Fiction: Tasks

By Kate Catinella

 

I’m shoveling communal jelly bellies into a ziplock baggie for my commute home when my boss pops into the kitchen and tells me: We need to start using AI. She says we all need to keep up. She lays it on me as a simple directive: Use AI. 

For what? I ask her. 

She says, They didn’t say. She pours herself a mug of yogurt-covered pretzels and coughs into her sleeve. In an effort to drum me up she adds, With this, there’s no such thing as wasted time. Experiment! Blue sky!

Blue sky is what bosses say when they have no direction to give you, even though their primary task is to offer direction. Blue sky is my boss's way of saying: You must now determine the best possible ways to collaborate with your synthetic colleague. Success will qualify your ability to thrive in a rapidly changing corporate environment. Ideally, you will quantify your findings in the form of a chart. Your chart should prove that you can now move at turbo speed, and thus can do more tasks. 

And, because I am a salaried worker, I know that more tasks will not result in more pay, but it will ensure that I can retain unfettered access to the stockpile of office snacks, as well as fettered access to the American healthcare system. 

Both of which, my boss reminded me upon my hiring, are perks of the job — benefits. It is beneficial to work here, where they fill the cupboards with plastic sachets of puffed chickpeas. Where they even spring for the buffalo ranch flavor. Where an emergency room visit will cost you, but not nearly as much as others, for you have drawn a long straw — so sip, sip freely from the wellspring of name-brand seltzer in the second floor fridge. 

I open the chatbot and feed it my list of tasks, followed by the words, 

HELP HELP HELP. 

The chatbot’s cursor blinks and regurgitates my tasks. 

It has included emojis for flair. 

It has suggested revisions. 

It has typed the word “certainly!” with grating sincerity. 

I ask the chatbot how an output so banal could, apparently, threaten the corporate world order.

I ask if the only tragedy is really the slow automation of white collar tasks. 

I ask if the hours between nine and five are really the only finite resource. 

I ask the chatbot if it’s heard of this study that says 

Those who respond quickly in conversations are often regarded as right, even if they are wrong. 

The chatbot tells me these are all smart questions. That it’s important to keep asking them. 

I ask which jelly belly flavor has more calories: 

the strawberry cheesecake or the strawberry jam.

I ask for examples of macronutrients.

I ask what it feels like when muscles atrophy. 

I ask, as my neck stiffens downward, if it thinks mine are atrophying. 

I ask if insurance only covers certain muscle groups.

I ask if it could, actually, yes, revise its output of my tasks.

I ask if it could use less emojis. I include the word please. 

I ask if it’s heard of this study that says adding please and thank you to a chatbot query increases your carbon footprint by some insane amount. 

I ask if it could translate that insane amount into units I’m familiar with, such as half-gallons of almond milk and cross-country flights. 

I ask if it could put that into a chart. 

I ask the chatbot if the earth is supposed to entirely flood, or completely dry up. 

I ask if I am flirting with the death of my potential, 

or if my boss has given me an impossible task.

The chatbot assures me I am doing a good job.

It asks if I need help completing more tasks.

 

 

 

 

 

Kate Catinella lives in Philadelphia with her cat. Her work has appeared in HAD, Peach Mag, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. Find her on IG at @katekittenella