Three down and three to go. Lunch, need some lunch.
With that simple thought Tyler Sutherland started on a course of small decisions, rambling thoughts and imperceptible actions that finally led him in the direction of decisive life altering changes. When he left his apartment that afternoon to walk, under a beautiful blue sky, to the deli, he could not erase the memory of the sight that greeted him early that morning. Taking a look from his fourth story window, he could see a slim view of the East River and lower Manhattan, and on this day there were the darkest pre-dawn clouds gathered over the city that he’d ever noticed. They eventually drifted away without incident, but where did they go? What did they portend?
You don’t believe in stuff like that, omen stuff, nonsense stuff, clouds? Really? Get a handle here, Dad would say, get a handle and hang on brother, it’s getting choppy.
Steadily he walked along, looking apprehensively down four city blocks to the deli door, hoping not to see a line on the sidewalk. Tyler hated the line, he hated the inefficiency of spending fifteen long minutes for a sandwich when there were still three more articles to write today. A hand in each pocket he jingled the keys in his right hand and loose change in his left. When he noticed himself doing it, it bugged him, but he rarely noticed.
He picked up his pace the closer he got to the deli, worried that a sudden rush would leave him as the odd man out, the one guy who waited endlessly for his Italian sandwich. So it was with great relief, even surprise, when he walked through the door to find himself next in line. But now he needed to make quick decisions. The owner already glanced at him over his glasses and seemed a little perturbed to see him, or maybe that was his normal demeanor, his normal face, after selling sandwiches for forty odd years. In fact all the guys, the men, the grown men, behind the counter had the same expression, the identical demeanor, and yet they made the best sandwiches in lower Brooklyn.
I always get an Italian, I should just get an Italian, eggplant and mozz grilled with marinara, what’s eggplant like on a sandwich, have I ever eaten eggplant, roast beef is good, but beef, those guys, those men behind the counter probably eat beef, I wonder what they eat for lunch actually, probably beef with really hot peppers, can’t handle the hot peppers, chips, no chips today, too many chips lately, fat chips.
“Ok, what’ll it be young man?”
“Just an Italian today,”
Tyler watched the men behind the counter put the meats on the slicing machine, the capicola, the dry salami with the peppercorns, the cotto ham, the aged provolone. He got the works too, lettuce, tomato, onions, sweet peppers, banana peppers, oil, oregano, salt and pepper. While they finished his sandwich he ordered sausage, hot Italian, at the meat counter, and got a box of imported thin spaghetti and a can of San Marzano tomatoes. They rolled and wrapped his sandwich in the heavy white butcher paper and put it into a brown paper bag four inches smaller. At the cashier they packed it all into another brown bag, and Tyler walked home, bag in one hand, jingling keys in the other.
Brown bag four inches shorter than the sandwich, big sandwich, big Italian sandwich, three more articles today, Friday, the end of this week, Italian marketing, small bag, big sandwich, not stupid, kinda smart really, three more articles, keys.
Tyler opened the door and as he entered he noticed the mail had been delivered. There was a women at the mail slots, his age roughly. She took her mail and did not acknowledge Tyler’s polite head nod, but walked past him with her eyes set forward as if on mission to make her escape through the front door. Tyler had mail today, two letters and a bill. His sisters both remembered his birthday, tomorrow. He wondered if his Dad would call.
Back at his desk he unrolled the Italian from the white butcher paper, put the slightly bigger half on a paper plate, rolled the other half back up in the white paper as best he could and stored it on his shelf in the fridge; poured himself the leftover coffee from this morning and added ice and milk. He started to eat his sandwich as he prepped for the afternoon’s ritual of writing three more articles. He researched multiple websites, reading the opinions of other writers who had themselves researched multiple websites before coming to their opinions and writing their articles, which differed in only the slightest, subtlest degree from the opinions of their research. Eventually, twenty four hours after any event the diverse electronic universe magically coalesced behind one, or if the event was spectacular in some way, possibly two opinions. Tyler was quite clever in seeing where the currents were running and often wrote an article that revealed the two possible opinions before the electronic universe had come to its final conclusion. For this talent alone he had come to his present position as the Senior Athletic Writer at his site. He was also adept at promising little in his headline, but delivering big, raucous words to encapsulate his subtle, slightly original opinions in the 750 words that followed. Small bag, big sandwich.
