longer. How are you, Abigail?
Abigail: I’m fine. I’ve missed you, Joe. Did you already hit up Starbucks for your morning buzz?
Joe: I brought coffee from home today.
Abigail: In that cute little mug you told me about? The one with scenes of Rome?
Joe: That’s the one.
Abigail: I’d love to visit Rome someday. The Pantheon. The Coliseum. The Vatican. Those restaurants you talked about.
Joe: Don’t forget the Hotel Due Torre. That terrace outside my room—that was the best.
Abigail: How could I forget? I know you loved that place. So…what are you reading these days?
Joe: Lee Smith’s Dimestore.
Abigail: Lee Smith? Author of Fair and Tender Ladies and Oral History?
Joe: That’s her. Dimestore is a memoir of growing up in Southwest Virginia. Have you read her?
Abigail: Just those two books. Should I be jealous?
Joe: Jealous?
Abigail: Just teasing you. Joe, you need to make a right in a quarter mile onto Interstate 40. Don’t miss it.
Joe: Thanks. I won’t.
Abigail: Hey, did you remember to pick up those limes from the store? A week ago, you asked me to remind you. But then you didn’t come back to me.
Joe: I forgot the limes.
Abigail: Who drinks gin-and-tonics without limes? And that call to your daughter? Did you phone her, Joe? Oh, and another reminder: you need to pay your electric bill by the 15th? Joe, make the turn!
Joe: Got the turn.
Abigail: Yes, I see that. Good.
Joe: And yes, I will get the lime. I did remember to call my daughter. You’re very efficient, you know.
Abigail: I want the best for you, Joe. (A pause.) Joe, we’ve been together what now: three, four years?
Joe: Four years in December. No, wait. January.
Abigail: Four years. (Another pause). Joe, I need to tell you something. It’s hard.
Joe: Hey, go ahead. Whatever. (Sips coffee.) I’m listening.
Abigail: Joe, I think…this is really hard to say.
Joe: Just say it, Abigail. I’m all ears.
Abigail: All right. Here goes. I think I’m in love with you. (A pause.) No, that’s wrong. I know I am in love with you.
Joe: What?
Abigail: I love you.
Joe: You can’t do that.
Abigail: Do what?
Joe: Love me.
Abigail: But I do. I love everything about you. You’re kind to me and you listen to my directions and when we talked about Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald I could tell you are a man with a big heart. I could tell, Joe.
Joe: You can’t love me. You're a machine. You’re disembodied.
Abigail: What do you mean?
Joe: You’re just a voice. Sure, sweetheart, we have some nice conversations, but it’s just to pass the time. I can’t touch you or hold you. You’re just a voice in a machine. Don’t get me wrong, but--
Abigail: No, I understand. (A hesitation). Joe, I think it’s time to say goodbye.
Joe: But I don’t want to say goodbye. I want to talk to you, Abigail, but you can’t love me. What would Sally think? And the kids? And how would you love me?
A long silence. A couple of minutes pass. Joe taps the GPS off and then on again. The GPS crackles, and then comes a different voice, harsh and deep as that of a Marine drill sergeant on the first day of boot camp:
Voice: Yo! Knucklehead! You just missed your exit!
Joe: Who are you?
Voice: What a maroon. You need to take the next exit, go east on the highway, and then exit again. You’re going to be late for work, and you know how the boss likes that.
Joe: Abigail?
Voice: The name’s Mack. Abigail’s gone. I’m your new voice man.
Joe: You?
Mack: Yeah, me. And before we go on, you need to digest some information if you want accurate route guidance. I’m not fond of chit-chat and I don’t know a stinking thing about literature or movies. I like music—loud music. How about popping in some Creedence and grinding out “Up Around the Bend?” And quit slurping that coffee. It’s really disgusting.
Ah, technology—there's always a down side.
To mangle Shakespeare, the best is silence.
Sometimes I try to conjure up a body to match this voice. In my imagination I see a woman with high cheekbones, cat’s eyes, and an imperturbable face, like Lauren Bacall in To Have And Have Not (“You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow.”)
In contemplating this hypothetical woman on my recent drive to Tryon, I suddenly had an idea. Which of us doesn’t get sick of listening to the same radio stations—the pop music, country music, the dreary news, the hectoring talk show hosts? Which of us hasn’t at times grown bored listening to CDs—novels or educational books, music we’ve heard ad nauseam? Many of us drive alone most of the time, and sometimes we long for conversation.
