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 4 - Strawberry Motivated Sabotage
The rest of the store was already sheets deep into closing protocol when Joel deviated.
“So it’s commander night at the game store,” Joel said, zipping his jacket. “And if I leave now, I can maybe catch the last hour of Magic.”
He looked at the remaining team.
“You good to finish up here?”
Jamal pursed his lips and looked expectantly at Mateo.
Deedra, a recent teenage hire, looked between those remaining, waiting for a cue.
“No te preocupes,” Mrs. Alvarez said, “We’ll finish.”
Joel beamed and headed for the door. “Alright. You guys are great.” He took off his Frylies branded hat and hurriedly backed his way out. “Any problems, just-“
If there was further instruction, it was left outside as the door closed.
Mrs. Alvarez quickly divvied up what was left, and the remaining four got to work.
Jamal cornered Mateo when they were alone in the kitchen.
“Now’s our chance, man,” Jamal said, “Joel’s gone. Let’s get into the office. Let’s see what SpudBud is about!”
“SpudBud? Again?” Mateo groaned while pulling away. “Dude, I just want to finish and go home already.”
“You don’t wanna know what it has on you? Or Rosa?”
Mateo crossed his arms, unconvinced.
“Listen. It’s gotta be tonight. Who knows when we’ll get another chance?”
Mateo just stood, looking at Jamal skeptically.
Jamal looked Mateo dead in the eye, pausing for emphasis.
“It flagged me because I like my strawberry shake without sprinkles.”
“¡Qué pesado!” Mateo sighed. He waved Jamal back and walked to the door to the narrow hallway leading past the bathrooms. Mateo poked his head out.
Accordion from Mrs. Alvarez’s after-hours mix danced on the air. Her Bluetooth speaker, propped up by the soda fountain, bounced her usual playlist of Nortec and Norteño hits from decades ago. The sung lyrics echoed energetically down the narrow passageway:
♫-Yo soy la sangre del indo, soy latino, soy mestizo
♫ Somos de todos colores y de todos los oficios
♫ Y si contamos los siglos, aunque le duela al vecino
♫ Somos más americanos que todititos los gringos-
“Hey, Mrs. Alvarez,” Mateo called out, but wasn’t heard over the music.
“HEY!”
The middle-aged woman looked up on the third try from where she and Deedra were mopping the dining area.
“Jamal and I are gonna finish back here, k? Floors and trash?”
She nodded once and made a “shooing” gesture before returning to her work.
Mateo closed the door and got socked on the shoulder.
“Hell, yes!”
“Whatever. Help me get the bags out back, and I’ll take it the rest of the way.”
The two hustled to get the trash cart loaded, but Mateo’s mind was on Jamal.
“You’ll probably have five minutes. Ten tops,” Mateo whispered, despite the fact that there was no chance of being heard from the front above the music. “You sure about this?”
“Come on, man. We’re wasting time. What’s the code?”
Mateo was uncharacteristically solemn. “This is just for SpudBud only. You get caught, and they find out I figured out the door code, we’re not just cleaning grease traps. It’s our jobs, man.”
Jamal raised his right hand and tried to make the “Scout honor” salute, but was unsure how many fingers were upright. After a minute of waffling, he shrugged and smiled, blinking rapidly to flutter his eyelashes.
Mateo’s seriousness broke.
“¡Idiota!” he said, melting. He pressed the pushbutton lock buttons in the correct order. The door clicked audibly as it unlocked. “Five minutes. I’m not playin’.”
Jamal slapped Mateo’s shoulder and slipped through, flipping the light switch just inside.
He stood for a second, his eyes having difficulty as the fluorescents overhead sputtered to life.
Admittedly, there wasn’t much to see, the office being barely bigger than the mop closet.
Jamal pulled the door shut and suddenly felt, more than saw, something swing toward him. He jumped to the side, barely strangling a yell before it left his throat.
Two bulbous eyes, the size of saucers, stared at him through a mesh laundry bag. Jamal could just make out the rest of ‘Phil the Fry’, Frylies life-sized foam and polyester mascot costume. It was hanging from a peg on the back of the door.
The jump scare had his heart racing. Jamal took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself while he studied the anthropomorphized crinkle-cut. It was shedding yellow fibers where it rubbed against the door. It made the whole room smell like dust and Febreze. Its cartoon eyes remained big and wide, as if it were as surprised to see Jamal as he was to see it.
