Itap the holidays, so why not offer something a little different?
Recently I came to believe for several weeks that the pizza delivery company I’ve come to love in my neighborhood had either gone belly up, or had become subsumed into a group of companies that relied as much as possible on internet ordering.
Thankfully, I turned out to be incorrect. Or at least the ability to call in an order has returned, along with a personal reaction of relief greater than I would have thought possible for my local pizza dealer.
But on those dark, hungry nights confronting a computer screen, I fell into an irrational fear. And some amount of thought.
I struggled with the idea that the era of talking to the pizza dudes had passed. For the day is coming. And I wanted to preserve this small pleasure — this small oasis of human experience — increasingly swept into irrelevance by automation.
Ordering pizza by internet is an efficient way to do the job. It worked fabulously, and probably saves the owner money while making my pizza less expensive.
As I sat before my home computer, ordering pizza, I remembered what it was I was missing.
I’d make the call. Sometimes a voice would come on the other end of the line almost all at once — like a surprise. Others, I would wonder whether anyone would answer. What if they were too busy? I needed pizza!
Soon enough, the answer would come, and it was as if all sins were forgiven.
I would get to know the voice. And the connection to the voice teleported me into the kitchen, back to my admittedly safe and protected teenage years, with the business of making pizza all about: the clanging sounds and the brilliant smells of food cooking and music, maybe, and somehow even the uplifting thrill of camaraderie.
After all, I was just a kid, and not in need of money. I wasn’t an adult struggling to make ends meet with a low-paying job.
Still it is fair to remember the fun. I enjoyed those days for their purity and immediacy. I enjoyed writing down orders with the store’s special code. Smiling that black olives got a “BO.” Laughing at the way we treated anchovies like toxic waste kept in a special container.
I’d clock out and I was free.
Now all of that was reduced to a series of fields on a screen.
No doubt, my assumption that automation had replaced this fun came from the argument expressed by the restaurant industry, , that the $12 minimum wage voters were then considering — and passed Nov. 8 – would lead to increased use of automation to cut more-expensive employees from the payroll.
It’ll happen. Itap happening already. Some of it would have happened even if Amendment 70 had failed. We’re not a society that hangs on to horses and buggies just because they’re neato.
Nostalgia is usually dumb, and I usually say so.
But as I said, the holiday season is upon us, and if ever there is place for nostalgia, it is during that time that I get to decide whether to watch “Itap A Wonderful Life” again without feeling completely hopeless.
People matter. A sense of community matters. My hope is that the businesses that cater to our sense of community remember that.
When you go into a store and know the people there, they can brighten your day. When you go to a favorite restaurant, and know the people there, you can feel blessed.
When you face a screen, your only hope is that it was designed well, doesn’t get stuck and lose your order, and won’t get hacked.
Yes, automation works wonderfully. But some experiences are so innately human that replacing employees with automation seems outright rude for everyone, including the paying customers.
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