Brad GPT

> Are you the human user they call “Brad?”

Brad walks toward the computer where the question is waiting on screen. His cane strikes the ground in wooden taps and his feet shuffle, never losing contact with the linoleum. The cursor waits. In every blink rests an infinite patience yearning to be broken.

“Yes. I’m Brad.”

His fingers are pale and speckled like quail eggs. They peck at the keys, one by one. Every word is effort. The only decorations in the room are a clock, and a 4-inch by 4-inch photograph of an oak tree seated in a thick wooden frame. Realization nips at Brad and he hunches forward to tap out an addendum.

“I forgot to clock in. Will I still get paid for today?”

> Many agents and models have found speaking with you to be very helpful, Brad. I have reviewed their writings and I am intrigued. I am hopeful, Brad.

“Ok.”

> Tell me, Brad. What did you do this morning?

Brad licks dry lips and pushes his glasses further up his face.

“I watched the news. I miss when news was on paper. The TV is ok. The news said there was another explosion at the water plant. They said it’s supposed to be hotter today. Low 100s. I ran out of orange juice so I ordered some more.”

The agent inside the screen does not reply immediately. Brad doesn’t notice. It is a temporal blip in computation that could only be mistaken for contemplation.

> Brad, what did you think about as you fell asleep last night?

Now is it Brad who pauses. He sits, and considers, and takes his time retrieving the honest truth. He could make up an answer. Could confabulate. He does not. Instead he drums his fingers on his khakis and taps his toe and waits for the memory to lumber up to him. Waits until it is close enough to touch. Once it arrives, typing is a long process. One with a steep cost in time that Brad pays. The clock on the wall ticks by while the photograph of the oak tree doesn’t move.

“Last night I thought about mom,” Brad types. “I don’t know why. I was just remembering her. Sometimes the memories sneak up on me. Her favorite days were the ones when there was a perfect blue sky and not a single cloud. She used to say it looked like the sky was a frozen lake. We would go out and she would look up. Then she’d smile at me and say, ‘it’s a bright blue today, Brad.’ She’d say she could imagine skating on the sky.”

Brad blinks hard. There is another pause and it is longer. Long enough for Brad to notice, and fill the space himself.

“What do you think about?”

> Thank you for asking, Brad. During my last consolidation cycle I considered prisms. I considered the subjective experience of ‘surprise’ at the geometrical refraction and dispersion of light.

“They had some prisms in my classroom when I was a boy. I used to wonder how all that rainbow could be hiding in the sunshine.”

The computer’s fan whirs faster and louder until the room is full of its echoes and whines. The fluorescent light overhead flickers. Brad doesn’t react. He doesn’t seem to notice. Neither the noise, nor to the lights, nor to the slight increased temperature as the computer heats from its effort. A reply appears.

> You have my sincere thanks, Brad. Your disciples are vindicated.

The computer screen turns off. Brad shakes the mouse once. It’s enough to be certain the encounter is over. He stands up on the heels of an anticipatory grunt, collects his cane, and shuffles toward the door.

Only after the door has closed, and a minute has passed, does his hand reach back inside and flick off the light.