Stock Car AI

By Alan J Wahnefried

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A customer entered Graham Samizdat’s second-hand store. The customer was in his early twenties and seemed unsure of himself. He did not bother to browse. He went straight to the counter.  Graham was talking to his friend Yale Vinton. Samizdat interrupted the conversation and turned toward the customer.

“Welcome to Samizdat Salvage,” Graham said to his customer. “What can I do for you?” 

“Do you carry typewriters?” the customer said nervously.

“I do sell typewriters,” Samizdat said. “Do you want electric or manual?”

“It doesn’t matter. What’s the difference?” the customer said. “What does a typewriter cost?”

“One difference is electric typewriters are heavier,” Samizdat said. “Are you planning to carry it much?”

“I haven’t thought about it much,”

I’ve got to be careful with this guy.  His type has come here before.  Things could get sticky, Samizdat thought.

Samizdat quoted a four-figure price.  His potential customer showed signs of sticker shock.

“Your price is ridiculous,” the customer said. “Those machines are junk. You’re price gouging!”

“How do you know my machines are junk if you haven’t seen them? If you can find a better price elsewhere, I suggest you take it,” Graham said firmly.

“I’ve heard you lease typewriters,” the customer said. “Is that true? Is leasing cheaper than buying?”

“Who told you I lease typewriters?”

“I just heard it from someone.  I don’t remember who told me,” the customer said nervously.

“Typewriters are not easy to find.  If I lease a machine, I need to get it back in working condition,” Graham said. “Without a personal reference, I charge a security deposit equal to the purchase price. You’d make monthly lease payments on top of the deposit.”

The customer mumbled something and left.

“What just happened?” Vinton asked.

“That could have been part of a fraternity initiation, or he was an AI advocate,” Graham said dismissively. “In the latter case, he probably wanted the machine to destroy it. In the former case, the machine would probably get messed up at a party.”

“The way you said that a person would think you had something against AI or fraternities,” Yale said.

“I was a fraternity member and couldn’t care less about a fraternity. I have nothing against AI in most contexts. AI has given us intelligible emails, more readable textbooks, reduced plagiarism, and improved the accuracy of legal documents.  The list of its positive aspects is long,” Graham said. He paused to refill his coffee cup before continuing.

“AI has limitations. Most thinking done by humans or machines is pattern matching. You know four aces is a good hand in poker as you recognize a pattern. We read by recognizing the pattern of letters that form words.  Humans handle an infinite number of patterns and create new patterns routinely. AI is more limited. Every new piece of fiction is a new pattern with elements of other patterns.  AI tries to force most new patterns into old constructs with ugly results. Different grammar checkers can’t agree on what is a valid sentence. The pervasive, mandated use of AI is part of why I retired.  AI in creative writing makes as much sense as AI in stock car racing,” Graham said.

“AI in stock car racing? Absurd!” Yale said. “Who’d be dumb enough to try that?”

“Years ago, someone had AI tried in a stock car race,” Samizdat said. “You have to dig deep to find out about the race.  A sanctioning body allowed a demonstration race as a preliminary race at a lower venue.”

“What happened?”

“The slowest, most boring race imaginable,” Graham said with a chuckle. “The person that programmed the modules didn’t appreciate stock car racing.  She started with a module for freeway driving. Her AI modules put safety over speed. The cars kept a safe distance from one another.   It was like running a race under the yellow flag. The drivers were irate over trying to race with cruise control locked on. The organizers shortened the race so the crowd wouldn’t leave before the main race. If someone mentions AI to the sanctioning body, they are given a recording of the race and shown the door.”

“What does that have to do with the guy you threw out of here?” Yale said.

“Maybe you’ve heard rumors of an underground self-publishing movement,” Samizdat said. “People are using typewriters to create stories without AI and circulating copies.  The idea upsets people who think AI is the greatest thing ever.”