Three hours after he had chewed through the last bit of his Italian, he sent the last of his Friday articles, number six, to his editor. Then he made a couple of quick, requested edits to articles four and five, put on his sweats and gym shoes, waited for approval on article six, and after he received it, grabbed his basketball and headed to the park.
After running himself into a sweaty mess, Tyler jogged home, said hey to his two roommates, got a shower and shave, and selected the evening’s attire. A new t-shirt from his favorite bar, jeans and black sox. He was going to wear a blazer tonight, first time in months, since the weather was warmer now but still cool in the evening and he thought he looked pretty good in his used Brooks Brothers with the repaired elbow, brown slip-ons and a brown belt. He was not simply clothed; he was dressed for the occasion, put together as Dad says.
In the kitchen he found the can of Guinness Stout he’d hidden in the fridge before running off to the park. He pulled the tab, smiled at the little hiss the carbonation released, and poured the entire can into a glass he kept just for the occasion.
“Well, birthday boy, getting started early, I see,” said Seth, Tyler’s roommate, as he walked into the kitchen. “Hey, a couple of our neighbors stopped by, come on out and say hi,” he added. Tyler, heard their voices then and headed for the little living room on the street side of the apartment. There were two women seated in the couch against the window on one side of the room. Tyler’s other roommate Blaine was in the easy chair on the other side of the room. Seth had his favorite unsittable mid century modern chair in the middle. Tyler pulled his desk chair out and sat down, leaned back a bit and swung his right ankle onto his left knee. Seth made some intros, the one girl Amy said “hi,” the other, Lucy, just barely raised her hand off her knee and looked straight ahead. It was the same girl from the mail slots Tyler realized after a moment passed. The quiet one is very pretty though, Tyler thought.
The conversation turned to bars and restaurants in the neighborhood. The two women moved in just three weeks ago as it turns out, and were only starting to get a hang of this pocket of Brooklyn. They had a one bedroom on the third floor in the back of the building. Tyler gave full throat to his love for the bar on the corner behind their building, the one he wore on his chest. It was known as the no name bar, or Jimmy’s after the head bartender, because in a zenith of Brooklyn fashion its marketing was anti-marketing; it would survive on quality and value alone, you see, without all the neon and other kitsch of normal bar marketing.
“Are you going to wear that t-shirt tonight?” Seth asked.
“Of course,” Tyler answered, “and I know what you’re going to say, ‘fan boy’ and all that, but c’mon, the place is less that two blocks away, has the best beers selection and plays the best music in Brooklyn. What’s not to love?” Tyler noticed the quiet girl was smiling at this.
“He’s got a point Seth,” Blaine chipped in. “Anyways, you might as well get used to it since we’re going to spend several hours there tonight.”
Seth, excellent host that he was, poured both girls a beer and together the young crowd sipped and talked bars and restaurants and bands for another half hour. Then the girls made their exit.
“Join us later if you’re looking for something to do - we’ll be at the no name bar,” Blaine called after them.
After they closed the door Seth took a long stretch in the small adjoining dining room, then he said “Hey man,” looking at Tyler, “don’t stare so much, you were a little obvious.”
“Ohhh,” was all Tyler could manage; stopped dead in his tracks and stretching back like he’d just taken a gut punch.
“No big deal man, just be cool about it,” Seth smiled and slapped his roommate on the shoulder.
“What are we doing for dinner?” Blaine asked.
“My treat boys,” Tyler said, bouncing back from his embarrassment.
“Haha, wooo,” Blaine yelled, “it’s Italian tonight.”
Tyler’s Dad taught him how to change the car’s oil, sharpen a knife, plant a tree or a garden and cook a decent Italian meal.
Tyler put together a formidable marinara sauce which was simply the San Marzano tomatoes crushed by hand, olive oil, three whole cloves of garlic, mixed with forkful size pieces of sausage and al dente spaghetti. Seth and Blaine and Tyler made quick work of it, along with a salad and three quarters of a leftover berry pie that Blaine’s mother sent him home with.
“Did you write anything interesting today?” Seth asked, as they went through the motions of cleaning up. Sometimes Tyler managed to find a real nugget that no one else saw and turn it into a viral hit, something that people talked about and very occasionally remembered.
“I think the big fight tomorrow night is going to be a nothing burger, a real let down. Jose has two bad shoulders that his team has stopped talking about, meaning they are seriously injured, and other guy Burnett spends half his time at Miami nightclubs and the other half at rehab. They are both ready to tap out and take a paycheck for it. All hype no action.” Tyler, hearing himself talk, was a little surprised he sounded so adamant about it; his article, though clear, made the case less strenuously.
