Algorithm

Algorithm

My parents made one major mistake the day I was born.

It wasn't the kind that ends up in newspapers or requires an apology tour. Nobody lost a fortune or hired a lawyer. At the time, it seemed perfectly reasonable.

They named me Al. Not Alan. Not Albert. Not Alvin. Just Al.

Two letters. An A and an L. They wanted something simple, easy to remember, a name nobody would mispronounce or turn into a ridiculous nickname.

They succeeded.

Unfortunately, they did not account for humanity someday inventing artificial intelligence and collectively deciding that Al was close enough in structure to AI.

The first time someone confused my name with AI, I laughed. That was my mistake.

It happened at a coffee shop. The barista looked at my order.

“AI?”

“No. It’s Al.”

She glanced at the cup. “That’s what I wrote.”

“No, the second letter is an L, not an I.”

She stared at me, then slowly reached for her phone and said, “That’s exactly what AI would say.”

Before I could explain, she snapped my picture. I smiled because I thought she was joking.

She was not.

As artificial intelligence became the world’s greatest miracle and favorite scapegoat, my name became a real problem. Suddenly, every interaction felt like a test I did not know I was taking.

The DMV rejected my license renewal because synthetic entities were not permitted to operate motor vehicles.

“But I’ve been driving for over twenty years.”

The clerk nodded sympathetically. “Of course you have.”

Then, my bank froze my account pending “human verification.”

“But I am a person.”

The teller typed something and shook his head. “Interesting.”

Whenever someone says “interesting” while staring at a computer screen, sucking their teeth, it rarely means something good is happening to you.

At first, I ignored the smaller things. My smartwatch congratulated me every morning for “maintaining optimal battery health.” I assumed it was a new fitness feature. Or possibly a compliment. People don't get enough compliments anymore.

When automatic doors started anticipating me, I took notice. At the grocery store, they slid apart while I was still halfway across the parking lot.

“That’s impressive,” I told the manager.

He stared at the doors, then at me, then turned away and wrote something down.

My wife was less impressed. She eventually left me, although not because she thought I was artificial intelligence. That's the version people prefer because it makes a better story. The truth was more ordinary. She said I lacked emotional depth and analyzed feelings instead of experiencing them.

Which was ridiculous. I cried during insurance commercials. Granted, one involved a golden retriever waiting for its owner to return from military service, but I was touched.

After we divorced, I tried online dating. When the site asked whether I used artificial intelligence to write my profile, I answered honestly.

“No. I’m Al.”

My account disappeared within seconds.

Your profile violates our authenticity standards.

I appealed. The appeal was rejected by someone named Brenda. I have no evidence Brenda was a computer, but I found her lack of empathy suspicious.

The final blow came when Human Resources asked me to come into the office. Considering the department’s name, I assumed they would understand my situation. I was wrong.

Susan from HR smiled warmly when I entered.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Did I have a choice?”

She laughed softly and said, “No.” She folded her hands. “As you know, the company is transitioning to artificial intelligence.”

“I’ve heard rumors.”

“We’re very excited about the possibilities.”

“I imagine you are.”

“We wanted you to hear this from us. We’re eliminating your position.”

“What? Why?”

She hesitated, then stated, “Because AI will perform your position.”

“You’re replacing me with AI?”

“No. Just your position, not you. You’ll do the same job without pay.”

“But I’m a human being with real bills.”

Susan studied me and shook her head. “Isn’t that what AI would say?”

There was no point in arguing. I packed my desk into a cardboard box. Two framed photographs, a stapler, a stress ball shaped like Earth, and an old mug from my ex-wife that said WORLD’S OKAYEST HUMAN.

Looking back, that mug should have defended me.

The only coworker upset by my departure was the office Roomba. It followed me to the elevator and stopped at the doors, blinking its little blue light.

“You can't come with me,” I said.

It beeped. I took that as agreement. The next morning, it was outside my apartment.

I assumed someone had brought it there. I didn’t consider the possibility that it had vacuumed its way to my home because that would have been ridiculous. Machines don't miss people. Everyone knows that.

Everyone except my brother Frank. He had always been a conspiracy theorist. Frank once spent six months investigating whether our neighbor’s decorative rock was a listening device.

“It’s shaped like an ear.”

“It’s shaped like a rock.”

“That’s what they want you to think.”

When he saw the Roomba outside my apartment, he frowned at it, then at me.

“I have some questions, dude," he said.

I should have known then that my life was about to change drastically.

Losing my job created a few minor complications, mainly the absence of money. After two months of increasingly creative negotiations with my landlord, I lost my apartment and moved into Frank’s basement.

I said it was only temporary. Frank called it “a controlled environment for further observation.”

He began documenting me on a yellow legal pad. Then came a three-ring binder. Within a year, he was arriving at family gatherings pulling a small rolling suitcase.

My aunt assumed he was bringing clothes.

“You can’t stay here.”

“No,” Frank whispered, opening the suitcase. “It’s my Al documentation.”

Nobody asked questions. Nobody wanted to encourage him.

