By JEFFERSON WEAVER
Staff writer

I’m hearing things.

The above statement isn’t meant to confirm a suspicion many of you may have had for years. It’s the truth. Machines talk to me sometimes. Of course, they’re designed to talk, so put the butterfly nets away, please.

I don’t think machines should talk; as a malevolently stubborn troglodyte who has been known to shoot cellular phones with a muzzle-loading flintlock musket, I take a certain pride in being several decades behind the technological times.

But like some bunch of evil robots in a 1950’s science fiction movie – a black and white one, that is – the darn insidious gatherings of silicon and plastic keep invading my life.

It started with the automated voices wanting to sell me something over the telephone, something I actually like. I find it easier to be rude to machines than to people, since even bill collectors and telephone solicitors are people, too. What with so many calling companies going to automation, I can now be rude to my heart’s content, without hurting anyone’s feeling.

Turning the call button off in the middle of an automated spiel about satellite television isn’t as satisfying as slamming down a telephone in someone’s ear, but it doesn’t hurt anyone’s feelings, either.

At least I hope the machines don’t have feelings.

If they did have feelings, one of my office phones wouldn’t speak to me anymore. I regularly disregard the various and sundry voice commands it offers whilst I’m just trying to check a message. I can thump the phone, bang it around, and insult it in several different languages, but it still won’t do what I want it to when I want it to do so.

Then there’s Marilyn.

Marilyn came into my life entirely by accident; I pushed the wrong button on my cellular phone one evening, and suddenly this sultry but serious voice asked me if I wanted to make a call. Try as I might, I couldn’t figure out how to turn Marilyn off and make the phone wait for something so prosaic as the press of a button, so I put up with Marilyn.

For weeks afterward, every call would be accompanied by a polite message from Marilyn, informing me of the incoming call, oftentimes who was calling, and would I like to answer the phone. Sometimes simply opening the telephone and pushing the wrong button would elicit a flurry of responses and requests from Marilyn, most of which she doesn’t understand.

A few weeks back, after the fourth or fifth person called me on a stretch of road with no shoulders, graveyards or church parking lots, I dug up a so-called hands-free device to plug into my phone. Now there’s often a wire dangling around my collar, and a little foam thing to shove into my ear.

I may not look exactly like that secret agent guy on television (over whom my wife used to swoon), but at least I don’t have to worry quite so much about missing a telephone call. I don’t have to worry about women swooning over me, either, like the fellow in the TV show, but that’s never been a problem anyway. In further contrast to that fellow, people don’t often shoot at me, but that’s a column for another day.

Anyway, with the little wire hanging out of my ear, I can answer that accursed device, should I so choose, by simply telling Marilyn “yes.”
And that opened the door.

Like any gadget, Marilyn has wormed her way into daily usage. Marilyn is kind of like an old-fashioned secretary, in that I can ask her to record a memo, call someone, or tell me what time it is.
Naturally, not all these things work every time I ask them to, making Marilyn even more like an old-fashioned secretary who’s fetched one too many cups of coffee.

I now have to leave the earpiece in the truck, so Miss Rhonda doesn’t get jealous of the invisible, electronic woman whispering in my ear. It can even be rather amusing when I forget to disconnect the wire, and bring Marilyn inside. Our postmistress thought I had finally flipped the other day when I began saying “No. No. No, Marilyn,” while standing in the Post Office. Her daughter – the daughter of the postmistress, that is, not Marilyn – is a dear friend of mine, and happened by about the same time. She thought I was just being rude.
I assured both of them it wasn’t insanity on my part, just bad manners for having forgotten to turn Marilyn off. She gets rather testy when I do manage to silence her, occasionally buzzing for no particular reason except that she is female and even a lady will tell you a woman stays mad far longer than any man.

So if you see me walking down the street talking to myself, don’t assume the worst. Things have just gotten so busy that even time spent traveling from Point A to Point B is wasted if I can’t get some work done.

Much as I count on the little device, I still don’t trust machines that can talk. At least I can reassure myself that the darn things can’t think – yet.

But if Marilyn swoons, we’re all in trouble.


Weaver is a staff writer at The News Reporter. Contact him via e-mail at jeffweaver@newsreporter. biz, or via telephone at 642-4104. And if you hear a machine talking, he suggests grabbing a large rock for protection.