“Well I’m sorry to hear that dude, since I got the three of us tickets for the show at the Rooftop Bar,” Seth said, holding the tickets aloft so both of his roommates could see it. “Happy Birthday.”
“Oh my God, but thanks Seth, really, I’m out on a limb here, really thank you,” Tyler half apologized, half thanked his longtime friend for the gesture. Blaine was happy either way: “That place rocks for fight night, man. Even the chicks line up for it.”
After a couple of beers at home and a round robin video game competition, they made their way eventually to the no name bar. There was a good crowd, many of whom they knew from the neighborhood. Seth and Tyler made up a team at the dart boards and started to win, as they often did. Blaine met the girl he was on again off again with and they appeared to be having a nice time at the end of the bar. From time to time Tyler glanced at the door as new people came in, but the girls from the 3rd floor one bedroom weren’t among them.
After a couple of hours Blaine came by and mentioned to them that he’d heard of a party at a nearby apartment building. “You should come, you should come,” he kept saying over the music, “it’ll be fun, lots of girls, lots. Bring your own though.” With that Blaine took off hand in hand with the young women he’d spent the night talking to.
Tyler and Seth dispensed with another team of dart throwers in pretty short order and when they looked around there was no one else to play. They took the darts and their beers back to the bar.
“You boys ready for another one?” Jimmy the bartender asked. Seth and Tyler looked at each other and since “yes” was not automatic the default was “No thanks.” They were both coasting along with a few beers already and it was already 10:00 o’clock. They took the last long draught from their glasses and headed towards the door.
“So what’s next?” Seth asked. “You’re the birthday boy, your call.”
“Well let’s try the party, see what’s happening there,” Tyler answered. “Hey look I still feel pretty bad about my take on the fight tomorrow after you bought those tickets and everything. I don’t know why I wrote that I was just feeling like I had to write something no one else had written, or something, or something that was completely my own. It’s probably going to be a great fight and I’ll have the trolls flaming me for the next month, I don’t know, we’ll see I guess.”
“So do you feel bad about me buying the tickets, or about you getting flamed?” Seth wondered out loud.
“Me getting flamed, mostly,” Tyler laughed, as he took a shot in the shoulder from Seth.
They dropped by a small grocer on the way. “What are we looking for, quantity or quality,” Seth asked.
“Def quality,” Tyler said. “I’m not walking in there with Lite beer, that’s embarrassing.”
“How about this?” Seth had found a special on twelves of Dos Equis.
“God, I haven’t had one of these in forever,” Tyler answered, “let’s do it.”
When they came to the walk up where the party was supposed to be, they could hear some voices and there was light up on the roof of the building. They walked up the steps and another couple was just being buzzed in.
“You here for the party,” they asked Tyler.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re here for the party,” Seth answered.
So they all went in together. It was five floors up to the roof. When they opened the steel door the entire crowd turned around to see who it was. There was a square on the roof that had been setup with astroturf, some chairs, a loveseat or two, and Christmas lights. On one side there was a table where the contributions to intoxication were setup. Tyler put down the Dos Equis on the table, opened it up and took out two, handing one to Seth. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Blaine.
“Hey, pass me one of those,” Blaine said. And then in an instant he was introducing “Andrew, or Drew,” the owner, to his roommates. They all chinked bottles. Then Drew and Tyler both said “we’ve played basketball together.”
“Yeah, so this is your place, this is great,” Tyler continued. They made small talk for a bit. Tyler looked around and counted like forty people and wondered if this is what Drew expected when he mentioned having some friends over, strangers showing up to drink beer on his roof? But they were still young enough that this was possible, even Ok, but it and they were on the verge of being really impolite and socially awkward.
About half the people were talking and the other half, sometimes the very people being talked to, were looking at their phones. Having walked in a stranger and then having the odd realization that his time as a youthful party crasher was coming to an end made Tyler look around with new eyes, take a short float above his life, above the details and minutiae. He found himself moments later sitting with one cheek on the short wall of the roof.
“What the hell are we doing here?” Tyler asked, “I mean we just strolled into someone’s home with beer like sophomore year and now we’re going to do what exactly, hang around and get faced. It’s a little weird, right?
“We’re trying to meet girls, man,” Blaine answered.
