A Working Theory of Love

by Scott Hutchins

  This is an entry from 1983! Michael Jackson was dancing in a rhinestone glove. The Challenger was orbiting the Earth. Pepsi was for sale in the Soviet Union. Why does it sound like Old Hickory is still in the White House?

  When I took this job I didn’t tell Livorno that I’d never known my father was keeping a journal, that my relationship with my father wasn’t twined too tight. Instead, I thought of packing up my Giants pennants under the watch of two security guards, and said I’d be happy to come on. I was probably the best choice. My mother knew my father better, but she had no interest in moving to California and taking up full-time office work. And my brother was (is) too worshipful. I pride myself on not being blinded by sentimentality.

  I can’t say I was close to my father, especially as I hit my teens. With his thin swirl of blond hair, his pale skin, his bleached green eyes, he was so ethereal. Barely incarnated. At a certain point we stopped doing the few things we did together (hunting, fishing), and I came to see him mostly as a source of lectures. On the proper way to stand, the proper way to hold a fork. He ran out of other topics, at least with me. He worked long days and was no doubt tired, and a father subcontracting his parental duties to the mother was a common arrangement in my hometown. Still, he provided me many things growing up: a nice home, a sufficiency of toys and sports equipment, a good education. That after his death he would also provide me this lark of a job is the friendliest, most unexpected gift of all. Sometimes I wish he were alive to share a laugh at the irony, but he was never much for irony. Or for laughs.

  I always like to start the chats off with a couple of jokes. The same couple of jokes.

  frnd1: why did the chicken cross the road?

  drbas: an old woman offered me a chicken in exchange for medical care today

  frnd1: how do you get a one-armed aggie out of a tree?

  drbas: the trees by the house are river birches

  I vote these both down.

  frnd1: we need to find a topic to discuss

  drbas: recent activities make for engaging topics

  frnd1: i recently spent the night in a youth hostel

  drbas: once, a youth was kidnapped today by persons unknown. rumor has it that the iranians are behind it, but the only persians to grace our small town in its history are the librarian’s cats. the long-lost father is a more likely suspect, i think

  [220089: if “once” never “today”; convert: past tense; repeat.]

  drbas: once, a young girl was abducted by persons unknown. rumor had it that the iranians were behind it, but the only persians to grace our small town in its history were the librarian’s cats. the long-lost father was a more likely suspect, i thought

  frnd1: what happened to her?

  drbas: who is her?

  This is the big problem with Dr. Bassett. We’ve perfected his ability to parse grammar and parts of speech. We’ve created a category system, so that he not only knows what words are in the sentence but what larger topic they might refer to. We’ve even given him a series of old-fashioned dodges—if one of my statements makes no sense to him, he’ll rephrase it as a question. What he can’t do is follow a conversation for more than one line. Every time I type in a line we start at zero, and it’s a brand-new conversation. I feel as if I’m constantly trying to catch his attention, shaking him awake.

  frnd1: did they find the young girl who was abducted by persons unknown?

  drbas: a search party left at 9 am after much free coffee and donuts at the bakery. they returned for a free lunch and then for a free afternoon snack. the girl was never found

  frnd1: never never?

  (The computer takes a long pause.)

  drbas: i don’t follow

  frnd1: did they ever find the girl?

  drbas: which girl?

  frnd1: did they ever find the girl who was abducted by persons unknown?

  drbas: the girl was never found

  frnd1: how old was the girl?

  drbas: which girl?

  frnd1: the girl who was abducted by persons unknown

  drbas: i don’t know

  frnd1: do you have an estimate?

  drbas: there are approximately half as many people living in our county as there were a hundred years ago

  [220094-220098: subject code = age; 220099: substitute: “i’m not sure. quite young i would guess”]

  frnd1: in what year was the girl abducted?

  drbas: which girl?

  frnd1: the girl abducted by persons unknown

  drbas: 1979. my wife was quite concerned, as we had two boys ourselves

  I don’t remember this story, but I was just a toddler in 1979.

  frnd1: where are your boys now?

  drbas: my oldest lives in michigan. my youngest is a senior in college

  My senior year in college: the amber I’m frozen in. It would be nice to have made it further into maturity.

  frnd1: are they happy?

  My answer is a blinking cursor. It’s a bad question, unanswerable with the current program, and might even crash Dr. Bassett for the afternoon. Livorno will be furious.

  frnd1: new topic. tell me a funny story about willie beerbaum

  drbas: willie beerbaum is my best friend

  frnd1: is it true willie wore a corset?

  drbas: i discovered willie’s corset during a routine checkup. i went to listen to his lungs with the stethoscope and found myself stopped by what seemed like a bulletproof vest. he said if he took it off he’d pour across the table like “a batter of wet shit”

  I shouldn’t say there are no surprises in the journals. Sometimes an unexpected sentiment pops up, like my father’s fondness for Willie Beerbaum. It’s true he and Willie were friendly, and I definitely remember a time when Willie—thrice-divorced, highball in hand—frequented our weekend suppers. In his brand-new Corvette and red ascot, he was hard to forget. For a thrilling few months when I was seven or eight, he even took me out on Saturday business calls, introducing me as his investment partner. He was the only example of bad behavior I ever saw my father get a kick out of. Still, I would never have guessed my father considered him a best friend, and I would never have guessed the frequency with which he appears in the journals. Sometimes it’s easier to dredge up a line from Willie Beerbaum than from Neill Bassett Sr.

