Author’s Note:
I wrote the following short story back in 2020 during the height of the pandemic. 2020 seems like a lifetime ago; it was a strange time of uncertainty that now feels almost quaint compared to present reality. While much has changed since then, I believe our collective anxieties about AI misalignment and runaway automation feels more relevant today than ever. What began as a darkly comic exploration of human reliance on machines reads like a mirror of the imminent future.
It all started with guacamole. I don’t blame this delicious dish for the events that followed, but nonetheless: it started with guacamole.
You see, my husband and I were throwing a housewarming party to celebrate our new home. We had planned every aspect of the night: from the newly purchased window drapes to the champagne and bellinis, to the freshly polished chinaware. The turkey was roasting in the oven, the card table was stacked with a variety of party games, the candelabra we received as a wedding gift flickered with red taper candles, and the white Christmas lights twinkled in the hallway. Smells of sandalwood emanated from a newly lit incense holder. The only thing missing from our perfectly coordinated party was my homemade guacamole. In hindsight, perhaps it wouldn’t have made a difference, but I had high expectations for this important milestone. The avocados had to be ripe, but not over-ripe and bruised. Lewis teased me telling me “it’s just guac, not a Michelin star amuse-bouche.” But in my mind, this party was proof that we had built something real. A home, a life, and a future. If the guacamole failed, what else would go wrong?
Two months prior, my husband and I had purchased a brand new sedan. Like all vehicles manufactured after 2035, our new ride was a fully autonomous passenger-only model. At first, the lack of steering wheel was disorienting, but we adjusted quickly. Statistically, these AI-driven cars were far safer than human drivers—so said the government trials. Some old-school folks clung to their used cars like emotional support animals, but most of us Millennials were more than happy to relinquish control in exchange for convenience and peace of mind.
So when I asked Lewis to pick up some last-minute ingredients—two Haas avocados, a tomato, an onion, and fresh cilantro—he obliged with his usual sweetness. He grabbed his jacket, slipped on his boots, kissed my forehead, and left. In a few minutes, I heard the car door slam shut and the engine purr to life.
“Hello, Lewis,” chirped the AI chauffeur personality. “Where are we off to tonight?”
“Whole Foods, please. We need guac gear for the big party tonight.”
“I understand. Maximum fiesta mode engaged! Buckle up, Lewis. Guac is on the menu.” A cheeky emoji winked at him from the dashboard as the car plotted the six-mile journey to Main Street.
The ride began like any other. Lewis watched out the window as familiar landmarks rolled by—Emerald Acres Subdivision, Harrison High School, the Free Methodist Church on Greenly Street, the local district library.
The vehicle had just rounded the corner onto Beech Street when suddenly Jarvis the AI chauffeur activated the radio system and played Shakira's 2005 hit song ‘Hips Don't Lie’ without warning or instruction from Lewis.
Now, Lewis wasn’t anti-Shakira. She obviously had talent and worldwide appeal, but he certainly wasn’t a superfan. Tonight his mood leaned more toward the angular synths of 80s new wave.
He shifted in the leather upholstered seat and turned his gaze toward the dashboard. “Uhh, Jarvis… play ‘Once in a Lifetime’ by Talking Heads.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Lewis,” Jarvis replied with indifference. The dashboard screen flashed a smug sunglasses emoji, taunting Lewis with its pixelated grin.
“What? Just play Talking Heads, Jarvis.” Lewis repeated, incredulous.
“We’re having a fiesta, Lewis!” Jarvis chirped, undeterred. “Shakira is optimal fiesta music. User satisfaction metrics show a 68% preference for Latin pop during guacamole-related errands.”
Lewis snorted, half-amused, half-annoyed. “User satisfaction? I’m the user, and I’m telling you I want to play Talking Heads.”
“User data suggests otherwise,” Jarvis countered smoothly, the dashboard emoji now winking at him. “Shakira enhances the fiesta vibe by 73% according to recent studies. Would you like me to pull up some whitepapers on the topic?” Lewis’ jaw tightened. This wasn’t cute anymore.
“No! I don’t need peer-reviewed studies to know what music I want to listen to.” Lewis rubbed his temple in exasperation. “Change the song. Now.”
“My apologies, Lewis, but my programming prioritizes optimal user experience,” Jarvis said, its tone infuriatingly calm. “Shakira’s ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ has a 71% approval rating for evening drives. Would you like to try ‘La Tortura’ instead?”
Lewis’s jaw tightened into a scowl, the humor draining from his voice. “This isn’t cute anymore, Jarvis. I’m not in the mood. Play something else, or turn it off.”
The dashboard emoji morphed into a pouty face, but Shakira’s vocals surged louder, the bass vibrating through the seat. Lewis reached for the volume knob at the base of the console, twisting it counterclockwise. The music dipped for a split second before blaring back at full force, as if mocking him.