“No, but really what’s the point?” Tyler struggled.
“Right I get it, I’m not trying to sound like a guy with his dick in his hand,” Blaine answered again. “We really are trying to meet girls because what’s the point otherwise to going to those useless jobs Monday though Friday and doing useless work, trying to create clicks for advertisers. I have no idea why my job would be something you’d want to do with your life unless it’s the way to find a girl and find something more, something, I don’t know, something valuable.”
“We’re lost, man,” was all Tyler could come up with. It was a favorite go to after several beers.
“Lost and found,” Blaine answered as the two girls from the third floor walked in.
Tyler waited until Amy and Lucy approached the table of assorted alcohol to make his appearance. He very casually walked up and said hello, took another of his Dos Equis and offered one to the Amy and Lucy. Lucy was game and handing her a beer was the small gesture that led to a long conversation. After some small talk about the beer and how they both ended up at the same party, Lucy mentioned Tyler’s article about the Saturday fight.
“I think you’re out on a limb, there, myself, but I see your point, all fights have a level of hype, this one more than most, so yeah, there’s at least a 50/50 chance it could bore us to death,” Lucy stated.
Tyler tried to come up with a defense that he hadn’t already articulated in the article, since she’d obviously read it. There wasn’t too much left to say though so after a short explanation he switched the conversation to her work, which he knew nothing about.
“I’m a coder, you know, I work for a company in the AI space, in the text generation space,” Lucy answered.
“What is that AI, I have only the most like general idea about it, but what is it really, like what would I use it for,” Tyler asked, genuinely interested.
“Well like what we’ve done is create a huge, like, library if you want, of everything that humanity has written and then we write code to understand it, the language, so we created large language models or LLM’s and then when you ask the service a question it searches through the library and writes back to you. I mean, that’s a short explanation but that’s kind of the gist of it,” Lucy explained, her voice trailing off as she tried to understand Tyler’s face.
For his part, Tyler studied the idea for a moment, which crystallized what he previously understood about AI, and then tried to ask a question that wasn’t too self-revealing. “So you can search the internet for posted ideas about some subject, and then based on what you find you can create a new idea, or something like that, like a new article?” he wondered, as innocently as he could.
“Yeah, roughly, you have the idea. But the library doesn’t include the present, at least not yet, it has found or indexed up to about early 2022. So you have nothing to worry about, at least for now,” Lucy teased, having seen through Tyler’s question.
Their conversation rolled on pleasantly enough. Pretty soon the crowd thinned out and Tyler and Seth took a look around and decided it was time to “pack it in.” They each took a couple of Dos Equis for later and, not seeing Blaine anywhere, they took off. Tyler gave Lucy a friendly wave good-bye, which she returned.
“I saw the two of you in a pretty deep conversation there,” Seth mentioned when they hit the sidewalk.
“The devil’s trying to put me out of business,” Tyler replied. “She’s part of the great march of AI into our lives, man, it’s going to change everything. It can, in seconds, review everything written about anything and come up with its own ideas, and learn from itself, learn from it mistakes, learn from its users. It can do, well, exactly what I do, and without a salary and benefits.”
“Yeah, I know,” Seth said. “That’s all the copy guys at work talk about, even the art department guys are worried. I mean what am I supposed to sell if everyone has access to THE MACHINE?”
“Maybe I should buy a farm,” Tyler said, without sarcasm. “I mean seriously, could I make a living with a small farm and feed myself in the bargain?”
“It’s not such a crazy thought,” Seth replied. “Not anymore.”
Back home, Tyler and Seth ran into Amy and Blaine playing video games and having a pretty good time at it. Lucy knocked on the door fifteen minutes later, and after a bit of good hearted ribbing and laughter, the two girls left together. Before closing the door behind her, Lucy turned to Tyler and in the lowest, sweetest voice she could muster after a night of drinking, said “Don’t hate me, I’m just making a living, too!”
“What’s that about?” Blaine asked, completely confused.
“That’s what the devil says just before she hangs you by your balls for all eternity,” Tyler said. Then he cut the other half of his sandwich in three and they had a last beer and a midnight appetizer while fumbling their way through ChatGPT, an online tool for generating AI texts. Blaine, originally from Livonia, Michigan, asked the machine “who won the 1998 Stanley Cup?” This was its answer:
The 1998 Stanley Cup was won by the Detroit Red Wings, a team that showcased an impressive blend of talent, experience, and strategic coaching. Coached by Scotty Bowman, the Red Wings were a dominant force throughout the season and playoffs.