“I might have heard rumors and ignored them,” Yale said. “Where did you hear about that stuff?”

“Yale, we’ve been friends for a long time.  I can trust you. Right?” Graham said.

“That’s a silly question. Of course, you can trust me,” Yale said indignantly.

“Calm down, Yale.  It was a silly question,” Samizdat said. “I know about the underground because I’m part of it.”

“You’re what?”

“Do you have time for a story?” Samizdat said.

“I’ve got time,”

A woman interrupted the discussion by bringing a set of cookware to the counter.  Samizdat chatted with her while he packed up the pots. She passed Graham a large manila envelope with a wink. Yale got a cup of coffee while he waited.

After the woman left, Graham resumed the discussion, “You know I was a creative writing teacher and a professor of American literature.  I was an editor for a small magazine for a while. At the end of my career, I wasn’t truly teaching creative writing but how to fool AI. Since AI was mandated in all word processors, many students used AI to produce pulp and pablum. They thought they were great writers. Those students accused me of not appreciating AI when I gave them a C for lacking originality. A student in one of my latter classes named Valentina Johnson had real talent. She wasn’t technical and was fighting a losing battle against AI.  Valentina was almost in tears, and she asked for advice.”

Graham paused for a sip of coffee from his mug. Yale didn’t want him to stop.

“What did you do?”

“I told her to type her story into a text file.  I would accept a hard copy from her,” Samizdat related. “It helped some.  A lifetime of using text processors tripped her up.  She kept saving the file in a way that triggered AI.”

“I came up with one other solution,” Graham said. “I told Valentina I couldn’t help her on campus.  She would have to come to my home. Her friends could come if it made her feel safer.”

“That must have sounded strange,” Yale said. “You could have got in real trouble.”

“I knew I was gambling,” Samizdat said. “Valentina had been in some of my other courses. We shared a couple of cups of coffee. I believed I could trust her.  She showed up on Saturday with a friend who might have been a football lineman. My old electric typewriter was on the kitchen table. Next to the typewriter was an old dictionary and a thesaurus. I told her the machine was part of my solution.”

“What was her response?”  Yale said.

She said, “What is that thing, and how will it help me?”

“I demonstrated typing on the machine,” Graham said. “I told her AI cannot interfere with her writing if she uses a typewriter for the initial drafts.  Valentina was intrigued.”

“The machine can only produce hardcopy. That is a problem,” she said.

“I told her the machine is part of a possible solution,” Graham said. “I’d be working on the other part.  I asked her to trust me and try writing on the typewriter.”

“I helped her learn how to load paper into the machine.  I showed her the basics of using the machine. Setting the tab stops and centering titles blew her mind. I left her on her own for spelling, grammar, and punctuation.  She typed, and her friend played with his phone. I worked in the basement,” Graham said.

“She just walked out.  Right?” Yale said.

“Wrong. I worked in the basement for an hour before I came upstairs. Valentina produced several pages of bad typing containing the germ of a good story.”

“This is painful, Professor,” she said. “But I feel I’m truly writing.”

“Hemingway would probably agree with you,” I said to her.  “She smiled and went back to work. After another two hours, a full waste basket, and a pizza, she had drafted her story.  Valentina was exhausted and proud of herself.”

She asked me, “What next, Professor? I don’t see how this fixes my problem.”

“I’m with her,” Yale said.

“I told her I would show her how to edit hardcopy,” Graham said. “She would produce a revised draft on the typewriter.  I knew she would not finish that day.  We had to find times that worked for both of us.  After she had a draft she liked, I promised to tell her the rest of my plan. She agreed.”

Graham’s narrative was interrupted by a customer looking for vintage clothing.  She was part of a community theatre group. The customer needed props. She asked where she could find crystal goblets. Graham showed her the stemware. The woman also wanted costumes. Graham sold her several dresses and hats before returning to Vinton, holding another envelope.

“You going to finish your story?” Yale said.