Jamal pushed himself away from his corner. The limited wall space was covered in past advertising campaigns, most sporting the slogan, “FAST. FOOD. FUN.” A narrow bookcase held a handful of laminated training binders. Then there was Joel’s desk, wedged into the far corner.
There was an open laptop on it.
Jamal moved to the desk. It felt like the costume’s eyes were following him. He pulled up a bare-bones, office-store special that had clearly seen better days. The faux leather was cracked. What was left of the foam padding poked through in several places. Its unevenness was apparent when he sat down.
The laptop’s screen snapped to life when he jiggled the nearby mouse. The login screen was Frylie-themed: a rich, ketchup-colored background behind black-and-yellow boxes.
Joel’s username was pre-populated in the form. However, the cursor blinked in the password field, waiting for something to join it.
Jamal rocked back in thought and looked around the room.
He typed “FASTFOODFUN” and hit enter. Access was denied.
He cleared the field and typed “FASTFOODFUN1”.
The result was the same.
He swore under his breath. Tapping the sides of the computer while he thought, he felt something. Jamal leaned to his right. The edge of a Post-it note peeked out from underneath, a tiny edge creased around the edge of the plastic. He lifted the laptop up to get a better look underneath.
There, beneath the plastic housing, was a pale pink sticky note with Joel’s handwriting.
“Gotcha, Boss.”
Jamal typed the word, “P0wer_Pl@yer97” into the password field and hit enter.
And he was in.
There were a handful of windows already open, with the SpudBud interface on top. Jamal’s own name caught his attention. It was an open report - something about “Employee cohesion ranking” and “Sorted by areas of concern”.
Jamal moved the mouse and double-clicked on his name.
A small modal opened over top of the report:
[[ SUBJECT: JAMAL TOWNSEND - FRICTION AUDIT ]]
Primary Linguistic Impediment: Persistent deviation from brand-forward norms
Cultural Friction Coefficient: 28.4% above Frylies median employee grade
Statistical Probability Factor: Probably 92% match for "Urban" or "Under-resourced" socioeconomic background, with a 76% correlation with Mid-Atlantic/AAVE influence.
Impact: Data suggests these markers reduce "Guest Purchase Confidence" by 14% among suburban demographics.
There was a whole section on suggested interventions and manager prompts. However, Jamal was having difficulty continuing to read. The screen seemed to swim.
Jamal felt his jaw clench. He pulled on the sleeve of his uniform polo and wiped his eyes with it.
He breathed deep again and closed his double-click. In doing so, the mouse made more of a bang than a click, despite himself.
Then he spotted it. There, in the program’s menu bar, was a gear icon.
He opened it.
SPUDBUD STORE CONFIGURATION
Location: Frylies #214
Communication Optimization Settings
————————————————————————————————
Employee Tone Normalization (?)
☑ Enabled
Guest Confidence Smoothing (?)
☑ Enabled
Customer Clarity Reinforcement (?)
☐ Disabled (Recommended)
Jamal clicked on the “?” symbol after “Customer Clarity Reinforcement”. The resulting dialog box had a cartoon version of SpudBud in the corner, wearing a mortarboard and holding a pointer.
“Customer Clarity Reinforcement,” it started, “provides helpful real-time coaching to guests who demonstrate ordering confusion, unclear speech, or inefficient menu navigation. Examples include menu navigation guidance, pronunciation assistance, and conversational clarity prompts. This experimental feature is recommended to be off during peak hours.”
Jamal blinked several times in rapid succession. He was so lost in contemplation that he didn’t even hear the door open.
“¡Deja de comiendo moscas!” Mateo angrily whispered, his head poking in the door, “What the hell? Hurry up!”
“Okay, okay, okay,” Jamal said. He quickly toggled the “Customer Clarity Reinforcement” option. He hurriedly confirmed the change, exited the settings window, and returned the previous report to the top of the window stack.
He logged off and pushed the seat back.
The mascot still stared.
Jamal gave Phil a wide berth as he left the office and rejoined Mateo in the kitchen.
“What did you do?”
“I,” Jamal said, pausing dramatically, “restored justice.”
“What?” Mateo sounded tired.
Jamal grinned from ear to ear. “Tomorrow, everybody is going to be treated the same. It’s gonna be awesome.”
Mateo looked at Jamal warily. “Whatever, man. Let’s just finish and get out of here.”
He handed Jamal a mop.
“You owe me floors. All the floors.”
Jamal just grinned.