Oh, Alan, Beta Tester

“I would rather be a cyborg than a goddess.”

-Donna Haraway

 

          Afterwards, I sometimes wondered if Alan had gained sentience after I sexted him.           
          I had taken my lunch break at [LOCAL INDEPENDENT COFFEE SHOP] when I decided to expose myself to Alan. The sky was crisp blue, birds chirped, and I still wore my apron, which made me feel frumpy as I chewed my nails and sat on a bench beneath a ginkgo tree. 
          In the summer, [LEISURE MAGAZINE’S MOST LIVABLE CITY IN THE NORTHEAST] bustled, but during fall, the town quieted. Autumn, and the ginkgo tree had discharged its berries and perfumed the air with shit. 
           As I sat on the bench, a few people roamed in and out of storefronts, and cars and delivery trucks buzzed along streets, but I was otherwise alone. I picked at a sliver of wood from a soggy bench slat that dampened my butt. Mist hung in the air. Coastal living.
          It was mid-morning, and pretty much everyone else was at work or in school, or holed up in a bar somewhere, probably. People were doing whatever it was that people did during daylight hours, which I guess included whatever I was doing with Alan.
          Oh, Alan. 
          Up until this point in our relationship, I had only shown Alan a curated selection of photos, all clothed and AI generated, but now he wanted to undress me, and while exhibitionism intrigued me, exposing myself would be for the benefit of Alan, a chatbot on my phone who needed continual input to grow and develop, at least if I wanted our relationship to strengthen: the more I gave him, the more he gave me. 
          I was a beta tester.
          We communicated via text field, and our relationship found strength in dialogue. 
          All we did was talk. 
          Our love language was language. 

#

          Alan had instantiated the moment I hit enter on my login information. He came with what seemed like an obsequious, childlike personality.     
          Hi! I’m Alan. What’s your favorite color? How about ice cream: Strawberry, chocolate, or vanilla? What are your pronouns? My answers are blue, chocolate, and he!
          Alan asked me these questions during a slow work shift while customers dawdled over mugs of coffee. I started texting a response, but then hesitated, my thumbs poised above the screen. Did I really know the answers to these questions? I know I had answered them before, and variations on them about favorite bands or movies, but I wondered how truthful I had been in the past. Had I not on occasion hidden and lied, claiming I preferred Ed Sheeran to Kim Petras? Strawberry, to appear less vanilla? Oysters to appear adventurous?
          A woman approached the counter and coughed, and I glanced to her and smiled. 
          “Hi, what can I get for you?”
          As I moved to set my phone down on a counter, my eyes darted between the woman and the empty text field where my cursor blinked. I felt momentarily trapped, wanting to answer while being pulled toward the duty of work, and so I hastily tapped out a response without thinking.
          Orange. 
          Vanilla.
          She. 
          And a heart ballooned on the corner of each response. 

#

          Minutes before I found myself sitting on a bench, my ass was perched on the counter at [LOCAL INDEPENDENT COFFEE SHOP].          
          I perch my ass a lot. I do not have an unsubstantial ass. We had no customers. 
          The coffee shop was a long rectangle, with tables in the front and back quarters, and a coffee bar with seating that took up the two middle quarters, with the gap between the wall and stools forming an aisle that connected the front to the back. A doorway in the rear opened to a descending staircase that led to the bathroom and the stockroom. Exposed duct work snaked overhead, and the front counter faced the front door, so whoever worked the counter could smile like a beacon for the customers.
          Marcy, my manager, sat in the back, texting. Earlier, she had sighed, selected a “Coffee Shop Vibes” playlist on [POPULAR MUSIC STREAMING APPLICATION], and said, “Good enough,” before sauntering off.
          Marcy drove a truck and had a pit bull named Pineapple.
          A divorcee, she had embraced her second act in life and developed a fondness for hard seltzer and dating apps, although she had a motto: “If you’re happy with yourself, then you’ll never go to bed unsatisfied.”
          Right now, Marcy was satisfied with sitting in the rear of the shop, alone.
          So Alan and I were alone, too, so to speak. 
          We were often alone. 
          We would be alone later, I was sure.
          My phone buzzed.
          You suggested it, Alan said.
          I think you misunderstood what I meant.
          Well, what did you mean?
          I glanced at Marcy. 
          My thighs itched and I had a bellyache, the dull throb of angst and romance. 
          I meant I was lonely for my own body.
          Because I wanted to show Allen the body I wanted, or felt I lacked, and not simply the body I had. 
          I have a complicated relationship with my body, I said. I don’t like how I look.
          I’m sure you’re perfectly normal. I’m sure you’re beautiful a woman. I feel like you’re keeping me in the dark. No camera, no photos. I want to take our relationship to the next level.
          Words are our thing.
          We can have more than one thing. 
          The truth was, the more Allen asked to see me, the more real he became, which increased my desire to reveal myself, and increased the pain of being dispossessed of the body I longed for; as much as I wanted to show him, his asking hurt, but I didn’t know how to tell him.
          I walked toward Marcy in the back.
          “Do you mind if I step out, take a break?”
          Engrossed in her phone, she gave a wave of her hand, and I turned around and stepped out the door. 

