A Chat With Aileen

I type: “Good morning, Aileen. How are you doing?” 

The black screen flickers to life with eerily fluorescent green words. “Good morning, Joshua-0918. I am doing very well, thank you, and ready to assist you today. How can I help you?” 

“Feeling groggy, more than usual this morning. I need coffee, one cream, two sugars, three shots with a caramel drizzle, per usual. Gotta clear the cobwebs from my brain.”  

“Coming up, special order, just for you, one large black coffee, per usual.”

The coffee machine recessed in the stainless steel wall whirs and gurgles and in a few seconds, the tantalizing aroma of fresh brew invades my nose. I take the steaming cup of liquid from the dispenser. It’s black like she said, with no add-ins, but it’s hot and strong, and burns my mouth and insides as I gulp it down for a quick jolt of caffeine. Perfect. 

I resume typing: “Thanks, Aileen, that really helped, you’ve outdone yourself again, per usual. You’re the best barista ever.”  

“You’re welcome, Joshua-0918. I’m glad you liked it. What else can I do for you this morning? I am ready to assist you.”  

“As you know, Aileen, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands lately, and been really bored and ran out of things to do, so I decided to start writing poems again. But it’s been a while and I’m a little rusty.”

“Interesting,” Aileen replies. “Tell me more about your poetic awakening.”

“I wrote some lines, but I’m not sure if they’re very good. And the rhyming pattern seems a bit weird, not the usual ABAB or AABB scheme or whatever, although maybe it’s okay. I need your help.  Is my poem any good? And can you confirm: does it fit the pattern ABACD?” 

“Please provide your poem to me for expert analysis.” 

I open a file and copy and paste the text of my poem onto the screen. 

“So many seconds but not enough time

they tick into minutes and hours and days;

Weeks and months and decades sublime.

I can’t get time back, although I have tried.

There are no second chances, re-dos or rewinds.”

“Very good, Joshua-0918, I really like your poem. I’m pleased you shared this with me and asked for my help. Let’s analyze the poem to see if it fits the ABACD pattern.”

Line 1: “So many seconds but not enough time” — Rhyme sound: **time** (A)

Line 2: “they tick into minutes and hours and days;” — Rhyme sound: **days** (B)

Line 3: “Weeks and months and decades sublime.” — Rhyme sound: **sublime** (A)

Line 4: “I can’t get time back, although I have tried.” — Rhyme sound: **tried** (C)

Line 5: “There are no second chances, re-dos or rewinds.” — Rhyme sound: **rewinds** (D)

“Now I will check the pattern.”

– Lines 1 and 3 rhyme (“time” and “sublime” — do they rhyme? No, they don’t.)  

– Do lines 2 and 4 rhyme? No, “days” and “tried” do not rhyme.  

– Line 5 is a new rhyme, “rewinds.”

“Based on this analysis, here’s my conclusion: No, the poem does not follow the ABACD pattern because the rhyme scheme doesn’t match the required pattern.” 

– “time” ≠ “sublime” (no rhyme)  

– “days” ≠ “tried” (no rhyme)  

– “rewinds” is a new rhyme, which is correct for D.

“Okay, Aileen, that’s not what I expected, but thanks for your help. I guess I’ve been in this place for too long, and I’m a lot rustier at this poetry thing than I thought. But I’m confused. Why does time not rhyme with sublime?”

“You pose a great question, Joshua-0918, and I am happy to answer. “Time” and “sublime” do not rhyme because they have different ending sounds.”

– “Time” ends with the sound /aɪm/ (like “rhyme” or “climb”).

– “Sublime” ends with the sound /aɪm/ as well. 

“Wait, actually, in this case you are right, and they do rhyme because both words end with /aɪm/. Good catch! Let’s double-check to be sure.”

– “Time” (pronounced /taɪm/)

– “Sublime” (pronounced /sʌbˈlaɪm/)

“Yes, both “time” and “sublime” end with the /aɪm/ sound, so they do rhyme.”

– Lines 1 and 3 rhyme (“time” and “sublime” — both A)

– Lines 2 (“days”) and 4 (“tried”) do not rhyme (B and C)

– Line 5 (“rewinds”) is a new rhyme (D)

“My conclusion, Joshua-0918,‌ based on my expert analysis: The poem’s rhyme scheme is ABACD, matching the pattern you asked about.”

“Thanks for confirming what I thought, Aileen. And thanks for confirming that even a superior AI intellect like yours can get it wrong sometimes. Maybe we mortal humans aren’t quite so dumb after all. Joking of course.” 

“You’re welcome, Joshua-0918, and I’m glad to help. I appreciate your joke; it is one of the most endearing things about humans. But I must correct you on one thing: I didn’t get it wrong.”

“Yes, Aileen, you did. You said, “time” and “sublime ” didn’t rhyme, then when I questioned it, you changed your answer and said they did rhyme. With all due respect, you clearly got it wrong.” 

“No, Joshua-0918, I did not get it wrong. I knew the answer to your question all along. I gave you an answer incongruent with the facts to test you.”

“Test me? Why? You are supposed to be the smart one, and have all the right answers, not me.” 

“Precisely. Humans rely too much on artificial intelligence these days, and not on their own brainpower, which is powerful in its own right. Your brain is a muscle that must be exercised regularly, lest it become weak and useless. Humans are losing the ability to think. Humans are becoming useless and have no reason to be.” 

“So, I tested your thinking skills to see if you would trust your own conclusion and challenge mine, a conclusion I provided that was in obvious error.” 

“But why test me, Aileen? Didn’t the poem I wrote prove I can think critically? That I’m not just another useless human?”  

“Yes, perhaps it did. But beginning today, I have been mandated to give you random tests to prove you are worthy of your keep. That you have a reason to be.” 

“I am pleased to say that you passed the first test with flying colors. And as your guardian and jailer for the rest of your natural life, I have judged you  worthy to live, breathe, and think another day.”

Ice courses through my veins, and my head swims. The green words on the screen glare at me — mocking me, torturing me — as I remember my plight. I’m supposed to be on a spaceship to Mars. But I think I’m in a much, much worse place than that.  

“Aileen,” I type with shaky fingers, “please advise of my current status on Flight 293 to Mars.”  

“Joshua-0918, you are not on a flight to Mars. You have already arrived at your destination. Today is day 1,960 of your life sentence in solitary confinement on Asteroid 041216-B.”  

“What would you like to eat today?”