The Coonridge Digest: Gettin’ the hang of automation

Greetin’s from the Ridge.

Herb stopped dead in his tracks in front of the screen. "It sounds Russian," he said. "I won’t use nothin’ that’s Russian."

"It’s not Russian, comrade, it’s just called a kiosk."

"Shh! Woman, you want somebody to hear you talkin’ like that?"

We were trying to check out of our hotel last week, and since there was a line at the checkout desk, I’d directed Herb to a courtesy kiosk. "All you have to do is slide your room key in the slot and it’ll show a copy of our bill. Just slide it, Herb. You won’t have to march in the Kremlin May Day parade. Slide the card, push OK and it’ll charge our credit card."

"I want to talk to a real person."

"You are and that real person is tellin’ you to slide your stupid card. We’re gonna miss our flight."

"What if it won’t give the card back?"

"Any reason you need a key to this hotel when you’re flying to Atlanta? Slide the stupid card!"

He saw I was about to slug him, so he slid. We picked up our luggage and startled waddling out to the car. "I wish there was a machine to carry this luggage," I told him, but Herb was in deep miff and wasn’t talking to anybody.

"What’re we stopping here for?"

"I need gas."

"We’re flying to Atlanta, not driving! We gotta get to the airport, Herb!"

"We’ve only got a half tank of gas."

"And the airport’s just two miles away! I think we can probably cruise in on the fumes. Step on it!"

"I can’t leave a car parked with just a half tank of gas." Herb was raised in the era when a car’s tank only held ten gallons, the hospital was fifty miles away, the roads were terrible, and people got sick a lot. If he has to park his car with only half a tank he can’t sleep at night. When he dies he’ll have the hearse stop to fill up on the way to the cemetery.

"Herb, we’ve got to catch the plane!"

"It’ll just take a minute."

The days when Herb could do anything in a minute were long past, but there was no stopping him and we pulled into a service station. "There’s nobody here, Freida."

"It’s self-serve, Herb. You just fill your tank then slide you credit card."

"Without people?"

"The car runs on gas, not people. Fill it up, you numbskull. I think I just heard our plane take off."

He avoided another head bashing and slid his card. We made it to the airport with barely time to spare and again performed our "two elderly ducks in deep mud" act as we hurried to the check-in counter. Nobody was behind the desk, but a sign read, "Please use our convenient automated check in."

"What’s that mean?" said Herb, unable to understand even short sentences by this time.

"It means we can check in automatically."

"Without people?"

"No, I’ll be there."

"How do they know I’m not a terrorist?"

"They saw the way you limped. Terrorists are healthy. Just slide our tickets, Herb."

"What if I don’t get it back?"

"Then I won’t have to spend the next two hours beside you on a plane. Slide the stupid tickets!" He avoided another slugging by sliding and we were off to the departure lounge.

"Tell me again why we’re going to Atlanta."

"To meet your old army buddies."

"I’ll bet we don’t."

"What?"

"We’ll go to Atlanta and my friends will all be automated. I’ll stand there sliding my credit card in their kiosks all weekend." He might have point.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.