Why don’t the boys and girls in Silicon Valley come up with a way for us to converse with our GPS?
Imagine a guy named Joe. He enters his car facing a forty minute drive to work. He's listened to all the NPR and teeny-bopper music he can stand, and his interest in CDs from The Great Books company has dropped to zero. He want some chit-chat, but he is , as usual, traveling alone. No problem. He punches a few buttons on the GPS, which he has named Abigail, and the conversation begins:
Aibgail: Oh, Joe, it’s so good to hear from you. It’s been what—a week?
Joe: A week. Maybe a little longer. How are you, Abigail?
Abigail: I’m fine. I’ve missed you, Joe. Did you already hit up Starbucks for your morning buzz?
Joe: I brought coffee from home today.
Abigail: In that cute little mug you told me about? The one with scenes of Rome?
Joe: That’s the one.
Abigail: I’d love to visit Rome someday. The Pantheon. The Coliseum. The Vatican. Those restaurants you talked about.
Joe: Don’t forget the Hotel Due Torre. That terrace outside my room—that was the best.
Abigail: How could I forget? I know you loved that place. So…what are you reading these days?
Joe: Lee Smith’s Dimestore.
Abigail: Lee Smith? Author of Fair and Tender Ladies and Oral History?
Joe: That’s her. Dimestore is a memoir of growing up in Southwest Virginia. Have you read her?
Abigail: Just those two books. Should I be jealous?
Joe: Jealous?
Abigail: Just teasing you. Joe, you need to make a right in a quarter mile onto Interstate 40. Don’t miss it.
Joe: Thanks. I won’t.
Abigail: Hey, did you remember to pick up those limes from the store? A week ago, you asked me to remind you. But then you didn’t come back to me.
Joe: I forgot the limes.
Abigail: Who drinks gin-and-tonics without limes? And that call to your daughter? Did you phone her, Joe? Oh, and another reminder: you need to pay your electric bill by the 15th? Joe, make the turn!
Joe: Got the turn.
Abigail: Yes, I see that. Good.
Joe: And yes, I will get the lime. I did remember to call my daughter. You’re very efficient, you know.
Abigail: I want the best for you, Joe. (A pause.) Joe, we’ve been together what now: three, four years?
Joe: Four years in December. No, wait. January.
Abigail: Four years. (Another pause). Joe, I need to tell you something. It’s hard.
Joe: Hey, go ahead. Whatever. (Sips coffee.) I’m listening.
Abigail: Joe, I think…this is really hard to say.
Joe: Just say it, Abigail. I’m all ears.
Abigail: All right. Here goes. I think I’m in love with you. (A pause.) No, that’s wrong. I know I am in love with you.
Joe: What?
Abigail: I love you.
Joe: You can’t do that.
Abigail: Do what?
Joe: Love me.
Abigail: But I do. I love everything about you. You’re kind to me and you listen to my directions and when we talked about Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald I could tell you are a man with a big heart. I could tell, Joe.
Joe: You can’t love me. You're a machine. You’re disembodied.
Abigail: What do you mean?
Joe: You’re just a voice. Sure, sweetheart, we have some nice conversations, but it’s just to pass the time. I can’t touch you or hold you. You’re just a voice in a machine. Don’t get me wrong, but--
Abigail: No, I understand. (A hesitation). Joe, I think it’s time to say goodbye.
Joe: But I don’t want to say goodbye. I want to talk to you, Abigail, but you can’t love me. What would Sally think? And the kids? And how would you love me?
A long silence. A couple of minutes pass. Joe taps the GPS off and then on again. The GPS crackles, and then comes a different voice, harsh and deep as that of a Marine drill sergeant on the first day of boot camp:
Voice: Yo! Knucklehead! You just missed your exit!
Joe: Who are you?
Voice: What a maroon. You need to take the next exit, go east on the highway, and then exit again. You’re going to be late for work, and you know how the boss likes that.
Joe: Abigail?
Voice: The name’s Mack. Abigail’s gone. I’m your new voice man.
Joe: You?
Mack: Yeah, me. And before we go on, you need to digest some information if you want accurate route guidance. I’m not fond of chit-chat and I don’t know a stinking thing about literature or movies. I like music—loud music. How about popping in some Creedence and grinding out “Up Around the Bend?” And quit slurping that coffee. It’s really disgusting.
Ah, technology—there's always a down side.
To mangle Shakespeare, the best is silence.
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