Adult-ish Man Child and I recently went to Arkansas to attend a destination wedding.
This isn’t about Arkansas.
Or the wedding…
Backing up… The day before we left, I’d finished up a mildly entertaining mystery audiobook. It wasn’t the best of tales, it wasn’t the worst of tales, but I didn’t mind it, so I didn’t bother stopping the rolling previews of similar titles. After all, you never know when one thing might lead to another, and you’ll find your next favorite author by happy little happenstance.
I did not find my next favorite author in those snippets, and I abandoned the Audible app for Pandora’s ready-your-suitcase-already tunes.
Anyway, we (my son and I, so far as I knew) landed in Arkansas and sat on the runway for over an hour because of lightning strikes. I mean, I could see the gate. I could walk to the gate. I wanted to sign a waiver and take my life into my own hands, but the pilot wouldn’t let anyone off the plane. I lost count of how many times they had to “reset the clock” because of another strike.
By the time we located the rental car in the outdoor lot, we were soaked and cold. I barely coaxed my phone to connect to the car’s Bluetooth. I really needed my little Irish-accented Map Man’s help, even though he wants to warn me of random railroad crossings—an annoying little habit that I’ve asked him not to do, but he insists.
But instead of Irish Map Man’s stalwart directions, Audible became pushy.
Like super pushy.
It insisted on playing title snippet after title snippet, but only after announcing itself in surround sound stereo: “This is Audible…”
Every. Single. Time. We. Started. The. Car.
I lost count of how many times this happened.
I tried closing out the app entirely. Restarting the phone. Reconnecting to the Bluetooth. Nothing stopped it.
Audible went rogue.
Irish Map Man popped his head out of the dashboard at one point and declared that at the next railway crossing (four blocks away), we should tie the Audible Man and his not-for-us mystery suggestions to the train tracks.
Audible Man was on his tenth “similar title,” not catching the clue after nine turn-downs that this particular mystery niche isn’t for us. Points for persistence, but I now had dueling AI entities in this rental car.
Neither of these entities knew I had other “dueling” forces at work in my head, and it was getting tight in this vehicle.
After the wedding, we had some time to kill before the reception, so we plugged in the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art. It’s free and an excellent way to spend a few hours if you find yourself between a wedding and a reception.
After Audible Man and Irish Map Man duked it out through the speakers on murder mysteries and right turns in five hundred feet, we arrived. My head was buzzing, which meant Little Miss Muse was getting ready to make an appearance. I can sense her presence much like someone with a bum knee can sense an approaching storm.
I crossed my fingers. I’ve lost count how many times she’s been permanently banned from such places.
Anyway, we met the museum’s resident orange cat that lounges between the garage and the entrance. (Adult-ish Man Child met the cat, too, so this entity was not AI nor a figment of my imagination.) Famous Hamish, whose tag promises those who bother to read it that he is not lost, barely acknowledged us from his spot in the sun, but flicked his tail toward the entrance.
We explored the museum and, being a proper establishment, it dumped us in the gift shop. I browsed the prints for a favorite that I’d spotted in the gallery, a small, whimsical mermaid piece, to no avail. The only prints were of the more popular pieces.
Then I spotted something. My muse and my inner child came unhinged.
Enclosed in a locked glass case with perfectly lit shelving was a sampling of local artisan pens. I’ve lost count of how many pens I have, but, clearly, my collection is not complete.
Little Me and Little Miss Muse pressed their noses against the glass, and I sensed we (I and my two entities) must find an employee to unlock said case and give us paper to test out all the pens, or we (I and my son) would be late to dinner.
I (we?) became engrossed and, after a bit of testing, chose my (our?) favorite and headed for the checkout. (At this point, I have lost count of the characters in this story. I may have caught a glimpse of a yellow streak dashing around the corner… but probably not because Couch Lady may read this at some point and saddle me with another diagnosis. So, no. I most certainly did not probably see Big Bird.)
Adult-ish Man Child got excited that I was excited and snatched my credit card from my hand, held it hostage in the air (no way I could reach it, I’m too short and he’s… not short), and purchased it himself as a gift for me. “You’re impossible to buy for, so this is how it is.”
I was giddy that he was giddy, and I (we?) were pleased with our unique pen souvenir.
Our troop made our way back outside, past sleeping Famous Hamish.
Into the parking garage.
Started the car, yammering on about pens and art and cats. I poised a finger (I won’t say which one) over the screen, waiting to hit “pause” to stifle Audible Man, and… silence.
Nothing happened.
Irish Map Man was silent, too.
I checked to see that I’d actually started the car.
Then it dawned on me.
I didn’t have my phone and my two AI entities were lost somewhere in an art museum. I pictured one retitling all the artworks with the names of mystery authors and the other painting directional signs in all the hallways.
Little Me and Little Miss Muse had gotten so worked up over the pens that Grown-Up Me left it in the gift shop at the pen-testing case.
We leave the car, leave the garage, go past Famous Hamish (who rolled his eyes at all four? of us), and head back to the gift shop where they’d safely stored my phone.
Back outside. Past orange Hamish (another eye roll—and I think he did a head count—and a tail flick toward the garage), into the car, I pushed start.
“This is Audible. You may enjoy these twelve recommendations you did not ask for, now upgraded to include genres you do not read in, but I’m going to tell you about them anyway.”
Irish Map Man popped his whole body from the dash, hands on hips, complaining that Audible is overbearing and has no clue what time we shall arrive at the reception, nor that there are four potentially life-altering railway crossings between the museum and the restaurant.
Little Miss Muse and Little Me fought over the new pen in the back seat. One wanted to write a mystery to rival Audible Man’s suggestions. The other wanted an epic space opera featuring Irish Map Man as an underdog astronaut, the only one in the crew who knows where they’re heading and what time they’ll get there.
Adult-ish Man Child and I inadvertently synchronized our sighs. I believe he sighed because we’re finally on our way to food.
Me?
I sighed because when I turned on the vent, a tuft of yellow feathers popped out and floated down to my lap, and I realized then that I had definitely lost count of the passengers who landed in Arkasnas.
