Myrna & The Machines

This town just got upgraded, like it or not

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Silicon Valley never asked Myrna's permission. One day, it just rolled into her little town, all chrome and flashing promises. You probably read about it—a little dot of a town. For a brief time, it became a slightly brighter dot. It was in the papers, and reporters quoted the florist as “confused” by all the fuss. The mayor, reflexively flattening his wispy eyebrows, for the camera, said, “I’m delighted.” The head of the PTA said, “We’ll let the courts decide” as she held up a hand to keep her face from view.

Myrna said nothing, but oh, the things she heard! As the town's sole ice cream vendor, her shoppe—spelled the old-fashioned way just as she liked it—was a crossroads of chatter. From behind the counter, she'd collect the whispers folks thought they kept quiet—a grumbled complaint, a soon-broken promise, a bit of juicy news. Like coins clattering into the tin she kept on the shelf, the chinwags were her real payment, and more valuable. After all, she won this prized spot with a lucky hand—suited ace-kings against the mayor himself. That allowed her to pull a chit from the tin of secrets she kept above her shoulders. For ten years now, she’d been scooping ice cream rent-free and listening.

Myrna didn’t see the first truck roll in late at night. It looked like any ordinary tractor-trailer, except maybe more secretive. The first one had a hoity name: Omniverge. Who or what an Omniverge might be was anybody’s guess until the doors flung open. Inside were bright, wide aisles full of delicacies from around the world: goat cheese and exotic mushrooms, shiny gadgets, and items with writing that nobody could read. There were places for folks to sit and chit-chat—Myrna preferred the one by the deli. The store had low shelves, so you didn’t have to stand on your tippy-toes. Behind a glass wall, a robot chef with whirring arms could cook up a whole Thanksgiving feast in a few hours. The cashiers were friendly, too. They looked almost human. Their smiling faces were just screens that made small talk while scanning your goods at a speedy clip.

The old local market shut down a month or so later, its windows papered over with a brief, “Thank you for all the years” neatly painted on the glass. “Someone must have had their wires crossed, their databases jumbled,” the store manager had said. But anywho, there they were, benefactors of sorts, to modernity.

The Omniverge was followed by Glizen, a fusion of barbershop and hair salon. It was automated, too—a whirlwind of chairs on a conveyor, with all sorts of arms swinging from the ceiling. Betty from two doors down called it “marvelous,” but it curled some toes, for sure. Myrna had visited, poked around a bit, but preferred to cut her own hair. She wasn’t scared of the machine; she just liked the way she could see every snip from her own bathroom mirror.

Some company named Chiply built a large wooden playground for the kids, complete with a rocking pirate ship. Tek-U-Topia built the surrounding park. For grown-ups who took a sip, platforms with frothy daiquiris would appear with nothing more than a wave. And if you stayed too long, like Myrna did on occasion, a roving nurse was prepared to apply sunscreen with a feather-light touch. In the center of the park was the most interesting fountain she’d ever seen. Jets of water created shapes with aerial acrobatics: a flock of birds, a pair of ice skaters, or a stand of flowers blooming right on cue.

She guessed the tourists started to arrive around then—lookie-loos from other towns in nice cars and no kids. They’d let the multi-story Rampsy (or was it Curbsy?) car machine nab their car and hoist it up out of the way. They’d wander around, looking in the shops and watching the whiz-gigs do their thing. Most wouldn’t shell out a dime for anything except the souvenir t-shirts from the simple vending machine. Sometimes, she’d see them stop and gawk at her and the ice cream shoppe. It only made sense they might wonder if she, too, was controlled by a series of computers and satellite uplinks. From behind a book, she’d give them a stiff nod and robotic wink, then fall over laughing when their eyes got big.

Wave upon wave of daily irritants were replaced with beveled-edge bots or screens that hid a mountain of machinery. For every time-sucking blight, there was a new contraption, a new service. “Simple,” they said, “easy to use,” things destined to unravel the complexities of modern life, each proudly announcing the same lofty promise: freedom. From what, she wondered. But who was she, Myrna, a workaday person in such a lucky town, to turn down the one thing families seemed to crave above all else? Freedom. The whole thing—technology for every problem—was so crafty, so ingenious. And yet, the small talk around her shoppe was more hushed, folks offering fewer smiles.

Indeed, she thought, there had been far less queuing and far more deep, relaxing breaths. Chores in the office or the laundry room were now done by machines that needed no instruction, no sleep. With folks snoring late into the morning, a robot dispenser waited to sprinkle just the right amount of salt on an expertly poached egg. Freedom indeed, they all sighed.

There were some things she really liked about all these upgrades. Like the new Walkz system—like a conveyor belt, it took the arthritic hitch out of Myrna’s hip while getting around. Well, along with a healthy nip of brandy in her morning tea. But it did pay attention, moving her faster or slower depending on her mood.

The Sensotek, that was parlance for movie theater, was another treat…until the food chutes started to malfunction. Myrna found ordering anything with Cheez-Whiz gummed up the works, a sickly-sweet stench filling the air as the whole system shut down.

And those Bükflyr drones, she rather liked them. Their constant buzz was a familiar sound as they dropped off books and magazines and whatnot. The convenience was great, but surely there had to be a point where orders couldn't get any faster. Skimming through the manuals, Myrna wondered: do the people who build these systems understand its limits?

