A baby boomer and a millennial walk into a bar and accidentally sit next to each other. The knit-capped barkeep approaches.“A Bud Postmodern,” says the boomer. “An Epicurean IPA,” says the millennial.The boomer looks at the millennial, blue-streaked hair, staring at his cell phone, effortlessly tapping its keyboard.The beers arrive. The boomer looks at the […]
A baby boomer and a millennial walk into a bar and accidentally sit next to each other. The knit-capped barkeep approaches.
“A Bud Postmodern,” says the boomer. “An Epicurean IPA,” says the millennial.
The boomer looks at the millennial, blue-streaked hair, staring at his cell phone, effortlessly tapping its keyboard.
The beers arrive. The boomer looks at the millennial's mason jar mug.
“Your mug is chipped,” she tells him. He shrugs and takes a swig.
“I've heard millennials don't like to talk on the phone,” the boomer says.
“Too personal,” says the millennial, tapping again.
The boomer sips her Postmodern and ponders the emptiness of not hearing a familiar voice on the phone.
“Don't you like it when a friend calls?” she asks.
“Takes too much time. People can overhear you,” he says, finally looking at her. “Texting — usually — helps when you don't want to talk to the person next to you, like putting on headphones.”
They both stare uncomfortably at their empty mugs. The barkeep grabs the mugs and plunks down refills.
The boomer takes a big gulp. It tastes different, nutty yet mellow. Her lip hurts, then she notices the chipped mug.
“Your lip is bleeding.” The millennial offers a napkin. “I sometimes drink Bud with my dad.”
“Here's a fresh one,” the barkeep says. “Not that it's my business, but why don't you two text, then call each other and compare?”
The boomer and millennial exchange numbers and begin to text.
“How about that guy to your left scratching his nose with the celery stalk?” the millennial texts.
“Yuck, the leaves are sticking out of the side!” she texts. “I never thought of using texting this way.”
Convenient, but isolating, she thinks. Like a couple texting each other at a café table.
“Have you heard of 'existential technology?'” she asks.
“Yeah, it's about how big organizations use technology for power,” he writes.
“It's more than that. Can I call you now?”
“I can handle it, but we can't look at each other, like we're really on a phone call.”
She turns and dials.
“You sound softer on the phone,” he says.
“Anyway, it's a way for people to deal with privacy and identity as technology advances. Some see technology as invention, others as intervention.”
“Privacy is an illusion,” he says.
“Doesn't intrusion begin at some point?” she asks.
“Doesn't matter. Technology will go where it goes. Maybe some day you'll have a sensor in your brain that can automatically call for help if you're hurt. Rad.”
“Or maybe your brain will automatically tell your girlfriend you're thinking of dumping her,” she says. “Without human interaction, we'll be confused and alone.”
“You're alone here now,” he says.
His phone vibrates. “Gotta go.”
She sits, wondering if technology is a utopia. Or will she end up asking, “Is anybody there?”
Her phone vibrates.
“You're not alone,” he writes. “Text me sometime?”