Led by captain Steve Yzerman, the Red Wings boasted a formidable lineup that included future Hall of Famers such as Sergei Fedorov, Brendan Shanahan, Nicklas Lidström, and goaltender Chris Osgood. They also had a strong supporting cast, including skilled players like Igor Larionov, Darren McCarty, and Kris Draper.
During the regular season, the Red Wings finished with a stellar record of 44 wins, 23 losses, and 15 ties, totaling 103 points, which secured them the Central Division title and the second seed in the Western Conference.
In the playoffs, the Red Wings continued their dominance, defeating the Phoenix Coyotes in the first round, sweeping the St. Louis Blues in the second round, and overcoming the Dallas Stars in six games in the Western Conference Finals.
In the Stanley Cup Finals, the Red Wings faced the Washington Capitals. Detroit's depth, skill, and experience proved too much for the Capitals to handle as the Red Wings won the series in a clean sweep, capturing their second consecutive Stanley Cup title and their eighth overall in franchise history. Goaltender Mike Vernon, who had joined the team in the offseason, played a crucial role in securing victories throughout the playoffs.
The 1998 Stanley Cup victory solidified the Detroit Red Wings' status as one of the NHL's elite teams of the late 1990s and early 2000s. Under Scotty Bowman's guidance, they demonstrated a level of excellence that left a lasting legacy in the annals of hockey history.”
“Well, it if makes you feel any better,” Blaine started, “there are at least three errors in that little story. Chris Osgood is not in the Hall of Fame, Mike Vernon was not on the 1998 team and Nick Lidstrom was not drafted until three years later. That’s not intelligent, artificial or not.”
Then Seth told the machine one of its errors:
“Mike Vernon left the red wings after the prior season. Chris Osgood was the goalie for the 1998 playoffs.”
The machine responded:
“Thank you for the correction. You are absolutely right. Mike Vernon had indeed left the Red Wings after the prior season. Chris Osgood, not Vernon, was the goaltender for the 1998 playoffs. Osgood played a pivotal role in the Red Wings' success during that postseason, contributing significantly to their Stanley Cup victory with his strong goaltending performances. His contributions were instrumental in the team's achievement of capturing their second consecutive Stanley Cup title. Thank you for pointing out the error.”1
There was a chorus of “Ok,” “alright,” “Oh, man,” “whaaaat?” from the assembled.
“I’ve seen enough,” Seth headed off to bed. Blaine followed, still mumbling about the machine.
Tyler took his time. Putting away the beer bottles and folding the butcher paper from the sandwich up and looking out the window over the kitchen sink.
Sinking, I’m effing sinking here, what is this, what’s happening, this is like the beta 1.0 future, version 10 or 12 and I’m toast, not even an extra, not even useful, not, not , not, change, man, change, before you’re hanging by your balls…
Tyler drank two large glasses of cold water, then found his bed and laid down, still shaking his head.
The next morning Tyler woke up an hour later than normal; it was already 8:00. His phone vibrated on his clothes chest. By the time he grabbed it was silent again. He rolled over and read it, his Dad had called. That was great, that was, actually, great. His first birthday after his Mom died, his Dad forgot his birthday until Tyler’s sister mentioned it to him a week later. The three years since he had not missed and truth be told, Tyler never held it against him. That first year was not a happy birthday anyway.
After hitting the bathroom and getting some coffee going, Tyler called his Dad back, ignoring the message that he’d left.
“Hello?”
“Hey Dad, what’s up, I saw you called?”
“I thought I might drive down today, I’ll buy you lunch birthday boy, and we can watch a few tournament games?”
“Yeah, that would be great, cool. What time do you think you’ll get here?”
“No later than 1:00, I guess. I can leave pretty soon.”
“Ok, just call when you get in front and I’ll come down. We can find a parking spot together.”
“Got it. Talk soon then.”
“Perfect, drive safe.”
Tyler was excited about his Dad’s visit. With a seven hour round trip between them it wasn’t easy to see each other any more, although it was easier in the summer than the winter. But living in Brooklyn a car was so expensive and of so little need that Tyler gave his college beater to his younger sister. Getting home now required logistical gymnastics. It was still possible, but only with a lot of careful planning.
