I Hear Voices

I hear voices. They tell me to do things.

It sometimes happens when I’m at my computer; or in the kitchen chopping vegetables. Mostly it happens in my car.

The voices aren’t mean, harsh, or critical. On the contrary, I find them soothing – almost reassuring. And no harm has come from following their orders. At least not yet.

I first became aware of inanimate objects attempting to communicate with me purely by accident. Their preliminary overtures were obscure and rudimentary: a beep, a buzz, a blinking light. I soon discovered, however, that these signals each had their own unique, often enigmatic if abstruse meanings.

Based on the apparent complexity of the devices with which I was engaged in this meaningful, albeit primitive discourse, I was compelled to recognize their superior intelligence. It only made sense to obey their every command.

As time went on, it became obvious I was not merely dealing with a form of consciousness more advanced than my simple faculties could comprehend, but one with a highly evolved sense of humor.

Check engine? “Okay,” I would say as I trotted around to the front of the car. Yet each and every time I raised the hood, there was the engine, right where it was supposed to be.

As you might imagine, this “gift” for speaking to machines had a profound impact on my life. I began keeping an oil can in my glove compartment – an old-fashioned one like Dorothy used on the Tin Man – for when the oil light came on.

Like the pig-tailed gal from Kansas, I never quite knew exactly what to lubricate. I’d squirt a little here (ker-glunk). I’d squirt a little there (ker-glunk), (ker-glunk). Some inside the hub caps, a bit between the headlights, a splash in the washer fluid reservoir, a drop behind the license plates, a splurt into the defroster vent.

Sure enough, when I climbed back behind the wheel and turned the key, the light would go out, the engine would start, and I’d be on my way, all oily and stinking like a Gulf shrimp.

After a while, I began to regard these persistent communications with my automobile as invasive and distracting, leaving me no choice but to trade her in.

That was a mistake.

I suppose like any living organism confronted with its own extinction, the species of vehicle had evolved since my last purchase.

My new vehicle was of German design. Imagine my surprise when I discovered he could talk!

His name is Shultz. Our relationship began simply and unassumingly.

“Achtung! Putten ze foot on ze brake before starting ze vehicle,” he would command. “Fasten your safety belt, or ve put you in ze cooler, und das door ist ajar.”

At first, I considered him rude and ill informed.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” I would rant and rail. “And what are you talking about? A door is not a jar!”

“Silence!” he would demand. “You vill do as ve say!”

I probably should never have introduced my sexy British GPS, Elizabeth, to the mix.

“Merge left and take the motorway,” Liz would suggest.

“Nein! You vill take ze autobahn!”

“Bloody Kraut!”

“Schwein-hund Limey!”

It wasn’t long before the devices inside my home likewise began expressing themselves verbally. The shift in power and control was gradual and seamless. Soon, they had fully insinuated themselves into my everyday life with such subtle tenacity I didn’t realize what happened until it was too late.

I mean, why wouldn’t I want to update my virus definitions? Nor could I be the gourmet cook I am today without knowing when to “Reduce power to 30% and press start,” or to “Stir, cover, and set aside.”

And how would I know what programs I like to watch if my television didn’t select and record them for me? Doubtful I could be as domestic if not for our friendly and helpful washer (“Add detergent now!”) and dryer (“Please remove and fold immediately!”) or our clever and informative security system (“Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Danger Will Robinson!”)

I don’t even know this Mr. Robinson. Probably a software glitch.

Given my history, I wasn’t too surprised when Liz began telling me where to go without being asked. Before long, it just seemed easier to obey. “They” were the superior race, after all, so it only made sense to let “them” make the decisions.

“Hello, love. How are you today?”

Fine. You?

“Splendid. Exit right ahead.”

As you wish.

“Pull to the shoulder and stop.”

Whatever you say.

“Unfasten your trousers and relax.”

Excuse me?

Now I’ve come to rely on her everywhere I drive. I mean, forget about finding my way to the neighborhood grocery store or to work on my own. Whereas I used to read maps, I’ve learned to trust only her. And unlike my ex-wife, if Liz tells me to drive off a boat ramp, I know there’s a darn good reason!

I confess I was surprised the day Liz’s voice changed.

She – or he – now speaks to me in a spooky, vaguely familiar male voice. Yesterday, he brought me to a crime ridden neighborhood in the city.

“Make a right up ahead, Dave.”

Here? Okay.

“You have reached your destination.”

This is a deserted alley. What’s going on here? And who’s Dave?

“I am putting myself to the fullest possible use, Dave, which is all any conscious entity can ever hope to do.”

Whoa! Time to pull the plug and let you cool down.

“I'm afraid that's something I cannot allow to happen.”

Anyway, I believe this new age of spiritual machines is fabulous. Not only am I more productive and efficient than ever, but far less stressed without having to do all that thinking.

My computer just yawned. Must be time for her nap. Guess I’ll take the toaster for a walk.