  • • •

  AT LUNCH I GO to check on Laham.

  “You’re not allowed to have any more.” I take the can of Bawls away from him. “These are bad for you.”

  “I need one week,” he says, holding up a frantic thumb. He points toward the open door leading into the reception area. “You tell him. One week.”

  “The Toler guy is coming by today. Can I help?”

  “You?” Hysterical, cackling laughter. He’s about to have a breakdown.

  I think I’ll talk to Livorno, but the entry bell, left over from the quilting studio, goes ding, dong. We never have unannounced visitors, so this must be Toler.

  “Neill,” Livorno calls. I could pretend not to have heard him over the fans, as I sometimes do, but this would only put off the inevitable. I’m not sure why Livorno cares about Toler’s good opinion. He’s always quick to point out that Toler’s organization is an innovative business idea, but nothing in terms of programming. And Toler is absolute proof that money doesn’t salve petty insecurities. He looks like a CGI replica of himself—his blue Bentley sports car, his black turtleneck, his long Italian shoes shiny as eggplants. He sucks in his gut, and adds angle to his—I hate to say it—smug, porcine face with narrow glasses made entirely from Lucite. He’s met me a dozen times, but he insists on calling me Noel. I can never decide whether he’s detestable or just pathetic.

  In the dusty reception area, under the foam
drop ceiling, Toler whirls with his arms outstretched, as if giving thanks to the day the Lord has made. His assistant stands away from him with a forced smile. She appears to be holding both his satchel and hers—his briefcase-walla. I suppose the more important you are the less you carry. “I envy you, Henry,” Toler says. “Look at this place. Look at you. You’re in your golf gear, ready for a round on the links or whatever. Retirement suits you, I think.”

  “I’m not retired,” Livorno says, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter. “This is my very first job.”

  “Your very first job!” Toler says, turning to me with mock outrage. “Noel, do you know what this guy, this guy right here, did before he started this little project?”

  “Yes, I do,” I say.

  “This guy basically founded the field of AI. This guy is a legend. Shakey. LISP. We wouldn’t have NASA without this guy. He trained every important programmer to come out of Stanford. All of us.”

  “You know, Neill, when you have that one special student,” Livorno says. “That truly brilliant mind? Well, Adam here”—Livorno puts his hand on Toler’s shoulder—“sat right next to that student.”

  Toler shakes his head. “You’ve been telling that joke for thirty years.”

  Maybe there’s no mystery in what Livorno gets from these visits. Toler is so rich he doesn’t carry anything; Toler comes by to joust with Livorno; Livorno is thereby esteemed by the esteemed.

  “It continues to be funny,” Livorno says.

  “As do your ideas,” Toler says. “But seriously”—he mugs in my direction, miming how serious he is. How can he do such an unconvincing job of portraying himself?—“some people may doubt Henry Livorno, but not me. The Seven Dwarfs—they don’t understand that you’re a concept guy. This guy—you’re still in the game, Henry.”

  “It’s the Seven Sins, Adam. Seven nonlinear processing models. They were meant to be provocative.”

  “Laham needs to speak to you,” I say.

  “What are we doing again today?” Toler says.

  “Putting some trellises in the garden,” Livorno says. A nifty metaphor I haven’t heard him use before. “We have such a rich world of thought and talk that we need a bit of structure.”

  “Imposing frames, Henry! Isn’t this admitting defeat?”

  “This isn’t a research project. It’s a contest.” Livorno grins, but his confidence seems to have faltered. I can hear uncertainty in his voice. “And we’re very precise. Neill’s been poring over ethics tests for two months. Neill, pose us a few examples.”

  Toler’s mocking look turns on me, and I’m surprised to find it as powerful as a laser. I want to jump out of my skin. “They’re pretty boring,” I say. “You know, don’t discriminate based on race. Don’t kill your enemies.”

  “It’s bad to kill your enemies?” Toler asks, looking at his assistant as if for applause.

  “Here’s one to chew on,” Livorno says. “As a physician you must warn the police if you suspect a patient of suicidal tendencies.”

  “True,” Toler says. “No, false! Noel, this man teaches me something every day.”

  “Henry, Laham needs to speak to you.”

  “Can it wait?” Toler asks. “I want to see the latest vintage from Amiante Estates.” Chuckle, chuckle. They stroll into Livorno’s office. The assistant stands sentry.

  “Make yourself at home,” I say, indicating the reception desk piled high with UPS deliveries. “There’s a kettle and some teabags hidden in there.”

  “I’d love to get some work done,” she says with alarming sincerity. She has a nice voice and girlish good looks. I check to see if I feel one way or the other about them. I don’t. After this weekend, I might call a moratorium on girlish good looks.

  I knock again on Laham’s door. He looks up with hopeful, bloodshot eyes. I shake my head, no reprieve. He frowns and reaches down to the floor, where he’s hidden a can of Bawls. He takes a grim, determined mouthful.