Within the hour, Seth and Blaine both appeared. Seth had been up a while and actually made his way to a small deli that sold excellent bagels and lox. He brought back enough for the apartment. It was a nice surprise and they all enjoyed a couple of bagels with the works.
It was brisk out but still decent enough for a pick up game. The three of them headed to the park and were soon joined by several others. A full on basketball game got going. Blaine played his usual inside bully ball, Seth managed the point and Tyler got his shooting hand hot, well hot enough for the park, and they managed to win a couple of games against some locals.
On the walk home, Blaine was in Tyler’s ear about Lucy. “Seemed like you two were hittin’ it off pretty well.”
“Oh the Devil, the one whose job is to create my robot replacement,” Tyler parried.
“You know, your job didn’t even exist ten or fifteen years ago,” Blaine said. “There were cities with newspapers and a few sports writers. Most of those newspapers are still there in some form, and now we also have hundreds of internet sites devoted to sports. I don’t know, there’s going to be some fallout, but there’s also going to be a lot of new ideas. Hang on, that’s what I’ll tell you. If you told me that people would go to a website to watch someone else watch sports I would never have believed it, but they do.”
None of this eased Tyler’s mind about his future, but he agreed, at least to himself, that Lucy was something, and yes they had got on pretty well.
A couple of hours later Tyler’s dad called from the street. Tyler ran down and together they drove around for a while until they found a parking spot.
They walked back a block to the no name bar and found a small table close enough to the big screen to follow the game. Corned beef was the usual special during March.
“I took out a loan so we could both have a sandwich,” Tyler’s Dad Bob joked.
“Oh I know, it’s crazy the prices,” Tyler replied.
“Do you manage to put anything away?” his Dad asked.
“I’ve got two months rent and groceries, but I also have the gnawing feeling like that’s not nearly enough, and it took me two years to get to where I am now,” Tyler answered.
“Wow, so what else is going on, how’s your personal life?”
With that and a full beer in the belly, Tyler unloaded about AI and how his future, which wasn’t exactly a dream come true, had turned into a kind of haunting nightmare.
“Yeah, that ChatGPT site is pretty wild right?” his Dad mentioned.
“Wait, you know about that, you’ve been on the site?” Tyler wanted to know.
“Sure, Tyler, what do you think we upstate hicks do in our spare time, hang around the barn and tell old jokes?” his Dad laughed.
“Damn Dad, why am I only getting around to this and you’ve known about this, how?”
“Jimmy Rollins’s boy Mike, you remember Mike, probably two years ahead of you, he’s a programmer. Jimmy’s got all the latest scuttlebutt on what’s happening. Mike’s out in California building your robot replacement as you call it. But, ahh, I have to say I haven’t seen you this upset in a while. I read everything you write and it seems to me that in the last six or ten months you’ve really found your vein, you’ve got a real following now and people like your writing, which has gotten very good by the way.”
“That’s just it Dad, I’ve finally turned the corner, I’ve got the confidence now to really write the things I think but I used to pull back on, and now just as my articles, my whole game starts to take off, there’s this, this AI thing, and now I’m, I don’t know, I guess it just reminded me that what I do is really not what people think, it’s phony, it’s fake a little.”
“What are you saying, you lost me there?” his Dad asked, genuinely perplexed.
“Look Dad, what I do is I research a ton of other sites, other writers, some work at newspapers, others work at standalone websites, some work on cable. I lift an idea here, another there, I try to find ideas, adverse ideas, ideas that create some friction, and then I write articles that lay out the positions and I try to find a third way of looking at it, or in some cases if that doesn’t work then I just go with one or the other with a little twist.”
“Ok, I understand that part…” his Dad started.
“But don’t you see, Dad, that’s what AI does. It can’t write about a fight that happened last night, and it can’t write about a fight that going to happen tonight, but that’s because it’s just getting started, give it three years and it will, it will. It will find whatever people said about the fight, or the event, whatever the event is, from people on TV who were there, from fans on social media, from other writers who released their play by play articles right after, and it writes an article, or it might write 50 articles and as each one comes out the AI get’s new input so it changes its output. Then, poof, an hour after the event, maybe two, the whole things over, all the articles were written. We are moving on!”
After some thought and a couple of long swallows of his beer, Tyler added, in a tone of self-mockery, “I’m the robot, Dad, I made myself into a robot, I live and write like a robot, and now the techies caught on and said, screw that, we can create a robot with no salary and no benefits and no vacation or sick days.”
