AI Scream
It was the rarest of London evenings—balmy—and the streets of gentrified Islington were flush with summer energy, heat energy. The glossy foundation of heavily fortified teenage cheeks struggled to hold back glistening perspiration. Shopkeepers kneeled in doorways, hoping for a breeze. Lines formed at cafes with outside tables. Rosè sales skyrocketed.
For those of us who appreciate people watching, the sidewalk catwalk offered a gleeful procession of opportunity. If it’s not the beach, there are few summer pleasures as satisfying as an outside table, a second glass of wine, and a little time to while away.
There are the usual suspects of course, magnets for lingering stares and whispered commentary—the impervious rude boys at the top of their lungs, the gym rats in too-small t-shirts, the flamboyant colors and cross-cultural pollination of fashionistas, the sexy as fuck, the scantily clad. And two of my favorites: the body language of obvious first-dates, and goths in sunshine—it’s not my highest self, but there’s something about watching the obvious discomfort of this tribe, in heavy make-up, big boots and black clothing, look so miserable waiting for darkness.
Wine down, wind down, and the leisurely walk home along streets usually traversed in haste, taking in summer window displays, newly opened outlets, old shops never noticed. Blowing its cold air into the warm street is an ice cream shop, the welcome bank of colors and flavors under cooled glass, angled forward, tempting us even more. Hell yes, ice cream, hell yes.
There’s a small group of people who are obviously not together congregating at the entrance, where sidewalk meets display case, spilling out in to the street. We tuck in casually at the back, looking over the heads of those less vertically elongated, plotting which flavors to try, which to buy. Growing up I was a mint chip guy (to be fair, growing up I was an eat-whatever’s-in-my-face guy too, hence the nicknames ‘bubble butt’ and ‘fat Zach’), but these days I’m wont to veer – summers of chocolate and pistachio litter my past.
After a couple minutes the person closest to the counter is handed a two-flavored cup and pivots without a thank you, spoon in hand, and leaves. This isn’t the order line, it turns out; it is a group of 8-10 people waiting for their orders to be delivered. Stepping back, I see a line of stanchions supporting a rope of undulating velvet, and, ten yards down, three large digital screens on the continuation of the ice cream counter. Behind that are a series of tables, high-tops, maybe 7 in total, mostly filled with chattering customers.
There are two groups of people at the order depots, pointing and scrolling to input their orders. I am feeling suddenly old. We approach tentatively. There are no buttons for “can I please taste the pistachio”, only pictures and scrolls, choices of cup or cone, scoop size, toppings. It isn’t naturally intuitive, but we get it, eventually—a small cup of coconut , another split between chocolate and dulce de leche (I spent some time in Argentina; the second one is mine).
It takes two passes but we manage to finalize the order, to pay. We shuffle back down the inside of the ropes, toward the waiting crowd at the end of shop, the one spilling out in to the street.
I’m watching the young man behind the counter. He’s taller than me, perhaps 6’3”, wiry black facial hair, glasses, Indian of origin, or Bangladesh, maybe. One arm is noticeably bigger than the other, the development affliction of tennis players and scoopers both. He is working hard, fast, silently. We can hear the orders dinging in from the groups behind us, the printed tickets piling up. He is alone. I count. There are 17 other customers in line, not including us, and more people walk in semi-continuously.
A group of young women has crowded around the digital kiosks. They interrupt the man scooping curtly, no please or thank you, asking (demanding?) to taste flavors, oblivious. The shop, a chain, has posters up showing Instagram-ready cones, shaped like roses. He is using a slicing tool, working quickly, shearing off small wedges of ice cream to build the rose-shaped desserts, petal by petal, sometimes three flavors to a cone. It is hard, precise work, under the gaze of at least 34 sweet-craving eyes
The line is getting longer. There are customers wanting tables cleared, extra spoons, more napkins. He is by himself, rapidly and meticulously crafting ice cream roses. He’s in front of me now, across the counter.
“Don’t you miss the talking?”
He pauses and glances up over his glasses, smiles exasperatedly. “So much. That used to be the best part of working here.”
It’s difficult to imagine a retail setting less suited to automation than the local ice cream store. In my memory—and not just from last century, but from last week, or last month, in ice cream shops in Bulgaria, in Denmark—half the fun is the line. OK, maybe 30%, but still. You get to observe reactions as people try flavors or see their orders in real life, being passed across the counter. You get to watch little kids as jumpy and excited as they’ll ever be, watching in anticipation their cones get made. You get to go through FOMO anxiety wondering which flavor is truly, exactly what you want right now.
And then when it’s your turn, you talk to the person serving you. You ask about their favorites. You get the story behind custom flavors or the owner’s inspiration. And it’s ice cream for Christ sake, ice cream! We’ll wait. It’s worth it. No one in line for ice cream gets mad and storms off.
I’m not opposed to automation. It’s a tool, like a hammer; you can build a house or kneecap a stranger. The tool itself isn’t inherently bad, it’s how you use it. (Men have said this before).
But this? Blocky electronic 2D screens in place of a second or third person to welcome you in, proffer a couple tiny spoons of temptation, tell you about their favorites, wink as they pile on a little extra? No thank you. Not here, not for ice cream?? Keep your book bans and your transgender toilets and your human rights kerfuffles; this shall be my yolk to bear in the culture wars, damnit!
Or will it?
I’m at that phase of life—curiously examining long-held beliefs, less inclined to fight feedback than to listen closely for insight—whereas before I would rush to judgment, now I’m increasingly interested in the ego-free examination of observation. The MBA in me understands throughput, inventory management, margins. The comms professional in me understands the power of AI and the potential for time saving, for expanded consideration.
Maybe AI knows. Over a cold mint tea in the back garden, I asked ChatGPT to write me a short story about the impact of AI on the local ice cream parlor, in the style of Hunter S. Thompson, because why not the king of gonzo. Here’s what it (it? Does ChatGPT have a pronoun?) said:
The local ice cream parlor, once a bastion of sticky fingers and melting cones, is now under siege by the cold, calculating hand of artificial intelligence. You can see it in the automated order kiosks that replace the eager high school kid who used to hand you a double scoop with a smile. The vibrant chaos of the shop, once filled with indecisive children and parents trying to decode the flavors of the day, is now eerily efficient. The soul of the place has been gutted and replaced by sterile algorithms predicting your flavor cravings before you even step foot inside. The line, once a place of human interaction and patience-testing, is now a thing of the past as orders are shot out at blinding speed, as if the AI itself is trying to rid the place of any lingering humanity.
Well, look at that—and they say AI has no self-awareness. It’s not bad—not great, but not bad. I’ll stick to the real thing though, Hunter Thompson and the high school kid both. Especially when it comes to ice cream.