Qualityland

INTERVIEW

The room is rather cold and impersonal, but it is at least separated by a glass wall from the 126 people who are seated in the large open-plan space around standardized tables. Sixty-four of them are on the phone, thirty-two are working on computers, and all but sixteen are hastily shoving food into their mouths. It’s lunchtime. Opposite Peter, on the other side of the table, sits a young woman. Her name is Melissa; her name call-out doesn’t reveal any more than that. Before her on the table is a QualityPad, which she is making notes on.

“Tell me about yourself,” says Melissa, plucking at her business suit.

“Well, I mean, actually everything is in my profile,” says Peter.

“I never read through applicants’ profiles,” says Melissa. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have anything left to talk about.”

“Okay. My name is Peter.”

“Surname?”

“Jobless.”

“I see.”

“What do you see?”

“Enough. Level?”

“Ten,” lies Peter.

“Current job?”

“I… er… I’m a scrap-metal press operator. But it’s not exactly something I’m passionate about.”

“Understandable.”

“And that’s why I can imagine myself doing something different in the future.”

“Do you have any training?” asks the woman. “Additional qualifications?”

“I started training as a machine therapist.”

“Isn’t that forbidden?”

“It is now,” says Peter. “But when I was at school…”

“You mean Education Level II?”

“Yes. When I was completing Education Level II, machine therapy seemed like a job with good prospects.”

“Really? To me it sounds like esoteric nonsense. What do machines need therapy for? Machines either work or they don’t.”

“Well,” says Peter, “most people still believe that AIs are programmed by people. But that’s not true. Modern machines are driven by self-taught algorithms that become smarter by analyzing our data, conversations, correspondence, photos, and videos. As a result it’s probably inevitable that some of them get psychological problems. Mobbed printers. Mainframe computers with burnout. Digital translators with Tourette’s. Electronic household assistants with obsessive compulsive disorder. But before I could finish my training, machine therapy was banned.”

“Why? The Consumption Protection Laws?”

“Yes,” says Peter. “The therapy was seen as a kind of repair, and you know how the children’s rhyme goes: ‘To make the markets fly, we just have to buy! So never share and don’t repair!’”

“And so instead of becoming a machine therapist, you became a machine scrapper?”

Peter shrugs his shoulders.

“I couldn’t find a job, and when my grandfather died, the Ministry for Productivity told me I should take over his shop with the scrap-metal press.” He smiles. “My caseworker told me I should be happy, given that I’d said I wanted to do ‘something with machines.’”

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” asks Melissa.

“I… er… No idea. To be honest I find the question kind of depressing.”

“What would you say your strengths and weaknesses are?”

Now Peter can’t help but laugh.

“Would you mind telling me what’s so funny?” asks the young woman. “I like a good joke too.”

“I doubt that,” says Peter, laughing even louder now, against his will.

Melissa frowns. “Am I amusing to you?”

Peter pulls himself together.

“No, no. It just occurred to me that some years ago I had an interview that felt like a date, and now I’m having a date that feels like an interview.”

Melissa shrugs. For a moment, Peter regrets having activated the QualityPartner voucher. Then, luckily, the waiter comes over to their booth with the food, putting an end to the uncomfortable silence. Once he’s gone, Peter asks: “Have you noticed that we’re almost the only ones in the restaurant not working?”

“Speak for yourself,” says Melissa. “I’m continually working on myself.”

“Well, anyway, I once applied for an intern position at a start-up during Education Level III. There was this government program that subsidized six-month positions for people with my surname. Jobs for the Jobless! I can still remember the interview as if it were yesterday. There was soul music coming from the loudspeaker, freshly baked homemade cakes, the human resources manager foamed up my coffee milk and then sat down very close to me on the couch. I said a few times how much I loved what the company was doing and that I thought its products were amazing, and the HR woman told me how important I was to the company as a human being. We spent the rest of the time just talking about films, music, and hobbies. We talked shop about the virtual reality remake of the Lord of the Rings. For example, both of us had thrown up during the giant eagle flight sequence. And every time I said something she found funny, she gave me a playful nudge on the shoulder. When I signed the contract she cried, saying it was such an emotional moment for her. A moment she had always dreamed of. It was okay to cry, she said. When she let me go six months later, it said in the dismissal letter that it wasn’t me, but her, and that she hoped we could stay friends.” Peter shoved a few noodles into his mouth. “I never heard from her again.”

Melissa’s expression had remained unchanged during Peter’s story.

“My name is Melissa Sex-Worker,” she says now. “I come from the very bottom and I want to make it all the way to the top, and I don’t like wasting my time.”

Peter nods. “I see.”

“What do you see?”

“Enough.”

“So,” says Melissa. “How long have you been an analogue?”

“What’s an analogue?”

“A single person. That’s what it’s called now.”

“Oh. Well, not that long.”

“Why did your previous partner leave you?”

“What makes you think she left me? Maybe I was the one who ended it.”

Melissa smiles. “I doubt that.”

Peter sighs. “Why don’t we change the subject? What do you do for work?”

“I write commentaries.”

“For the news?” asks Peter. “You’re a journalist?”

“No,” says Melissa. “I write comments under videos, photos, blog posts, announcements, that kind of thing.”

“You’re a troll?”

“No. Trolls are idiots who try to kill the discussion. They do it because they find it fun, in some sick way. Commenting isn’t fun to me. It’s how I earn my money. I’m an opinion maker.”

“And which political opinion do you represent?”

“Oh, I can’t afford to have my own opinion; I just take whatever comes. But I prefer commenting for the campaigns of right-wing extremist clients.”

“Why?” asks Peter in horror.

“I’m paid per comment, and right-wing comments are quicker to write, because you don’t have to pay attention to annoying details like spelling, grammar, facts, or logic. That also makes it easier to program my bot army.”

Peter can’t think of anything to say in response. They eat on in silence, then Peter remembers a new, practical feature of the QualityPartner app. It can suggest good conversational topics for every date. Peter pretends he’s received a message, and opens the app. The suggested conversation topic is the weather.

“For this time of year,” begins Peter, “it’s… er, just as warm as one would expect outside.”

Melissa gives him a questioning look.

“Don’t you think?” asks Peter.

Melissa pushes her empty plate away without a word. “Right, then,” she says. “Let’s go back to mine and see how the sexual intercourse goes. Anything less than phenomenal seems unlikely.”

“Why?”

“Well, QualityPartner compared our profiles and seems sure that we’re a good match, and that’s clearly not down to you being a good conversation partner. So let’s try the sex.”

“That… er…” says Peter, “that sounds reasonable.”