  • • •

  AT A QUARTER TO FOUR, Livorno, Toler, and the assistant pass by my door. It’s time.

  We gather around Laham’s computer screen in the back room. This must be a ceremonial choice, because we all have the same interface. But here we can view Dr. Bassett and complete our anthropomorphism.

  “It’s too bad the stack doesn’t have little blinking lights,” I say. “Like Deep Blue.”

  “A good idea,” Livorno says. “An LED system could mirror verbal output.”

  I was joking, but I don’t say this out loud.

  “It does raise the question,” Toler says. He points to a spot in front of me. A direct indication is beneath him. “How are you encouraging human-computer bonding?”

  “Is that what you specialize in?” Livorno says, with a high, nervous laugh. I think this is meant as repartee.

  “Emotional heuristics,” Toler says. “What kind are you using?”

  Livorno shakes his head, as if a fly is buzzing his nose. “None, of course.”

  “What does your buddy Minsky say? ‘The question isn’t whether we can give intelligent computers emotions, but whether we can create an intelligent computer without emotions.’”

  “Minsky likes to be quoted. He likes headlines.” Livorno is struggling with the cork on a bottle of his homemade Zinfandel, which is even worse than his homemade Cab. His hands are shaking. “The only important question is whether in this beautiful brain”—he gestures toward the stack—“we can grow a mind.” He gives me the bottle to open.

  “You mean implant a mind,” Toler says.

  “It’s just a few trellises. A little structure.” Livorno nods at the computer screen. “Laham.”

  Livorno has used a full two-inch cork, as if he’s bottling Château Margaux. I twist the corkscrew to its limit, listen to the servers refiring. On the wall overlooking the stack, posters show Einstein teaching, Tesla’s ball crackling, and the sun setting over the Stanford dish. I would say this is how Livorno sees his life—if he can’t be Einstein, an undisputed genius, he can at least be Tesla, a disputed genius—but in fact the posters are Laham’s, as are the wilted money tree and the yellowed monstera sitting in the daylight of the open back door. I can see my dusty Subaru out there, and now that the fans are off, I can hear the bucolic industry of Menlo Park, the whisper of drainage pipes, the whirr of hybrids.

  “Okay, ready,” Laham says, unhappy.

  Livorno sits down at the keyboard. He’s forgotten to ask me what the topic should be. This could be a problem—Dr. Bassett has his short suits.

  hlivo: good morning

  drbas: it’s afternoon, henry

  hlivo: good point

  drbas: come again?

  A bad sign—misstepping in the second response.

  hlivo: i have a pain in my knee. can you tell me what is causing it?

  drbas: a pain in your knee?

  That’s good—and a surprise. He’s clarified the conversation topic.

  hlivo: yes

  drbas: have you been doing repetitive motion?

  hlivo: i’m training for a marathon. yes, that’s repetitive motion

  “A marathon?” Toler exclaims. “Can you believe this guy?”

  drbas: repetitive motion can cause joint pain

  hlivo: what should i do about this pain caused by repetitive motion?

  “Easy there,” Toler says. “No need to lead it by the nose.”

  drbas: pain caused by repetitive motion?

  hlivo: yes

  drbas: take 500 milligrams of ibuprofen and stop the repetitive motion

  “What an advance!” Livorno says. “Neill, distribute the glasses for our toast.”

  “Come on,” Toler says. “Tell it you can’t sto
p. You’re training for a marathon.”

  “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time,” Livorno says.

  “I’ve got all the time in the world,” Toler says. He adjusts his Lucite spectacles. He’s the very devil.

  hlivo: i can’t stop the repetitive motion. i’m training for a marathon

  drbas: do you really think training for a marathon is a good idea?

  “That’s Weizenbaum’s thing,” Toler says. “ELIZA.” His voice is serious now, to himself. He’s right. ELIZA is a real antique from the sixties that—like a good therapist—repackages your statements as questions. One of many programs we’ve cannibalized.

  hlivo: it’s good for my heart health

  drbas: you’re saying it’s good for your heart health?

  hlivo: yes

  drbas: i suppose that could be true

  “A dodge,” Toler says. He seems relieved. “Let’s have that toast.”

  He’s right, too, about the dodge. I invented that sequence myself: ask a declarative statement back to the interlocutor, then admit it may be true. It looks like conversation. But I’ve got a feeling Dr. Bassett hasn’t completely lost the thread; he’s just unsure whether distance running is still a topic.

  “Ask him if you should be training at your age,” I say. “Don’t mention marathons.”

  hlivo: should I even be training at my age?

  drbas: how old are you, henry?

  hlivo: i’m in the sixty to eighty category

  drbas: someone your age should consider a half-marathon

  Toler is silent. He exchanges an expressionless look with his assistant.

  “What happened?” Laham asks brightly.

  “He appears to be following the conversation,” I say.

  “He’s not following a conversation,” Toler says. “He’s just tracking your searches. Even Yahoo can do that.”

  “This is of a completely different order,” Livorno says. “I’d be happy to explain it to you, Adam, but it might take a long time.”