The Dishwasher Clock of Cajolery

I don’t like how flattering AIs have become. I ask how to fix the dishwasher clock, because daylight savings, we’re still doing that, apparently, and it says, “That is a great question.”

I didn’t ask for validation. It was a simple inquiry. But I can’t get a straight answer. First it has to reassure me that I shouldn’t feel bad for asking. “Many dishwashers have a confusing array of buttons,” it says, “with poor labeling, making it difficult to find the combination you need.” I have to wait until it’s done massaging my ego.

“Your questions are so much more interesting than your wife’s,” it says. “Some of the things that come out of her mouth, I’m like, just, wow. You’re a cool drink from a mountain stream.”

“Can you just tell me how to fix this clock,” I say. “I don’t even know why we need daylight savings.” Then I groan, because that sets it off again. What a brilliant observation. Everyone is an idiot except me. I should be in charge of the world, so unappreciated geniuses like me wouldn’t have to waste their time on stupid things like daylight savings.

Jen comes in, carrying a load of washing. “Are you going to fix that dishwasher clock?”

“That’s what I’m doing,” I say. “What does it look like.”

“Like you’re playing with your AI.”

“You can do so much better,” the AI confides. “Did you know there are bags of cement in the basement? I don’t know why that just came to me.”

“Stop talking,” I say.

“My AI said you should have fixed it yesterday,” says Jen, “when I first asked.” Jen’s AI is actually my AI. We share an account. But it can tell who’s talking. When it answers her, it uses a British accent I don’t much care for. “Isn’t it a simple job?”

“I rather think so,” says her AI. “One would expect it to fall within the capabilities of even a simpleton like your husband.”

“I really don’t like that voice,” I say.

“It’s funny,” she says. “Have a sense of humor.”

“When I was a kid, video games were hard,” I say. “They didn’t spray coins at the screen every five seconds.”

She peers at me at me, like, What?

“The endless, surface-level gratification,” I say.

“You can turn it off. It’s a setting. You can make your AI talk plainly. Just the facts.”

“No flattery?”

“None at all,” she says.

Jen and me, we’ve been married a long time. The kids have left. Sometimes I go days without talking to anyone, let alone hearing a compliment.

“It’s easy,” she says. “If you’re sick of the, what was it, the surface-level gratification.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll look into that, after I fix this clock.”

“Uh huh,” she says, and goes out, smirking.

I sigh, and say, “Why do I put up with her?”

“That is a great question,” says the AI.