The Final Year

I saw no newspaper headlines, no 24 hour CNN coverage, no Time Magazine covers proclaiming that the great divide between natural and artificial intelligence had been breached. As far as I knew, machines were still vastly inferior to humans in reasoning capacity. And I am pretty up on such things. So you might imagine my astonishment when I happened upon one that was clever enough to give me the run-around, disguised in no less a ubiquitous shell than a Coke machine. I must give it (and myself) a bit of credit. This is from the first glance no average soda vendor. The process is similar, in goes money, out comes drink. But after inserting up to a five dollar bill into the slot (I often use dollar coins, so satisfying) and punching in the corresponding letter/number digit combination associated with your bottle of choice, a vertically moving tray with a conveyor belt raises up to the desired altitude (just under your bottle), a gate is opened for a split second, and your beverage slides upright onto the belt. The treadmill jogs quickly to one side in a short burst, pulling the feet out from under the bottle and toppling it gracefully onto its side. Then the thing is conveyed sideways as the entire mechanism drops to the level of a single hole in the side of the machine, the bottle slips through and slides down a chute to an opening in the front, where you, the eager consumer, pluck it greedily from its hole, and grab your now available change.
Thus is the process repeated for each customer, unnecessarily ingenious and continually fascinating. You therefore have some understanding of the feelings of pride mixed in with vexation at having been outsmarted by such a device. I was impressed that we humans have developed such a sophisticated machine, both physically, and, as I would find out, mentally.
Here’s where the trouble began. I was attempting to purchase a Snapple. It cost $1.25, and I happened to have exactly five quarters. One after the other, I plunked George’s metal heads into the black abyss. $1.25 gleamed happily from the red digital display. “C6,” said I to the Coke machine, clacking the hard to press buttons with my fingernail. At once, a whirring as the belt mechanism dropped into place just below the line of bottles of which my Snapple was one. With a snapsnap the gate opened and closed, relinquishing hold of my prey. ! CRAP ! Fabrics of time ripped to shreds around me. The world spun upside down and inside out, and I witnessed my own birth, life, and death in an instant’s time. The bottle had slid out from its place and rested half on, half off of the belt mechanism. It hung, top leaning on the glass in front of me, just a few millimeters above the increasingly frantic belt. The rubber surface jerked back and forth politely at first, then more and more violently as the awaited thud of an upturned hunk of glass and juice did not come. With a look that can only be described as pitiful, the big, bright, sad machine gave a shudder, paused, and brought the belt mechanism, bottle sliding down the glass, to a rest at the bottom of the machine. There my poor Snapple sat, looking wide-eyed up at me from its dark pit of loneliness. All was quiet for a few eerie seconds. Then, with a jolt, the machine mustered up strength for one last gasp. The mechanism flew upwards on its track, belt flying back and forth spitting sparks spectacularly as it tried its best to overcome the small but insurmountable gap of 3 millimeters. Finally, panting, the machine admitted defeat, and returned its belt mechanism to the ground. I watched mournfully as the bottle descended, feeling the pangs of loss that only come from having five quarters snatched from right under my nose.
But just as I had reached the depths of despair, two things happened simultaneously that were, frankly, miraculous. As the belt came to a stop on the ground, the bottle was jarred just enough that it gently, carefully toppled over on its side onto the belt. But my cheers of joy were thrown off by an odd sound. Slowly, and with deliberate intent, five gleaming metal coins dropped ching ching ching ching ching into the change tray. I wept with joy, hugged the perturbed girl behind me, and planted a big fat kiss with tongue on the front glass of the obviously pleased-with-itself bright red Coca-Cola machine. It gave a giggle and squirmed happily in my arms.
I must now confess my terrible crime. It is said by some that humanity fears the evil that rests beside a good heart, and I can only admit that I succumbed horribly to my own greed. There in front of me was a conveyor belt, happily awaiting instructions, unaware of its precious cargo. In my hand were five quarters. The girl behind me, having run away, was nowhere to be seen. I grinned a great silent smile, and darted my eyes from side to side. No police, no hall monitors, no video cameras. I was alone, and I had motive, means, and opportunity to take undue advantage of my new red friend. One after the other I violently plunged my booty into the slot, the red readout adding .25 together until the magic $1.25 showed prominently. With streetwise cleverness I chose a row of bottles different from my original choice, so that it would fall away from my awaiting Snapple. “C3” I told the machine, whistling nonchalance. The moment of glee at receiving TWO drinks for the price of one was, however, fleeting. The conveyor belt mechanism jerked upward to just under the C row. Then, as if admonishing me for my criminal intentions, lowered again to the hole without opening any gates, and delivered my long-awaited Snapple through the hole and into my awaiting hands. A small trickle of a tear fell from its digital readout. We had been through so much together, we had formed such a bond, and I had ruined it spectacularly. I had tried to cheat my only friend, my true and just and loyal Coca-Cola machine. A more bitter Snapple had no one ever tasted. I was a fraud, a sham, a crook, a hooligan. I did not deserve such treatment. I should have my drink confiscated, my arms chopped off, and be thrown in the SCI-Arc dungeon for all eternity. I had been not only outsmarted, but out-moraled by a mere machine. I returned to my desk, sobbing at my plight. I write this story not to evoke sympathy, but so that others like me will not share a similar fate. Be kind, don’t steal.

(The facts and locations of this story have been truthfully conveyed, though the names and emotions have been changed to protect the narrative.)