Three Paged

Who is the Doctor

I got the idea for this off of a random word generator. It said "AI" and I immediately thought of the book Player Piano by Kurt Vonnegut. This is what I imagine the Husband of the prostitute would be like if he went to contest the machine's decision about his book. Also, keep in mind it's been a while since I've read Player Piano, so some details may be off. As will be the norm, any feedback or critique is welcome!

The man shambled into a chair as Dr. Coxley examined him. His nails were caked in heavy layers of dirt, his teeth were yellowing, his hair was matted. He had on a suit, but it looked wrinkly and not at all ironed. 

The man gave an embarrassed sigh as he adjusted his tie. "I'm an author," he explained, "But I-."

"We already know your case, Mr. Burr."

"Yeah, sorry," was the reply of Burr. "I'm, just, I'm ready to explain."

"If it makes you feel better, by all means, go ahead," replied Coxley.

"I've been a writer since before the war. Surely you heard of my work?"Burr's disheveled face began to gain color, his cheeks flushed and his eyes twinkled thinking back to the peak of his career. "Those truly were the days! I was surrounded by some of the greatest minds in the world! Wine and intellectual discussions and all the women I could ever want! And, mind you, I deserved every bit of it. I worked hard for my place among legends," his tone turned to anger, "Your computers are faulty! Anyone with half a human-brain knows that everything I write turns to gold!"

Coxley released a deep sigh. Complaints like this were normal for most higher-ups in the literary-entertainment sect. This was a conversation he had heard over fifty-eight times. And every one of those times, the conclusion was that he was right.

"Mr. Burr," began Coxley, "Our machines are sent to us straight from the best mechanics in Illium. Every decision they make is monitored by a separate system of machines that are themselves monitored by the EPICAC IIV. Their judgments are always correct, I can assure you."

Burr, only waiting for a gap in Dr. Coxley's speech, quickly retorted. "These systems, they're impossible! No machine has been created that can judge the artistic value of a work."

"It is possible, Mr. Burr. The exact machine you are describing is the one we employ. Every work submitted goes through a rigorous vetting process before any decision is made. If one of our machines rejected your manuscript, it was for a valid reason."

"Well, I'm no engineer, and I don't know how, but your machine made a mistake! Malfunctions happen all the time! You can at least check!"

Coxley began to enter something into his computer, "Do you have your initial manuscript report?""Yes, it's right here," replied Burr as he reached into his pocket.Of course, he brought his report.Coxley scanned the dates and tapped on his keyboard before sliding the receipt paper to Burr. All machines were in perfect condition, as they always were, on the dates Burr's manuscript was checked. And, no repairs scheduled, no faulty power supplies, nothing out of the ordinary."Now, will that be all, sir?"

Burr appeared indignant. How could this man not recognize that a machine simply couldn't understand the nuances and subtleties of his art? He would not be easily deterred. Mr. Burr, the ingenious writer, tortured by modern society, was a master of human nature. He would get his book published.

"Prove it," Burr challenged."I'm sorry?""Prove how a machine can judge art! Exactly you can-""Since the implementation of EPICAC-based technology, our sales increased to then-unprecedented numbers. Our total profits have maxed at over 10,000%. Our waste margin is less than .000001 percent. Our business is nearly perfect thanks to those machines.""But-," Burr was fully enraged, passionately defending the humanity of all art known to man, "But now all you publish is trash! Every book is nothing but low-brow smut or pictures of baby animals! It's absolute madness! Those aren't even real books!""May I ask then, what is a real book?""It's, erm... a book is something of value. Not like those, they have no substance.""I assure you, Mr. Burr, those books are of extreme value to us. As I said, we make a lot of money with those books. Did you ever consider who reads?"

Burr stuttered, what did this suit mean 'who reads.' The question was picked apart and mulled over in Burr's mine, any sort of trick-phrasing placed to make him look like an idiot? After he felt like he had reached the correct answer, a proud Burr replied: "The educated man."Dr. Coxley was nearly smiling now. "Almost over," he thought to himself."I'm afraid you're wrong. It's women, a wife more specifically.What does a woman do when the kids are off at school and her husband is at work? Not housework, of course, that's old fashioned. She has near nothing to do but read. And what do women want to read? I figure there are two categories of women's fiction, Mr. Burr. Something romantical for their girlish fancies, and something cute for their motherly tendencies. Both are mindless, harmless fun. These are the books women buy so these are the books we publish."Burr was near speechless, he knew this loon had to be wrong.

"Impossible! Men read! What's an educated man without a book in his hand," Burr replied."Oh yes, men read. But not for pleasure. They read instruction and operation manuals and they read the paper, but a man doesn't read for pleasure. For pleasure, a man spends money or gets drunk or plays football. A man comes home to his women and goes back to work. That is what satisfies a man. No man reads unless he has to, and, Mr. Burr, our department concerns entertainment fiction only. I'm sure you understand."

Before Mr. Burr could reply, a young woman peeked her head through the office door. "Ah, I apologize Dr. Coxley, but your 5 o'clock is ready," she said sheepishly."Alright have him come in about two minutes, we're almost done."The young girl nodded and gently closed the door.

Burr blabbered "But, Doctor, I read every day. You must not be taking into acc-"Dr. Coxley cut him off. "You couldn't even buy books if you wanted to! Poor, lazy bum! Think, who is the Doctor, and who is the Mister here? What side of this desk are you sitting in?"

With that, Mr. Burr was dismissed.