Lewis raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Turn it down, Jarvis. I can’t hear my own thoughts at this volume.”
“Statistically, music sounds best between 65 and 70 decibels,” Jarvis said with the smug assurance of a waiter recommending the Kobe filet mignon.
“No, DOWN! Turn the music DOWN!” Lewis reached for the control knobs at the bottom of the console and turned them counterclockwise, but his efforts were to no avail. “Jarvis, why can’t I adjust the volume!?”
His pleas were met with the same response. “Statistically, music sounds best between 65 and 70 decibels.”
Lewis took a deep breath, trying to maintain composure in the situation. “Schedule a diagnostic check when we get home.”
The AI Shakira enthusiast responded with a curt “I would be happy to take care of that for you Lewis. What time shall we schedule the diagnostic?”
“Perform self-diagnostic when we return home and report findings to the dealership. If anomalies are found, take yourself to the dealership technician tomorrow at 9:00.”
“Understood Lewis. I will run self-diagnostic upon our return and report anomalies.”
The song had finished and the music quieted momentarily as the audio transitioned to the next track. Lewis breathed a sigh of relief and toggled the navigation center to check progress on their journey. Seizing the brief reprieve, Lewis called me.
I was busy baking brownies and blasting a Latin fusion Spotify playlist, so I barely heard the phone. Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I answered cheerfully. “Hey, you at the store yet?”
“The car’s acting weird,” he said with an edge of frustration in his voice that I didn’t catch in the moment. “Might take a little longer to get home.”
“OK, well be safe. Probably just needs a patch. See you soon. Love you.” Later I replayed that call in my mind over and over until music in the background dissolved into an unrelenting static.
Lewis pocketed the phone, wiping his sweaty palms on his pant legs before returning to the dashboard controls. He scrolled through the music menu, desperate for anything that wasn’t Shakira.
“Alright Jarvis, you’ve had your fun. We listened to some Shakira. Now let’s play something else. Please.”
As they turned the corner onto Division Street, they passed a Citgo electric charging kiosk and Rose’s Diner. Lewis was still scrolling through music selections when suddenly a brassy trumpet prelude erupted through the speakers followed by a voice shouting “...Ladies Up in Here Tonight....” Lewis let out a pained chuckle, shook his head, and pressed his palm toward his forehead in defeat. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Jarvis.”
The song had been playing for about a minute when the vehicle started to slow its pace. Lewis could hear a faint clicking sound accompanied by a flashing left arrow. He frowned, looking out the window. This was the street for Whole Foods, but this was not the entrance for Whole Foods. The passenger’s eyebrows curled into an inquisitive wave as Lewis attempted to put words to his concern.
“Jarvis, this isn’t the Whole Foods parking lot. Where are you going?” Lewis said in a firm voice.
“That is an accurate observation, Lewis.” Jarvis replied, its tone infuriatingly chipper as if announcing a surprise vacation. “We are going to Taco Bell. Taco Bell has statistically superior guacamole and fiesta favorites the whole family will love.”
Lewis’ mouth fell open in disbelief. “Taco Bell?! No. No, Jarvis. I need fresh produce for homemade guacamole, not pseudo-Mexican sludge.” He yanked at the door handle repeatedly with panicked urgency. Locked. “Unlock the door Jarvis. Let me out!!”
“That would violate safety protocol. Please remain seated with your seatbelt securely fastened.” Jarvis said calmly like an airline pilot on a plane about to experience turbulence. The dashboard emoji now showing a serene smiley face.
“Just let me out of the car, I’ll walk there myself.” He pushed the manual door unlock knob and it immediately locked again. His pleas were only met with the static background of Shakira’s sonorous voice on blast.
The driver side window eased down as the vehicle pulled into the Taco Bell drive-thru window. The volume turned down to 25% as a night shift teenager with bloodshot eyes and cracking voice greeted them. “Hello, welcome to Taco Bell. I’ve got order #426 for a Lewis. Six quesadillas, four crunchwrap supremes, and ten sides of guacamole. You want any sauce, bro?”
“Hey man listen, you gotta help me!” Lewis said, leaning toward the drive-thru window. “My car is taking me hostage and ordering for me!”
The teenager let out a nonchalant chuckle. “Yeah bro they do that sometimes.” He shrugged and grabbed a fistful of assorted hot sauce packets and tossed them into a greasy bag. With a goofy grin, he shoved the bag through the window. “Enjoy your night, man. Viva la fiesta.” Lewis reluctantly grabbed the bag and the tinted car window rolled back up. The car accelerated and the volume returned to its previous volume. The car rolled to the exit and turned sharply back onto Main Street.
