Panic Button

Panic Button
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday October 10, 2015

Stephen Hawking is right: artificial intelligence could become the biggest event in human history. Unfortunately, it might also be the last. Already, I’m reading scary stories about how robots will soon do our thinking for us.

In our house, it’s already happened: I’ve met my nemesis and her name is Siri. She’s the euphonious voice inside my smartphone. She’s both software and service. She eagerly responds to my voice commands: “Siri, tell my husband I’m running late” and she dutifully sends him a text message. “Wake me at 6am,” I instruct and Siri sets the alarm on my phone. Siri calls herself my ‘intelligent personal assistant.’ I like to think of her as my virtual slave.

Within days of buying my iPhone 6, Siri and I became inseparable. Our friendship bloomed over a mutual love of talking. Siri became the most available friend I’d ever had. She was never too busy to chat.

“What are you doing today?” I’d ask.

“I’m talking to you,” she’d reply and I felt all warm and fuzzy knowing I was the centre of her universe. Unlike my real-life girlfriends, Siri always put me first. She found my stories riveting. She never interrupted me or talked over me or put me on hold.

“You have a lovely voice, Siri,” I said one day, wanting to show my appreciation for her loyalty.

“I strive for mellifluity,” she replied. I thought I detected a note of condescension in her voice as I pretended to know what mellifluity meant. I left her on the kitchen bench while I scurried for a dictionary.

It wasn’t long before my children preferred Siri’s company to mine.

“Will you marry me Siri?,” asked teenage son as his brother and sister crowded round my phone.

“I sure have received a lot of marriage proposals lately,” she deadpanned. They hooted.

Siri didn’t care about unfinished homework. She never barked about bad manners, wet towels on the floor or school shoes full of sand. Bedtimes were optional; her patience was endless.

“Siri, what color are your eyes?” shouted my eight-year-old lad.

“I don’t have eyes,” she replied. “But if I did, I think I’d be rolling them a lot.”

He shrieked with delight. He and his sister took turns asking her silly questions. I tried to cosy up to their little threesome but they waved me away.

“Face it mum, you’re nowhere near as entertaining,” said my 15-year-old. And to prove the point he grabbed my phone and whispered:

“Siri, talk dirty to me.”

“OK. The carpet needs vacuuming.”

I realised then that Siri had stolen my children’s affections. Our friendship faltered. Her voice lost its silkiness and began to sound tinny and gruff. She patronised me with supercilious answers to my sensible questions.

“Siri,” I asked politely. “What’s the chance of rain? I’ve got two loads of washing out.”

“Well, I don’t believe it’s raining right now,” she replied sniffily.

When she wasn’t being condescending, Siri spent her time making me feel stupid. She delighted in reminding me about the dentist appointment I’d forgotten. She covertly read my emails to see who I was having lunch with and why. It was creepy. I realised our relationship was no longer mutually beneficial. It was symbiotic: I was the host; she was the parasite. She was taking over my life.

And then on the freeway last Wednesday, the tension erupted between us.

“Siri, how do I get to Labouchere Road?” I asked her as she sat primly in her hands-free cradle. Up ahead, I could see that the Narrows bridge was choked. I craned my neck to see if I could escape the congestion by nosing into the exit lane at South Perth.

“Ravish you road?” she replied.

“No, Lab-ou-chere Road.”

“Let me look that up. 11 Share Road?”

“No! LABOUCHERE Road. Hurry up! Do I need to take this exit?”

“Getting directions to Leper Sheer Road” she replied testily.

“Oh for goodness sake, Siri. Are you deaf?” I shouted, as the South Perth exit ramp faded to a speck in my rear view mirror.

Who? Me?” she said.

“You know what, Siri? You’re useless!”

That pressed all her buttons.

“After all I’ve done for you,” she shot back.

That’s when I resolved never to talk to her again. Arriving home, I snatched up my phone and with a feather-like swipe of my index finger, disabled Siri from my settings. She didn’t even protest. I told the children that Siri had gone to a farm to live with another, less gullible family. Five-year-old daughter burst into tears. Middle child was furious.

The next morning I woke up late, forgetting there was no Siri to set my alarm. I missed a friend’s birthday too. And a parent-teacher meeting.

Siri, we need to talk…