And there at the Omni—that’s what everyone called the grocery store now—Myrna expected to hear a cheerful bleep. Instead, the terminal returned a disappointing bloop. Then, a clumsy clunk, and it rang out a confusing dee—eee—eet before spitting her card out. She sighed and looked at the screen behind the counter as the smiling clerk on the screen faded away. Tilt. Kaput.

Down the street, with her sack crinkling, Myrna stepped onto the self-lowering curb by the elementary school. She held the bag firmly and, with a subtle nudge of her foot, adjusted a loose panel on the mechanical sidewalk as it lurched forward. She stared at the school’s open windows, the laughter of children echoing only in her memory. Great glass panes and intricately louvered shades, made to direct wind and sun, now stood askew.

Teachers, as well as books, had become images on portable screens. Changing chapters hardly took more than an eye flick. Children, too, had been given freedom. School could be done from anywhere: the cafeteria, on the lawn, and finally at home. This carried on for a while until curriculum designers justified that children no longer needed to attend school at all... and no one seemed to mind anymore.

Myrna watched the late-arriving tourists who missed the crescendo, their faces pressed against windows, fingers pointing where all that technology once stood. Vagabond sightseers, too, circled the town square but never stopped. That left the streets open for the locals, returning to a rhythm she knew well. And that was fine with Myrna.

The sidewalk stopped to deposit Myrna as she took a deep breath, hoisting the sack to adjust its contents. She steadied herself against the corner, her hand on the sun-warmed brick. A few steps beyond, she knew the whirring machines and blinking sensors had fallen silent. Here, instead, there would be a gathering of expectant eyes, always fewer than some weeks ago. These weren't glassy, unblinking cameras, scanning everything but the soul. These were marbles of blue, brown, and green, creased at the corners with the warmth of genuine smiles. She knew each by name and by heart. Seeing them, a crinkle formed at the corner of her own eyes, her smile as bright as theirs.

Myrna’s bag, worn thin, spilled its contents onto the sidewalk. Bags of chocolate and break-proof bottles of marshmallow cream scattered, bouncing and rolling underfoot and over the curb. A dozen or so of her fellow townspeople scuttled about, nabbing each item as Myrna fished her keys from deep in the pocket of her sweater, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. It was much too hot for the frock, but habits are habits, and she expected autumn soon.

With flourished precision they’d seen a thousand times, she pulled the folding glass doors wide open. Her hand reached with a firm grip and pulled a ball at the end of a long rope, sending it snaking high through the bric-a-brac: a tiny tin robot frozen mid-wave, a cracked ray gun from some dime-store vending machine. With a click, a Bükflyr drone above whirred to life as a fan, its maker’s name sloppily painted over in a rainbow of colors. She flicked a switch, and the back wall blinked to life—OmniVerge screens of smiling virtual clerks with signs taped to each offering: chocolate, vanilla, mango, brandy.

She pulled out a drawer and selected the right set of tools. One big, one small—no electrical cord necessary. The townspeople crowded the counter’s edge, their eyes darting, looking at the paraphernalia she’d collected, pretending not to look, but Myrna saw them steal a glance. She didn’t mind in the least.

A portable radio clicked to life, a tinny melody from a bygone summer drifting from behind the counter, past the always-fruiting trees beyond.

Myrna smiled as beside her a whirring Glizen arm turned and presented the waffle cone dispenser.

Leaning across the counter, she asked, “What’ll ya have?”

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Music to read by: Three to Get Ready by The Dave Brubeck Quartet

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Backstory

I hated the original draft. But I couldn’t’ get it out of my mind: this tiny town invaded by unwanted dalliances of modern technology. As if the “of course” mindset I saw so often living and working in SF would work, be welcome in a small town. Add to that the displacement large companies (cough-WalMart-cough) do to small communities. Sure, it’s wonderful to have a one-stop-shop but the quality decreases as volume goes up. Then, the town turns homogenous.

The shape of the story has remained largely the same but in later drafts I trimmed the number of companies. There were automated dog walkers, car manufactures, drone tree trimmers, a town loom for custom bedsheets, Roomba-like trash collectors…too much. I binged on world-building before a needed crash diet. And, I’ve probably kept too many but I wanted it to seem slightly overwhelming. Making up names is fun – Bükflyr is my favorite, I’ve typed it so often it comes up in spell check. But I found a plethora of tech company name generators online to round out my list of obtuse, name-doesn’t-match-the-product companies.

One important note came from a reader who wondered if Myrna might be a saboteur. WHAT?! The thought floored me. I had envisioned these companies simply providing little ongoing support once operations started. Like most tech companies they’d just let the customers wither. But that idea was killer. So, I’ve subtly tried to weave it in without, hopefully, hitting the reader over the head and leave a little ambiguity.

Sometimes a main character is really clear from the outset. Not so with Myrna. Draft after draft had her fully onboard or obstinate to the technology. Like many of us with our constant silicon-crutch I have a love/hate relationship to it and, ultimately, Myrna does, too.

One final note about Myrna, did you draw any conclusions to what she looked like? I don’t give her any descriptions outside the “arthritic hitch” and an implied age. While writing I kept thinking she was an older version of Marcie from Peanuts. What did you see?

-j.