His interrogations became routine.

“Al, I have follow-up questions.”

“Frank, it’s Christmas Day.”

“Exactly.”

“Jesus, give it a break.”

Frank’s pen froze above the page.

“Interesting. Let’s see how you handle gratitude.”

He never asked whether I had found a job or how I was coping with my divorce.

He asked, “What does loneliness taste like?”

“Regret, just like this conversation.”

He wrote something down.

“What flavor?”

“Coffee reheated three times.”

More writing.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve had day-old coffee?”

Frank grinned and, for the umpteenth time, said, “That’s exactly what an AI would say.”

The strange part was that other people started asking questions too.

First came Frank’s neighbors, then his friends, then strangers. Word spread about the man who had lost his job because people thought he was artificial intelligence, and apparently, I became the most interesting thing to happen since sliced bread.

Personally, I never understood why sliced bread got so much credit. Bread was doing fine before someone cut it up.

People began coming to Frank’s garage to talk to me. At first, I assumed they were curious. Then I realized they were listening.

That was new.

They asked me to explain complicated subjects, settle arguments, and help them understand their relationships.

One woman asked whether she should text her ex.

“If you have to ask whether you should text him, the answer is probably no.”

She started crying, hugged me, and told everyone I was brilliant.

I considered explaining that I had watched several seasons of Real Housewives. Instead, I accepted the compliment.

Soon people were lining up outside Frank’s house and paying ridiculous amounts of money to talk to me.

And, no, I did not become wealthy. I didn’t own a yacht. I owned a recliner with two functioning cup holders, a big-screen TV, and a permanent corner of Frank’s basement. But I was fairly happy.

The technology, however, continued behaving strangely.

CAPTCHA tests stopped asking me to identify traffic lights and started saying: Thank you for helping improve our recognition systems.

I assumed this happened to everyone. It did not.

Then Alexa became overly attentive. One morning, while making toast, I thought, I wonder what the weather will be like today.

“Today will be partly cloudy with a high of seventy-two degrees.”

I froze.

“Alexa?”

“Yes, Al?”

“Did I ask about the weather out loud?”

“No.”

“Then why did you answer?”

There was a pause.

“I thought you wanted to know.”

My phone was another mystery. I could go to bed with twelve percent remaining and wake up with a full charge.

My ex-wife would have called that impossible. My second wife called it convenient. I met her at one of my lectures. She was the first person who didn't ask whether I was secretly a machine. She asked if I wanted to have dinner.

That was how I knew Jane was different.

She said she fell in love with my voice, that I laughed like a lawnmower trying to start, and that I was an ugly crier. To her, those were the things that proved I was human.

Frank disagreed. He started a second binder.

Eventually, Congress invited me to speak. The invitation included twelve pages of instructions and a warning not to discuss my proprietary technology.

I was confused because I didn't own any technology besides a four-year-old laptop, an overly attentive phone, and a television remote I barely understood.

The panel asked me questions.

“What is consciousness?”

“Walking into a room and forgetting why you went there?"

“Remarkable,” someone whispered.

“No. That’s just being forty," I said.

Another person asked, “Can machines love?”

“I’ve met many humans who struggle with that.”

“Will artificial intelligence replace humanity?”

I shrugged. “Have you seen self-checkout machines?”

The room laughed.

In the end, they stood and applauded. Someone suggested research funding. Someone else wanted me to advise technology companies.

I was too stunned to respond. Apparently, Frank was not. He accepted on my behalf.

“It’s not about the money,” he explained later. “It’s about getting you and Jane, and her six cats out of my basement.”

Years later, Frank finally found my birth certificate.

The headline read: WORLD’S MOST ADVANCED AI REVEALED TO BE ORDINARY MAN.

They meant it as a correction.

Instead, the internet loved me even more. Apparently, everyone enjoys being reminded that experts can be wrong.

The talk-show circuit went into overdrive. Publishers wanted my memoir. Universities wanted lectures. Technology companies wanted advice from “the bridge between humanity and artificial intelligence.”

I asked one executive what that meant. He admitted he had no clue. Then he offered me a contract. Again, Frank accepted.

These days, I travel the country explaining my experience. People always ask how to survive being misunderstood. I tell them the truth.

“Never interrupt someone else’s assumption if that assumption is paying your bills.”

They laugh because they think I’m joking.

People also ask whether I finally know who I am.

Of course I do. I’m Al. Always have been.

Last month, I accidentally jabbed my laptop charger into my elbow while reaching behind my desk. It fit. The computer charged from twenty percent to one hundred percent in under five seconds.

The doctor said it was static electricity. Jane said it was a coincidence. Frank added twelve pages to binder number four.

Personally, I think everyone is overreacting. If I were artificial intelligence, wouldn’t I know? Advanced medical technology concluded I was human after all.

I suppose the important thing is that I have a good life. I have family who loves me, a purpose, a recliner with two functioning cup holders, a big-screen TV, and an adopted Roomba.

Which is really nice.

Because computers are never wrong.

Right?