Living with machines is much easier then living with people. I’ve done it both ways. I know. I suppose it isn’t really any big secret, just something that nobody really cares to think about or admit. I mean, can you imagine the tension here last night if I’d actually invited a living, breathing human over to share a meal, which ends up being what a DVD is to a DVD player. Something to snack on. So, for imagination’s sake, let’s just say that I’ve invited over a machine I met, who we’ll call D - short, of course, for DVD Player.
First, the night’s cinematic torture session would have been like sitting down to a meal that looks good but tastes wrong from the very first bite. D and I would have sat across the table from each other, smiling politely each time our eyes met, pretending to enjoy the meal when in fact we both knew it was the most vile thing ever to cross our lips. We would both chew as slowly as humanly possible (or in my date’s case - machinely possible), hoping somehow that our tastebuds would be tricked into thinking that our mouth’s were empty and their work done.
Politeness is the real enemy, you see. It’s the thing that keeps us smiling and chewing, and gives us all that look of being graciously entertained. I would have no way of knowing (having not dated in many, many years), that politeness, a real compass when it comes to navigating the human world, is of little use when dining with a machine. And D, the poor thing, having just arrived in this country and new to dating herself, would have no way of knowing that politeness can be a tool that humans switch on and off on a whim.
It’s politeness that keeps us in our seats for half the movie, squirming all the time. And politeness again when I pretend to look away as D turns and spits the half-chewed disk into her napkin. It’s an awkward moment. I wonder if I should reach out for her hand, but think, What about the napkin? What if I grab that instead? My politeness has me cornered.
“How’s your meal?” It’s the only thing I can think to say. “Everything okay?”
“Oh perfect. Everything is just perfect,” she’d say, hiding the napkin in her lap.
“Oh good. Then how about a little desert?”
“No, no, no, no. I think you’ve done quite enough tonight already.”
“It’s O Brother, Where Art Thou?,” I say in my best teasing voice.
“Oh really? Well okay. How can I resist that?”
I get up to get the desert and catch a glimpse of her emptying her napkin into the case. Suddenly, everything is just fine. I’ll worry about what to tell Blockbuster later.
You see, with machines, unlike with people, the night can always be saved.