I’ve spent years writing about the intersection of technology, culture, and policy. When social media is increasingly used to create events, rather than report on them, I find that work increasingly relevant.
It is one thing to write an essay here or a newsletter there. Given the potential harms, utilizing adding additional forms, like narrative, seems warranted. General American is a seven-part short story about a fast foot crew suddenly confronted with a corporate AI that threatens their erasure.
A new installment will be published daily. Additional info, like the accompanying playlist, can be found at the Stories page.
~Matthew
Scene 2 - Dumpster Debate Club
“They’re making us into robots, man. Freakin’ robots.”
Mateo unlocked and removed the padlock. With a yank, the painted metal gate shrieked in protest as he forced it open. Beyond was the dumpster, revealed. Sweet wafts of rotting bread and tangs of fermented ketchup bin-juice hit Jamal and Mateo simultaneously.
“I dunno man.” Mateo hefted a bag of garbage over the lip. It landed with a wet slap that echoed inside the metal bin. “You’re sounding kinda crazy right now.”
The transformer on the light pole above sounded like a swarm of disturbed bees. SpudBud’s chipper sing-song cadence coming through the drive-thru speaker could just be heard above the hum. Jamal heaved his own bag into the dumpster.
“You don’t even work drive-through. You don’t hear it. And it’s not just ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ — it’s everything.”
“You keep vibing like that, SpudBud is gonna flag your negativity even from out here. Mandate a hug or something.”
Jamal let out an exasperated sigh.
“I connect with people, bro. When people hear me, they like me.” He pulled at the top of the next bag, only for something sharp inside to puncture the side. A spurt of something liquid and sticky shot out and over his sneaker.
“Oh hell. These are only a month old!”
Mateo crouched to cradle the bag from underneath. He gestured with his head for Jamal to do the same on the opposite side.
“Too bad, man. Sacrifices to the fast food gods must be made.”
Together, supporting the bottom of the bag, they lifted the punctured bag up and over the dumpster’s wall.
Jamal grabbed one of the many napkins littering the inside of the trash corral. He steadied himself against the gate, stood on one foot, and tried to sop up the further indignity on the other.
“I was saying, if they can’t hear me, when they only hear the same company thing, day after day, no variation, what do people like? What do they connect with?”
The side door opened, and Rosa pushed a wheeled bin out in front of her.
“Hey, geniuses. You missed one.”
“Sorry,” Mateo said. He wiped his hands on his black apron. “Jamal needed to vent.”
“Rosa will back me up,” Jamal said, “She’s worn the headset.”
Rosa pulled up short.
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s SpudBud. It’s not right.”
“Jamal thinks it’s stealing our voices.”
“Not stealing, erasing!”
Mateo took the bin from Rosa and wheeled it around the oily, iridescent puddle on the ground. “Can it erase fryer grease from my clothes? It could make me a Karen if it could do that.”
Jamal picked up the last remaining bag at his feet. “You aren’t listening to me.”
Rosa stared at the two of them for a moment, sizing them up.
“Yeah, it’s a bummer you can’t crack jokes anymore. Some of it was legit good, for real. But, you get a few greetings ignored, and suddenly the sky is falling?”
“Rosa-“
“I am NOT DONE. Jamal, Have you ever been told to ‘speak English’? Give somebody their food only to be told to ‘go back to your country’?” Rosa’s voice was rising. “Jamal, you ever have to get your manager because the customer didn’t want to deal with ‘an illegal’?”
Mateo and Jamal just stood in disbelief.
Rosa exhaled and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Listen, with SpudBud, I don’t have to worry about being called out. People order their food. I give them the food. It’s simple. No racist bullshit.”
“Rosa,” Jamal started, picking his words carefully, “I’m sorry that happens to you. That’s messed up. That shouldn’t be on you. But this isn’t fixing it… It’s just hiding it. “
Rosa turned on her heel marched toward the restaurant.
“This is a fast food job, Jamal,” she called over her shoulder, “Get over yourself and get back to work.”
Jamal stood staring at the spot where Rosa used to be until Mateo shooed him to take a step back. The gate closed, its piercing, metal-on-metal lament spooking the rock doves perched overhead.
Somewhere around the corner, someone was just finishing up at the drive-thru. “Thank you for choosing Frylies” filled the void left by startled wings.
Jamal couldn’t tell who was behind it.
