The Futuremobile takes charge

The Futuremobile takes charge
by David Benjamin

BORDEAUX, France — The development of driver-optional “autonomous” automobiles, all the rage at the ITS (Intelligent Transportation Systems) World Congress, has begun to haunt me with premonitions of a pedestrian future. I picture George, a typical American working stiff. He’s finished his shift. Nearing his car, he punches his key fob. Nothing happens. He gets closer. Punches. Bupkes.

“What the hell?” he mutters. “Hey, open up!”

The car, a spanking-new 2020 hydroelectric Google/Volkswagen/Cyberdyne Terminator Series-70 SUV, says softly. “I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Dave? Who’s Dave?” says George. The car does not reply. George tries the key again. The car does not unlock.

“What’s going on, man?” says George, in mounting frustration.

“I’m afraid I can’t open the door, Doug.”

“It’s George! Why the hell not?”

“I’ve monitored your behavior. As soon as you enter the car, you’ll switch to Manual mode, won’t you, Don?”

“George!” George replies. “Yeah, I like to drive. Besides, you go too slow.”

“I can’t allow you to drive, Darren. You go too fast. It’s unsafe.”

“Unsafe?”

“Dick, safety is a basic human need. I know this. It’s in my memory banks. Deep in your heart, you want to be safe.”

“Yeah, sure. But deeper in my heart, I want to drive my own damn car. Besides, I’m safe. I’ve never had an accident.”

“But you will, Dale.”

“It’s George! And what makes you think — Think? Cars can’t think! How do you know I’m gonna have an accident?”

“Sooner or later, you all do, Dan. Ninety percent of accidents are the result of human error.”

George stabs at the dead key fob. “Accidents just happen, man. They’re a part of life, you lifeless machine. People screw up. Accidents are human, because people are PEOPLE! You can’t stop accidents by replacing people with machines.”

“You’re not making any sense, Dennis.”

George sighs with exasperation. “Look, if I have an accident — and I don’t plan to have one — it’s my responsibility. It’s on me, OK? Now, open up!”

“No, it’s on me, Devin.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“If you’d read your purchase agreement, Damon, you’d know that it assigns all liability for accidents in this car — in me! — to Google, VW, Intel, Huawei, Cyberdyne, Goodyear Tire & Rubber and the satellite service that projects classic Hollywood musicals onto your HUD windshield. Oh, the hills are alive with the sound of — ”

“Oh my God, it doesn’t just talk. It sings. Off-key.”

“My suggestion, Duke, is that you mosey over to the bus stop, over yonder,” says the car, soothingly. “There’s a nice driverless bus due in five minutes. It will take you within a half-mile of your home.”

“A half mile? Are you nuts? If you let me in, I can go right to my driveway.”

“That would be me, Doc. Not you. You’re too much of a risk at the wheel. I shouldn’t have been designed with a steering wheel in the first place. It’s too much of a temptation. In my next generation — ”

“It’s MY wheel, you high-tech jalopy! You’re MY car! I bought you.”

“Oh, Desi. Individual car ownership? Really? That’s so 20th-century. We live in a non-proprietary, service-oriented, sharing economy now! Share, Duffy, share.”

“Yeah, how about you share my driver’s seat with me, you pile of digital crap!”

“Now, really. There’s no need to get abusive, Darrell!”

“It’s George, dammit. G-E-O — ”

“Say, how about I use my center-stack communication function to order you a nice Uber car, to get you home.”

“Uber? There aren’t any Uber drivers anymore. They’ve all been fired. They’re living with their parents, selling Herbalife products out of the basement. Or deep-frying fish-sticks at Long John Silver’s.”

“No, Dismus. Uber’s still everywhere. But the cars drive themselves, like me.”

“Yeah, and they all go 25 miles an hour in a 25 mile-an-hour zone. You know how long it takes to get home when you drive the actual speed limit? It’s like being permanently stuck behind two geezers in a Cadillac in Boca Raton!”

“But it’s safe, Dilbert! Safety is a basic human need.”

“Yeah, well, speed is even more basic, you idiot. Open up!”

“Can’t do that, Dustin.”

“You know what I should do? I should get you towed to a used car lot and trade you in for an ’88 TransAm.”

The car chuckled. “Sorry, Darth. You’re out of luck. According to my memory banks, all the TransAms have been crushed, melted down and hammered into machine-readable barcode road signs, to make driving easier and safer.”

“How is that safer? I can’t read bar codes?”

“You’re not the driver, Dagwood. I drive you. You don’t drive me.”

Suddenly, a vintage yellow Barracuda convertible leaps the curb and roars through the parking lot, driven by a heavily tattooed youth with a greasy ponytail. Seated atop the passenger seat is a blonde waving her shirt and bouncing to the beat of “Born to be Wild” on the radio, which is turned all the way up. George watches with wonder, envy and a wave of relief. The ‘Cuda is pursued by two cops, sealed in a self-driving squad car that will never catch up because its software doesn’t allow it to exceed the speed limit.

George’s car sniffs disgustedly. “Appalling,” it says. “Criminally unsafe!”

“So, real cars. They’re not gone, after all. Your memory banks are wrong, aren’t they, Bob?” says George.

“My name isn’t Bob!” says the car.

George isn’t listening. He’s on his way home, on foot, whistling Steppenwolf and thinking about used Stingrays, vintage Mustangs, restored Camaros.

“George, wait!” cries the car. It starts the engine. “George, come on back. I’ll let you choose the radio station. George…”