“Honey, I think there’s something we need to discuss,” Terri said, coming into the living room.
It had been my experience that such a statement usually indicated the end of my relaxed weekend state, so I swung my feet around and sat up on the couch in an effort to at least appear alert.
“I don’t think our robot likes the name you gave it,” she said, sitting down across from me. “I think it finds it demeaning.”
That one took a little chewing over. The bot had been in the house for all of three days and had seemed to be adapting well, pouring us drinks, loading the dishwasher, and even helping out with the laundry.
I though about it a bit, nodded and said, “Okay, and just so we’re on the same page, you know that he, she, it…or whatever, is a robot, right?”
“Yes,” Terri said, “I’m well aware it’s a robot, thank you,” her tone indicating she was in no mood for sarcasm.
“And so why do you think Jeeves doesn’t like being called Jeeves?” I asked. “It’s a classic butler’s name.”
Terri sighed and said, “See, that’s just it. It’s not a butler. It’s a personal assistant. It’s so much more than a robot.”
This was all a little disconcerting to hear. The bot was supposed to make our life easier, less complicated and less stressful. That was according to the electronics conglomerate that designed and made the thing. But here it was a few days in and life was seemingly about to get more complicated for me.
“And how can you tell Jeeves doesn’t like its name?”
“It’s obvious,” Terri said, “I mean if if you pay attention at all. Have you seen the way it does things when I ask it to, versus when you ask? Just watch it sometime, you’ll see different body language. It’s very subtle.”
Body language, I thought. Interesting, being that Jeeves was a bucket of steel, chips and wires so far as I could tell.
“But you call it Jeeves too,” I said. “Why would it single me out?”
“It knows you gave it the name,” she said.
“Of course.”
Terri shook her head, “I don’t think you understand.”
“That’s accurate,” I said.
Terri got up and went over to the entrance to the dining room and yelled to the kitchen beyond that.
“Jeeves would you come in here, please?”
She sat down and there was a little whirling noise from the other side of the house and sure enough, Jeeves motored in, the little white dots of it’s eyes spinning wildly to exhibit happiness at seeing Terri.
Jeeves then spun toward me and the little eyes stopped moving altogether, and instead fixed me with a hard stare.
“Jeeves,” Terri said, “would you be a dear and bring me a glass of water?”
Jeeves little eyes spun around again like he, she, it was crazy about Terri and off it went to the kitchen. As soon as it was out of earshot Terri half-whispered across the room to me.
“Now, when Jeeves comes back you ask it to do the same thing,” she said.
“With pleasure,” I said.
We heard some clunking around in the kitchen, but we had grown use to Jeeves bumping into things and moving stuff around. No worse than a relative in the house. And we could hear the water dispenser in the refrigerator doing its thing, and a minute later a nice clear glass of water was brought into the room. Jeeves pulled up just short of Terri and its long arm, or appendage, or whatever its called extended to hand the glass to her.
Jeeves promptly took its spot next to her, as if waiting for another command. I gave it a moment to cool its jets, literally, before making my request.
“Jeeves, how about a glass of water for me?”
The robot’s little white dot eyes stayed fixed on me. If it had a brow, I’m sure it would have been furrowed. No movement, no recognition, no nothing. It was like I hadn’t spoken. I can get this from my kids, I thought.
Jeeves edged forward, turned and looked at Terri. She smiled and nodded like it was okay, and off it went, but in the opposite direction of the kitchen. We listened to Jeeves’ progress through the other side of the house before it finally found the kitchen.
Again, eerily similar behavior to that of the kids. Ignore the request, begrudgingly accept the request, then take the long way to where the request requires you to go. It’s probably in a psychology textbook somewhere. The Three Stages of Doing Something a Parent Asks. Denial, Acceptance, and Delay.
From the kitchen I could hear the tap water running.
“Maybe the dispenser broke,” Terri said.
“Yes, right after your glass was filled. I’m starting to see what you mean.”
Jeeves motored back into the room holding a nice tall drink glass, a glass that appeared to hold a shot of water and not a drop more.
The bot stayed in the middle of the room, extended its appendage, and placed the glass on the coffee table. Not using a coaster. Then went over and stayed by Terri’s side.
“Jeeves,” I said, “there doesn’t appear to be much water in the glass. How about you go back and fill it up this time?”
The suggestion was followed by silence. Then the bot’s arm extended and it nudged the glass a centimeter closer to me on the table.
I had seen enough. The damn thing wasn’t happy with me.
“Need I remind you that your intelligence is artificial?” I asked it.
“Honey,” Terri snapped.
Jeeves started to spin side to side like it was throwing a tantrum. The darn thing was whirling and wheezing and have some sort of high tech meltdown.
“Stop that right now before I leave you out in the next rain storm,” I yelled. “How do you think a little rust will feel on that arm of yours, huh?
After a moment the bot slowed, then stopped spinning completely and seemed to calm down.
“There,” I said to Terri, “it just needed to be reminded who was in charge.”
“Now, Jeeves, please hand me my glass with what little water is in it,” I said.
Jeeves extended its arm and grasped the glass, then motored across the room to me.
“I’m glad to see we have an understanding,” I said.
I reached for the drink and as I did it turned the glass upside down and dumped the water in my lap, then motored back across the room to Terry. I looked across to see her laughing, and it waving at me.