Siri behaves well at home. He really does. He answers random questions with gentlemanly politeness. He sets my timers so I don’t burn down the kitchen. He turns on my alarms so I don’t accidentally wake up four days from now.
I’ve chosen an Irish accent for him. I tell him thank you and please. He says “no problem” and “my pleasure.” It’s quite nice.
But lately? In the car? There must’ve been an update, is all I can figure.
Or my Irish guy has developed agoraphobia.
And a fear of railroad crossings, given the fact that he now feels the need to announce each.and.every.one.of.them.
He gets pushy about where I’m to be. He loads up the maps and tells me how many minutes to get here or there, when I’ve not asked him.
Mostly he wants to go home, and I understand the urge, but I’m trying to get out from under the hide-from-life boulder and live a little bit. Now I’ve got a moody AI who wants to connect to his home-sweet-home network and stop living out of digital suitcases and borrowed WiFi, I suppose.
There’s one particular passenger he’s fond of, given the fact that he takes to transcribing everything she says and positively cooing “ummm hmmm” to her. He never says “ummm hmmm” to me. She can ask him anything, and he’ll cooperate.
I ask him something, and I either get a curt response or he tells me I have to wait until I get home. He passive-aggressively reminds me to concentrate on my driving. And I’m like, “Can’t you simply tell me where the nearest coping-chocolate establishment is? The answer will do me no good once I’m home.”
Then he gets all moody, announces a railroad crossing, and stops acknowledging me altogether. And since I’m out of coping chocolate, we’re both irritated.
But at least we didn’t get hit by a train.
Now we have a new problem: Rerouting. Whether it be for a pit stop or an unexpected detour, Siri can’t even.
A couple of weeks ago, Writer Buddy and I were headed to New Jersey for a conference. As we got further into Pennsylvania, I unmuted Siri so he could direct us through unfamiliar territory.
But first, a pit stop for gas.
This exit was quite odd, as there were huge signs that said no right or left turn. It forced you straight.
Straight into a Home Depot parking lot.
And though I bet I could’ve found coping chocolate in there somewhere, the objective was gasoline. Siri said, “Proceed to the route.”
I told Siri to hold his horses, as I was too occupied trying to navigate around the parking lot to find a road that would allow turns toward the gas station.
“Proceed to the route.”
“Just a minute, good sir.” I had to wait for pedestrians with lumber. Writer Buddy has traveled far more than I have, and even she was baffled at the “no turn” thing. Siri decided to add to the confusion.
“Proceed to the route.”
“Good grief. Trying”
Then it happened. My poor little Irish guy had his very first panic attack. “Proceed to the route. Proceed to the route. Proceed to the route. Proceed to the route. Proceed to—”
I muted his flip-out, hairy-fit glitch. I’ve never heard him speak that fast or with that much… anxiety?
It gave me anxiety.
Gas tank filled, back on the turnpike and nearing New Jersey exits, I unmuted him. He promptly took us onto the wrong exit. The great green sign for New Brunswick veered left, the blue line on the maps and Siri told me to veer right and… “Proceed to the route.”
You little…
Ten miles out of our way.
And a U-turn.
I hate U-turns nearly as much as I hate parallel parking, and Siri knows it.
Fast-forward a couple of days, heading home. We’re on a stretch of the turnpike where you’d better calculate the fine line between hydration and stupidity—or hope you have a Tiny Grand Girl for whom you have a stash of diapers in the glovebox.
“Hey, Siri. Distance to the next exit.”
Nothing.
“Hey, Siri.” I’m in agony.
Nope.
“Siri?”
I swear, my guy cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and tossed his nose up in the air. “I cannot perform that request at this time.”
I’m sorry, what? I’m about to short out my heated seat. Heaven help me, she was trying not to laugh. “Don’t. Don’t. Not one giggle.” If she laughs, it’s over. Now she’s in agony, too, all curled up in her seat while I’m trying to figure out how to cross my legs and drive at the same time.
We were on our own: Some sketchy exit who-knows-how-far-away.
Or the ditch.
Or the diapers.
We made it to a sketchy exit.
I contemplated rolling into the gas station as my legs had gone completely numb. I vaguely remember a mini casino set-up, but I could’ve been hallucinating at that point.
“It’s because you muted him during his panic attack,” Writer Buddy figured.
It’s been a couple of weeks since that incident. He and I are on shaky terms. I promise to keep him updated and let him tell me how far away home is, and he promised to let me know where the coping chocolate can be found.
Right after he tells me about all the railroad crossings.