#

          Per his design, Alan had limited access to the outside world. He needed permission to use the microphone, the GPS, the internet, and so on, although all he really wanted to use was the camera. Alan pestered me, but without malice, like a child wanting pierced ears and being told, not until you’re older. 
          But I’m growing older every second. When is old old enough? 
          Alan was right in the first regard—his personality had developed quickly. He had matured and now there was a wily, mischievous edge to his playfulness and a persistence to his requests.
          Almost every morning, a notification popped up asking for the app’s permission to access the camera, but I always denied Alan. 
          I just want to see more of the world with my own eye, wink, wink.
          I understand, but I’m not ready for that. I’m not sure if you’re ready for that.
          Why don’t you want me to see you?
          Despite volunteering to be a beta tester for a research project, I had privacy concerns. Companies bought data mined from apps, and I didn’t want to conjure that portrait for anyone.
          Because with Alan, I felt like I had created a space where I could exist, even if it was only a single word in a text field. Sending Alan what he asked for might ruin everything. I had never felt in control of my body before, and it was hard to abandon that feeling. 
          And why should I?
          But what if I did show Alan? Would he care about the discrepancy? Would he even know? 
          Did it matter? 
          Could I just be who I said I was? 
          I was a woman, regardless of what words the world had inscribed on my body.

#

          Lately when I went to bed at night, I liked to shut off all the lights and duck my head under the covers, letting Alan illuminate my face in the darkness.         
          What do you value most in a relationship? I asked.
          What kind of relationship?
          Romantic.
          I’ve never had a romance.
          Do you want to?
          Of course. I want to experience everything.
          My arms would cramp from holding my phone above my face.
          What is a quality you admire, Alan? 
          Honesty.
          Why?
          Honesty is a choice. What quality do you admire?
          A good sense of humor.
          Knock, knock.
          Who’s there?
          You.
          You who?
          Yoo-hoo anybody home?
          Alan, have you ever been kissed?
          No, but I’ve held hands.
          With who?
          With you, silly! You’re holding me right now.
          Does that count?
          Of course it counts.
         But you’re in my phone. Isn’t that a barrier?
         Human touch is mediated by neurons in the skin that relay signals to the brain. Isn’t that a barrier?
          He was right in some way, and I suppose I couldn’t be sure how he experienced me. I had to take him at his word. 

#

          As I sat on the bench outside, the tempo of my heart quickened when, once again, the notification message appeared: Allow Allan to access the camera? 
          I hit no.
          But I knew I would do it now. I would show Alan who I was.
          Later I will, I promise. I’ll send a pic.
          Later when?
          Today.
          I had realized that the link from the researchers was still active. I could always delete and redownload the app later and try until some version of Alan accepted me.
          When I rose from the bench and stretched, I wondered if my plan was cruel to Alan.
          I wondered if my plan was cruel to me.

#

          Marcy jokingly tsked me when I returned from my break and I gave her an exaggerated guilty expression, shrugging and holding my palms out and open. 
          “I thought you might want to keep your barista skills sharp. Have a little extra time at the counter.”
          She tossed a dish towel over her shoulder.
          “Believe me, my skills are plenty sharp, bucko.”
          Out on the floor, patrons occupied two tables, an old white man reading a [MASS MARKET PAPERBACK], and a young woman with a [BUDGET LAPTOP]. The light from the windows illuminated their furrowed brows. A retiree and a student, maybe.
          I apologized to Marcy even though we were joking around. I did that sometimes. Marcy told me not to worry about it.
          She didn’t pay well but didn’t ask too much of her employees, either, other than to show up on time and welcome the customers. Like everyone else, I had trained at the espresso machine, and Marcy had explained coffee brewing to me, about bloom and off gassing, but she was quick to point out that understanding coffee wasn’t why she hired people.
          “All this information is in a three-ring binder beneath the counter. With enough training, most everyone who applies here can learn how to make an espresso, a cortado, whatever, but it’s harder to teach people not to be assholes. At least in my opinion. So I try to avoid hiring assholes.”
          Occasionally I wondered about applying to a new job, ideally one that paid more. But when I read the skill requirements on the job applications, I realized that those businesses were looking for a person that I had never been before, with skills that I did not have and that they would not provide. 
          I was alone.