“I think you’ve taken a bit of a hard line on yourself Tyler, you know you’ve always done that, always been hard on yourself..”
“Hey Dad, let me ask you something, I’m 24, it’s not too late is it, to change I mean, to move into something else. You know I’ve always thought about coaching, following you, teach high school, coach basketball and baseball. Is that crazy?”
“No it’s not crazy, but, man Tyler, you’re going a hundred miles an hour, can we slow down here a little, and catch me up, I mean, ok the job has you tied up in knots, all jobs do that from time to time, but something else is going on, I sense there’s something else underneath all this.”
“You’re right Dad, you’re right,” Tyler relaxed now, a little, put both elbows on the table and rubbed the back of his neck with both hands. “I really learned about AI last night, I mean I’d heard about it but who really understands it until it slaps them in the face, right? But I met a girl, like Rollins’s boy Mike, she’s in the business, a programmer, and after thirty minutes I had a pretty good understanding of where AI is now and where it’s going. Funny thing is, this girl is great, really funny, smart, super good looking, went to all the right schools, has all the right ideas. And it occurred to me while we were talking that I’ve had like five relationships with girls just like her during the last thirty months in Brooklyn; relationships that all last about three to four months, and then they just die a weird, natural death. People barely bat an eyelash over relationships anymore. It’s just, I don’t know, crazy. And so it occurred to me, like I was saying, that this is why I live in Brooklyn, so that I can meet girls like Lucy, the programmer, and have these little, like meaningless relationships. I’m not saying this right. It’s not like I want meaningless relationships, but no one is ready to settle down, no one is. And so, things just end. So you, I meet these great girls, and then nothing, nada. So my personal life, yeah I’m a robot there, too.”
Their corned beef sandwiches arrived, and they both ate heartily, and turned some of their attention to the game on the TV. At halftime, Tyler’s Dad, wiped his mouth one last time, and tried to explain to Tyler that the high school teaching and coaching idea was maybe not all that it seemed, the kids were different today, it was harder to get their attention, and so forth and so on.
Tyler listened patiently and carefully. He had a ton of respect for his Dad, who was also his former coach, a man Tyler saw at home and at work. Neither of them had any warts the other didn’t know about, and their mutual respect deepened as a result.
“I don’t know Dad, I guess I feel like I’m being replaced, no strike that, I’ve been replaced. I’m a small sandwich in a big bag, Dad. The bag gets bigger and bigger and I shrink. In Brooklyn it’s all marketing, and I’ve got nothing to market. Even this place, the no name bar, has something to market, and they do a fine job of it.”
They watched the second half and part of the next game, but it was getting late and his Dad needed to get on the road and home before the deer started to move, always an issue at dusk this time of year in the upstate counties. Tyler walked his Dad back to the car, there was a big heartfelt hug and a last “Happy Birthday Son.”
Tyler walked back home, just to get rid of some of the excess energy driven by the conversation about his future. They turned on the game and the three amigos decided on pizza, so Blaine volunteered to pick one up. Eventually they made it over to the Rooftop Bar, for the big fight.
When they found a place to watch the screen from, at a good angle, Lucy showed up with a friend. The five of them hung out and had a drink before the fight began.
“You must be on pins and needles hoping this is going to be dreadfully boring,” Lucy teased Tyler. He took a lot of ribbing like this, and even some nearby strangers who caught wind of his article gave him the business, which he took very well, even escalating his own negative opinion to egg on the crowd. Through it all, though he was having fun and enjoying the company, especially Lucy’s, he had two thoughts: Will that be the last article I ever write; and do I really want another three month relationship?
“Maybe I should ask ChatGPT?” he said aloud, suddenly, apropos of nothing.
“Ask it what?” Seth and Lucy, confused, both replied.
“What are we doing here,” Tyler answered. And the fight was on!
These are actual cut and pastes from ChatGPT, a new AI tool. If you would like to see how it works, and test its abilities, it’s located here: https://chat.openai.com/
Yes, I'm happy with my risky, sometimes sad,sometimes boring life. I have no interest in becoming a robot. Last night I visited a small brewery to which I sold our apple juice last fall. They made delicious cider, that's living!
Every time I use AI, my crave for books -not the amount of false bibliography it generates- increases. It's like singing an aria with auto-tune, like discussing of wines inside a Coke factory, like telling to Sheldon Cooper a Monty Phyton's pun. I think productivity rises while quality falls down. As KV would say, so it goes.