I swear I didn’t see it coming. How could I, when I come from a time when we called each other on the phone and love declarations were written by hand? A time when things were asked for politely and, always, you were thanked. Yes, I’m from the era when you told someone off with your eyes on theirs, not on a screen. Of course I didn’t miss it, damn it. That’s the impersonal stuff that governs everything. That is why the worst comes wrapped in emoticons, and a war is declared in 140 characters. I’ve seen a guy win simply because, darn it, he smiles a lot, he sends short messages, and he parades about looking harmless, a hipster, while a marching crowd follows with arms raised. I’m digressing, as usual. You see, I don’t do brevity—least of all the condensation of an idea.
That Siri arrived to make my life easier. Siri dials numbers, sets my alarm, finds wrecks sunk in the vast digital ocean.
What fuels this tirade happened less than a month ago. Someone determined to push this old-school man I am toward the bionic man I ought to be, to avoid being sidelined by modern life, told me to activate my personal assistant, apparently named Siri. In short, I did it, or more precisely, they did it for me, and I discovered that indeed the so‑called Siri arrived to make my life easier. Siri dials numbers, sets my alarm, finds wrecks sunk in the vast digital ocean. And, look, she even reserved me a table at a tavern serving fried eggs, blood sausage, and other cured meats.
But here’s the catch: I can’t say thank you, because, you know, we have to save water. How you read that. Not a “thank you, Siri, good night, nice work.” I’ll spare the long-winded explanation about huge data centers that need the water of two Amazon rivers to cool down and not burn the world to a crisp, and I won’t bore you with the notion that asking Siri a few more questions might lead us toward a wasteland where Mad Max would barely survive. I’m getting to the point, liter by liter, the thing that gnaws at me: this impulse to get to the essence, to sideline ceremony, to spit on good manners. Because as soon as I was warned to close the tap on good manners to save the planet, two thoughts came to me: one, it seems we might not deserve to reach the next Ice Age; and two, Isabel, who left Arcos de la Frontera to become Siri in living flesh, with a wonderful smile in a house where a mother works in retail, a father is at sea, and three rather lively kids.
Ya know that Siri has no feelings, but I fear that someday we’ll end up like replicants.
Mother raised us to ask Isabel for everything with a please, and to say thank you every time. And, of course, before stirring ColaCao, a hearty thank you. Isabel was to be treated as another member of the family, even though in our family we could hardly stand that she kept blasting Camilo Sesto and his damned Jesucristo Superstar.
Isabel was wonderful, and I remember, with emotion, the weekend trips to her hometown. She sat in front in the car my father drove. The pestiños from the bakery in the square while we waited for the hours she needed to catch up with her mother and sisters. Our flesh-and-blood Siri made life infinitely easier and more pleasant for us. I’d like to think that she always felt at home in that house, where the mistress spoke to her with affection, the children spoke with manners, and the gentleman carried the courtesy of a seaman.
Because we aren’t machines, and we shouldn’t pretend to be. I know Siri has no feelings, but I fear that one day we will end up like replicants, and all the good and bad moments will vanish into time, like tears in rain. That is the water we fritter away on so many stupidities, and we save only by not letting a simple “thank you” spill from our lips.