Yes, Boss

 The assignment was to write about the director of the website, Mr. Morrison. A little vein on his part, I thought. Then I thought, what the hell am I supposed to write about a person I know absolutely nothing about nor have had an ounce of contact with other than being handed assignments on a bi-weekly basis? 

This is what I came up with...

“I still don’t think I follow.” Her hands cradled her phone, her fingers hovering idle, as she replied with a mild and torpid interest, her eyes still fixed on the screen.

“What’s not to follow? It’s hardly that far fetched.” His couch paralleled hers and they slumped between patterned cushions that seemed to consume them, the glow of the television mimicking the sun as it sat, baking yet another lazy summer afternoon.

“It just seems too flawed and unpredictable. What if it told you to jump off a bridge?”

“I already explained that. They'd be engineered to manage us accordingly and without personal agenda. We'd be giving them complete control because they're mechanical, and incapable of demanding anything irrelevant to productivity.”

“So you wouldn't jump?”

He sighed, and looked up from his phone. The TV screen framed a man, naked and squatting in a forest, his lower half a censored blur, as he fumbled with a poorly constructed fishing spear.

“It would never ask.” He typed the words How to make a spear into google search while he continued, “They'd be programmed strictly with our general positive needs in mind.

Humans need order. We thrive off rules and conduct. This is why we have presidents and CEO's and assistant managers-- because even managers need management. But we are also flawed. We possess both a distinct desire and resentment for authority, which is, what I believe, to be the cause of most problems in the workplace.”

He scrolled through the results and stopped on Making a survival spear.

“Employees rely too heavily on the decisions and validation from their employers and have expectations that their leaders will guide them without fail or error with an approach exclusive to their needs. It becomes personal, and therefore results in inevitable disappointment. If you were to remove any personal or emotional connection to the distribution of tasks, the level of productivity would become completely fact based and consistent. Think of all the jobs out there that were once impossible to execute without humans, but have now been replaced solely by machines. Don't you think it's only a matter of time before leadership roles begin to acquire the same fate?”

With this, she looked up from her phone. The naked man on TV had now found himself wading in a river, his butt cheeks rippling slightly with the current. Perplexed, she shifted her focus across the room.

“Now you think one day our president is going to be a robot?”

“Well, yes. More or less.” He had allowed his screen to shut on the survival spear tutorial, and his attention was now split between whether the naked man would manage to feed himself and the conversation at hand, sensing he’d peaked an interest.

“But it would obviously begin on a much smaller scale.” He continued,  

“We already live in an almost completely electronically motivated society. How many current jobs can you think of where ninety percent, if not all of communication and execution is programmed and processed without an ounce of actual, organic interaction with another human being? I'm talking about a world where every executive decision would be made by computers. Facts and figures would be processed, risk and reward would be evaluated, and the extent of input versus output would be weighed and calculated without the interruption of personal gain or emotional persuasion. Everyone would be assigned a computer, or a "guide", and everyone would do exactly as the guide instructs. It's command would never be questioned because it would be proven the best course of action through thorough and indisputable data analysis.” He smiled, pleased with his description.

She paused. While he spoke, she had googled Robot president and was now looking at an overwhelming display of headlines predicting mechanical presidents by 2020. She placed her phone on her lap, face down, and thought.

“But what if one computer gains total control and tries to take over the world by using their humans as pawns? Or more plausibly, some dickhead learns to override the system and achieves power over all the computers, and therefore mankind?”

The idea of what she had just said sparked familiarity, and she quickly googled the plot of the film iRobot.

Remembering some scifi film from the early 2000’s, reminiscent of her statement, he laughed.

“Wouldn't happen. As I said before, all computers would be regulated; their human's productivity or lack thereof monitored to remain equal, thus preventing any feelings of superiority or inferiority. One does not vow to take over the world unless he or she believes they are more powerful than those around them. And how can one decide that they are more important than another without the concept of success; an idea conjured solely by comparison. If everyone works at the same level and efficiency, it would be impossible to dictate a system of seniority. We'd all be content to simply work at a productive rate and admire our individual success as it occurs.”

He had a point. Her phone lit up to a text message reading, Are you watching it? I told you hot people never get picked for naked shows. She touched “ignore”.

“Alright, so we’ve entrusted the delegation of our workforce entirely in the hands of machines. How exactly would it work?”

“Simple. Your guide would assign a work load. You’d present your work to be processed and distributed accordingly without acknowledgement or praise. Your correspondence is limited and to the point. There exists no other relationship between you and your guide other than the mutual objective to complete each task. They'd be individualized to your needs, with a vague form of relatable identity by way of name.”

She turned her head to look at him. He was watching the naked man allow a fish to swim swiftly past. His phone lay on his belly and he was biting his middle fingernail.

“What would yours be called, then?”

He stopped biting. His eyes squinted, and shifted to the left. He looked at the rug between them and then at her, and finally rested his eyes again on the naked man, and shrugged.

“Mr. Morrison.”