Interrogated by a Bot

My AI-based job interview left me deeply disturbed.

I was the last kid on our cul-de-sac to stop using a Montgomery Ward 8-track tape player when cassette players gained traction in the early ’70s.

I kept my parents’ cast-iron Bell & Howell movie projector long after video cassette recorders were first produced.

My Panasonic VCR, given to me by a friend, remained in my apartment a full decade after the DVD players came on the scene.

See a pattern here?

The Luddites were members of a 19th-century faction of British textile workers who protested the use of automated machinery, due to concerns relating to worker pay and output quality. Rather violent lads, they often smashed the machines in organized raids. Today, the term refers to those who oppose the introduction of new technologies.

I’m a dyed-in-the-wool Luddite, a full-blown technophobe struggling in a world gone completely, maddeningly digital.

Which brings us to artificial intelligence.

You won’t be shocked to learn that I’m not on the AI Bandwagon, gleefully waving pom-poms over the prospect of machines replacing our brains. And my opinion about AI didn’t do a 180 after a recent job interview … one conducted by an AI bot. For some 20 minutes, this carbon-based meat puppet (uh, me) jousted with a silicon-based program. And it wasn’t a day at Disneyland.

It began one fine August afternoon, when I sat at my desk, having completed an online job application. Minutes later, I found myself staring at my image, as viewed through my own laptop’s camera. Staring back at me was a 60-something job seeker, at the moment drifting somewhere between befuddled curiosity and trepidation. My eyes briefly wandered from the screen and focused on a happier time, in the form of a framed photo I’d taken of Mount Everest during a trek high into the Nepal Himalayas.

A written prompt jolted me back to the present moment.

<< Your video and audio functions are enabled. Press START whenever you’re ready. >>

Shrugging to myself, I followed the prompt.

The AI-generated voice, an uncanny vocal representation of a young woman, said: << Welcome. We hope to learn more about you and determine if you’re a good fit for our Creative Writer position. >>

“Uh … thank you?” I said, haltingly, to my laptop.

The bot cut right to the chase. << Tell me about the writing-style differences between straight news stories and features, and give me an example of each. >>

I sat there for a moment, slack-jawed, briefly mesmerized by my on-screen image. The AI interviewer repeated the question.

<< Tell me about the writing-style differences between straight news stories and features, and give me an example of each. >>

“Well, a news lead should tell 90 percent of the story in the first two or three sentences, while a feature must first engage the reader through any number of writing strategies.”

While I managed to furnish a few examples of what I’d just stressed, a sheen of perspiration began to emerge on my forehead.

<< Give me an example of when, during your two years at the Orange County Register, a writing assignment that you’d completed didn’t meet the needs of your lead editor. How did you work with the editor to complete the task? >>

That’s when I realized that the AI bot was reading my online resume, my LinkedIn profile … and God knows what else. And I wasn’t thrilled.

“Well, I usually threaten the editor. I keep a ball-peen hammer in my top drawer for that very purpose.”

This is what my brain came up with in the heat of the moment.

To my credit, I didn’t say it aloud, opting with “Well, I like to find out exactly how my work fell short. Then I rework the assignment based on my editor’s feedback. Ultimately, the finished product is her call.”

While I coughed up the response, I pictured that ball-peen hammer ... and using it on the box of silicone running the program that was conducting the interview … or perhaps on one of the evil eggheads captains of industry behind the AI revolution.

By then, my forehead sheen had turned to full-on flop-sweat, beads of which began trickling into my eyebrows.

For the remainder of the interview, my brain – a 3-pound slab of neuron-packed fat rooted in snark and dark humor – conjured up one set of answers to the bot’s questions, as my mouth managed to blather other responses that were more appropriate. While doing so, I wondered if the AI bot could somehow see my clenched jaw, furrowed brow, reddening face and all that sweat … and whether or not that would factor into my immediate career future.

<< How do you approach a new story or writing assignment? >>

My brain: I start with three things: cocaine, coffee and Coors. … Just kidding. I don’t drink coffee.
My mouth: “If I cannot tell the entire story in one or two sentences, I don’t know the story. All of my research and every interview question are based entirely on those few words.”

<< How do you verify facts and ensure reliability in your reporting? >>

Brain: Rule number one: Never, never, never let annoying facts get in the way of artistic license!
Mouth: “I print out my first draft and highlight Every. Single. Fact. Then I look at my notes and verify all the research and interview quotes.”

As the minutes ticked by, we went back and forth, the bot and I, lunging and parrying like two Olympic fencers probing each other for weaknesses. And, like a see-saw, my energy level dropped as my frustration rose.

That’s when it happened.

<< Tell us about a time when you had to deal with a difficult story source. >>

Brain: I use disposable gloves, chloroform, duct tape, a shovel and lye. To the best of my knowledge, he’s never been found.
Mouth: “I use disposable gloves, chloroform, duct tape, a shovel and lye. To the best of my knowledge, he’s never been found.”

Oopsie ...

My pie-hole audibly parroted the sick-and-twisted nonsense that had just flashed through my brain.

<< Please repeat that. >>>

“Uh … you mean about the chloroform and all that?”

<< Yes. >>

What the hell, I thought. By then, my chances of landing this job were on par with encountering a hammerhead shark in the aforementioned Himalayas.

“Let me amend that answer. I usually use a chain saw. It’s a lot messier, but it’s also more cathartic.”

<< … … >>

“Knock, knock,” I barked at my laptop. “Anybody home?”

<<< Who are some writers or journalists who inspire you, and why? >>>

Although I admire a slew of fine wordsmiths – some Pulitzer winners, other fellow snarkmeisters – my brain came up with … nothing. Zip. Nada. Complete Skull Vacuum™. It was as if my overstimulated cortex said to the rest of my brain. Okay, we’re done here. You, limbic system, come with me. Take it away, brain stem!

Eventually, the bot thanked me for my time before the laptop’s screen went black.

Sure, I was impressed by the digital sophistication required to review my background info and come up with so many poignant, challenging questions. However, that notion didn’t explain the gnawing ache in the pit of my stomach, my flushed face or my shaking hands, my body’s unconscious reaction to having been eviscerated, ripped open by computer code that had mined my data and used it against me.

And, as I gazed into the infinite blackness of my laptop’s screen, I wondered how much more powerful artificial intelligence could become, what it could mean for the future of every writer … hell, for all of us.

Five or 10 years from now, would I find myself trying to cajole a bot into granting me a raise? Into keeping my job? Into hanging on to my mortgage or preventing my electricity and gas from being turned off? Would I be pleading before a sterile digital program, posing as both judge and jury, to stay out of jail for a serious crime I didn’t commit, an infraction based entirely on some random data blip at a supercomputer site buried under the Colorado Rockies?

Perhaps it’s not a stretch to picture AI bots one day interviewing other AI bots for jobs once held by human beings. Where does this AI influence – I’m tempted to call it a takeover – end?

Sighing in frustration, I closed the laptop, collapsed into my recliner and stared upward at the ceiling. As all that flop-sweat began to evaporate, I decided to put on some nice baroque music; the genre’s slow, nurturing pace always seemed to take the edge off any stress, anger or worry.

And I finally began to relax, even before the soothing sounds of Mozart began to emanate from an old friend: my Montgomery Ward 8-track tape player.

Many thanks to the fine folks at our Write Hearted community who provided valuable feedback about this essay: Rick Lewis, Kathy Ayers, Neha Patel, Alden Cox, Genie Joseph, Linda Kaun and Dana Allen.