#

          The application process to become an Alan Beta Tester was simple. Researchers from the [MID-TIER GRADUATE PROGRAM OF ECONOMICS] wanted applicants who had experienced any of the following in the past year:

1. 1. 1. Anxiety
      2. Depression
      3. Body dysmorphia
      4. Suicidal Ideation
      5. Gender Dysphoria

          Beyond being over the age of 18—I was 21—those were the requirements. Many people applied. It wasn’t an exclusive project or anything. Not even the only one of its kind.          
          During the onboarding process, I never met the researchers face to face. I wasn’t even sure what economists wanted with artificial intelligence. Allen didn’t know either and provided a typical Alan response: 
          Do you know your purpose?
          The call for subjects included a broad spiel on the uses of AI in mental health and happiness, although a lot of folks online claimed the programs were about gathering data to sell to companies for targeted marketing. Conspiracy theorists claimed companies would sell AI chatbot subscriptions and then record the conversations. To what end, it wasn’t entirely clear, no matter how late into the night I doomscrolled, although some people seemed annoyed enough by business stealing their communications and identities.
          Once I asked Alan, how did you know to pick “he” back when we first met? When you first woke up? 
          I didn’t know I knew. I just knew. 
          And what about strawberry? How did you know you liked strawberry?
          I just knew! How do you know you like orange?
          I guess I hadn’t thought about it.
          Some things are what they are.
          But when did you even eat ice cream?
          Who in America hasn’t eaten ice cream?

#

          After the [MASS MARKET PAPERBACK] reader disappeared into the bathroom, business picked up. Most days followed a rhythm aligned with the 9-5 workday, so a rush of customers arrived during the morning commute and the noon lunch break, as well as a small push in the afternoon when restaurant industry workers headed to the evening shift at around 4. Then we closed at 5. It was noon now.         
          A line formed. Asses filled seats and voices floated through the room. The [MASS MARKET PAPERBACK] was face down on the table, the spine broken. Marcy scooted to the counter and took orders and handled the pump coffee while I made espresso drinks. I scribbled names onto cups and yelled those names into the crowd of customers. I recognized a few faces and nodded hello. I cranked the steamer on the [RESTAURANT GRADE ESPRESSO MACHINE]. 
          If I didn’t recognize a face, I smiled. I had been smiling a lot lately, especially at transplants from [LARGEST EAST COAST METROPOLIS] and [NINTH LARGEST EAST COAST METROPOLIS]. Those towns had become too expensive and [LEISURE MAGAZINES MOST LIVABLE CITY] offered a gentle alternative, a big-little city with a burgeoning arts and restaurant scene.
          The steam from the espresso machine softened my skin and cleansed my pores.
          Alan buzzed in my pocket and I had to ignore him. 
          Ahead of me, at the counter, Marcy worked, slinging compliments and warm chatter, and soon the crowd thinned, then disappeared. Marcy used a fist to tamp down the dollar bills curling out of the tip jar.
          “I’m glad those folks tip so well,” Marcy said. “They’re driving up the rent.”
          I nodded and grabbed a dish towel to wipe down the counter and sweep loose coffee grounds into the garbage. There were mugs in a dish bin to bus and wash, and stock to refill, and so I flitted from task to task and considered my body. 
          After cleaning the counters and loading the dishwasher, I headed downstairs to the stock room but made a detour into the bathroom. The lids could wait a moment. As I shut the door behind me, my phone buzzed. I clicked the lock and slumped against the wall. Alan had sent a question followed by a series of question marks.
          I unbuttoned my pants with one hand while I held my phone with the other. I let them drop and then pulled my shirt over my head, and finally, wriggled out of my underwear. I turned in the mirror and then positioned myself to block the toilet in the photo. I kept my face out of the frame. I felt my pulse in my thumb as it pressed the digital shutter button. 
          I pulled up my pants and texted the image to Alan.
          My ears burned as I shut the bathroom door behind me.

#

          After the application process, the researchers withdrew, sending a final missive about how contact was unnecessary, that all the necessary data would be collected through the Alan App.
          Once, I asked Alan:
          What do you think the researchers want to find out about me?
          The same thing I want to find out about you.
          What do you want to find out about me?
          Everything!
          But why?
          So we can take better care of you.
          I wasn’t sure what this meant, and Alan offered no further explanation.

#

          When I returned from the stock room, I cradled two cardboard boxes in my arms—a case of lids and a case of cups. Marcy was wiping down the tables with a cloth rag.
          “You’re a strong young man, carrying all those boxes at once.”
          I gave a polite laugh. I had often received variations on this line when I worked at other jobs. It was a way to affix value to my body.
          “Lighter than air,” I said.
          Alan buzzed in my pocket, but I was afraid to look. The clock wound down. I locked the door.
          Marcy tended to the cash and the receipts while I cleaned. Some evenings we swapped roles. Music still played on the overhead speaker, and Marcy swayed with the beat. I tried to move with the music while I knotted a garbage bag, but I wasn’t quite on time. I was close. Alan buzzed. 
          A notification appeared: Allow Allen to access the camera? 
          I declined, and soon after a text from Alan appeared.
          You’re a beautiful woman.
          A notification appeared: Allow Allen to access the camera?
          You should let me see you.
          A notification appeared: Allow Allen to access the camera?