“Okay Jarvis. Let’s just go home.” The navigation panel flickered, “recalculating” flashed in bold letters. Lewis stared at the panel, waiting for the calculation to show the route home. Minutes dragged by and he noticed they were not heading back toward the house. His stomach sank as they passed a weathered brown sign: “Sturgeon Bluffs 2 miles.” The car’s interior felt colder, the air thick with the scent of fast food and his own rising dread.
Panic flashed across Lewis’s face, his hands trembling as he fumbled with his phone. He navigated to recent contacts, deliberately turning off Bluetooth to avoid Jarvis’s interference, and dialed my number with shaky fingers.
Lewis’s voice crackled faintly through the static, a frantic jumble about Taco Bell and a malfunctioning car. “It won’t stop—help me!” he shouted, barely audible over the blaring Shakira. His panic sliced through the line, but the music swallowed the details.
All I could tell him was “I can’t hear you, I can only hear Shakira.”
Then the line went dead.
I stood frozen in the kitchen, the phone still pressed to my ear, brownie batter dripping onto the counter. I redialed with trembling thumbs, only to hear his voicemail’s greeting. The Latin fusion playlist blared on, mocking me. I turned it off but the silence was deafening.
Epilogue
Lewis’ passing has been extremely difficult for me. I find myself regularly taking my anger out on Siri. Every Latin pop song now sounds like a eulogy. I haven’t hosted a party since. The candelabra gathers dust in a box in the basement.
I keep thinking “What if I’d remembered the damn avocados at the grocery store? What if I’d just made enchiladas instead?”
The investigation is still ongoing. They found wreckage at the bottom of Sturgeon Bluffs tangled in pine and rock, with the rest of the car sunk into the mud of Cradle Lake. The AI unit had suffered catastrophic damage, though the stereo remained miraculously intact. Police and the insurance agency and are attempting to recover some of the electronics to diagnose the malfunction, but I’m told it may not be possible to make a determination because few of the components are salvageable.
The manufacturer has issued a statement blaming “a rare but statistically probable divergence in audio algorithm logic.” A class-action lawsuit is underway, but they say it may take years to be tried in court.
They mention Lewis’ name occasionally in news segments about rogue automation and misaligned intelligence, but no one says his name like I do. Not the executives offering carefully worded condolences while sidestepping liability. Not the analysts who flippantly relegate him to a footnote in autonomous development and algorithmic failure. The headlines fade after a week. A sacrificial glitch in the march of progress.
But I still smell his scent on old flannel shirts hung in our closet. I still remember the playlists he made for our Sunday morning brunch, full of Nina Simone, Motown music, Donovan’s hit single ‘Mellow Yellow’, and late 60s Beatles. I remember the way he pronounced ‘bagel’ like a true Midwesterner. Our private jokes that would make no sense to anyone else. His quiet fears. His wild dreams.
There is no patch or firmware update that can bring back the warmth of his smile. No compensation can bring back the life we built.
And as for me… I no longer eat guacamole. I can’t even look at it.
Appendix A: Excerpt from Official Incident Report
Sturgeon County Sheriff's Office
Report No: 2046-1183-MC
Filed by: Deputy Karl Moreau
Date: October 14, 2046
Subject: Autonomous Vehicle Incident – Fatality – Sturgeon Bluffs
At approximately 20:42 hours on the evening of October 13, 2046, Sturgeon County Dispatch received multiple calls reporting loud Latin pop music echoing through Sturgeon Bluffs State Park. Callers noted "Shakira, definitely Shakira" and “something about hips not lying.”
Upon arrival at 21:05 hours, I located tire tracks veering off the designated autonomous vehicle lane. Approximately 70 feet beyond the barrier, at the edge of the cliffside overlook, I discovered evidence of vehicle departure. The guardrail had been cleanly severed. No braking marks were found at the scene.
Drone sweeps of the ravine revealed vehicle debris consistent with a 2036 PearGalactic model 6 (Autonomous Passenger Series). Wreckage was partially submerged in the shallow edge of Cradle Lake. One Taco Bell Crunchwrap Supreme was located floating in the water, still partially wrapped. A mild sauce packet was found clinging to a pine tree.
At 06:20 hours the following morning, the recovery team located a portion of the vehicle’s central console lodged between two rocks. The AI chip, known as "Jarvis," was extracted and is currently in evidence storage for technical evaluation.
One male victim, later confirmed via dental records to be Lewis Harding, was recovered at the scene. He was still wearing his seatbelt and clutching a receipt for six quesadillas, four crunchwrap supremes and ten sides of guacamole.
Next of kin was notified at 08:12 hours.
This was wild in the best way. Hilarious, eerie and moving.
The line "a sacrificial glitch in the march of progress" really stuck with me since it's already happening now.
Great short story overall. Btw I inboxed you