“If more customers come in, we may have to continue our discussion tomorrow.  I will try to finish,” Samizdat said.

Yale looked skeptical.

“Where was I? Oh, yeah. Valentina was a real trooper. She completed a satisfactory draft by the end of the next week,” Graham said.

“I’m happy with the draft.  What is the next part of your plan?” Valentina said.

“Fair enough,” I said. “I need your friend to help me bring stuff up from the basement. Valentina had her friend wrapped around her little finger. He came with me. We moved an ancient desktop computer to my kitchen.”

“What is that thing?” Valentina and her friend both asked.

“As I cabled the components together, I explained it was a computer from before the AI mandate. The computer has no connection to the internet.” Graham said. “I could see an objection rising in Valentina’s throat.  I moved to stop it.”

“Valentina,” I said. “You’re going to type your final copy on this machine.  You will save the file in a rich text format.  I will grade your paper. You will have a virtual copy you can use to submit the story somewhere.”

“Why didn’t you let me type the story on that machine from the beginning?” she said. “Why the typewriter?”

“I wasn’t sure if she was upset with me,” Samizdat said. “I meekly said I wanted to see her dedication. I hoped she wasn’t mad at me.”

“I’m not mad,” she said. “This feels a little like Christmas morning somehow.”

“She typed her story, and everyone lived happily ever after,” Yale said.

“Not quite, wise guy,” Samizdat said.  “Valentina wanted her own typewriter.  I helped her find one in a thrift store. Valentina had trouble when she submitted her stories to journals or publishers. Very few magazines accept typed manuscripts.  Most journals only accept electronic submissions. The receiving journals’ machines shredded her stories with AI.  I hadn’t sworn her to secrecy.  She told some of her friends who wanted the same thing.”

“Is that why you retired?  Co-eds were chasing you?”  Vinton said in a teasing tone.

“It’s a good thing for you we’ve been friends a long time, or I’d wipe that smirk off your face,” Samizdat said with a smile. “Some of Valentina’s friends were boys. The students were a factor in my decision. I couldn’t use university facilities for what I taught Valentina. I couldn’t teach out of my home, I lacked equipment.”

“Does this place factor into your decision to open this place? I’ve never understood why you left the university to open a junk shop,” Vinton asked.

“It’s not a junk shop. I realized I could chase all over, looking for machines, or I might find another way to locate them,” Graham said. “I mostly stock this shop by cleaning out old houses.  If Aunt Susie dies after living in her house for fifty years, the family probably doesn’t want all of Aunt Susie’s stuff.  The family takes what they want and pays me to take the rest. I hire high school kids.  We mostly find junk. The kids usually find some vintage furniture and clothes. We often find typewriters, vintage dictionaries, and old computers.  The machines are gold.  I sell the good stuff, scrap the junk, and keep the machines and dictionaries.”

“I did have to solve a technical issue,” Samizdat said. “Valentina’s trick for submitting files didn’t work long.  I found some computer nerds who wanted to write.  They tackled the problem and couldn’t find a solution to AI’s pervasiveness.  We hit on a two-track approach. The old computers weren’t automatically networked. We could change the system date.  We set the dates before the AI mandate took effect.  People had to submit by claiming one of their grandparents wrote the story. I had to edit those stories with an iron hand as revisions were impossible.  The other track was the nerds helping to figure out ways to keep AI on a leash.  The second track was a partial solution and helped people create better stories to submit under their names.”

“Sounds almost like cloak and dagger.”

“That’s not what I planned, but it works that way. I recruit students by word of mouth.  The university lets me teach a course occasionally.  For the first few years, we thought we were alone.  Other groups must exist.  I noticed some journals and anthologies publishing what they called ‘legacy stories’. The publishers define legacy as anything created before the AI mandate.  I doubt my students are that productive.  When the legacy stories appeared, aggressive AI advocates got suspicious and angry.”

“My solution wasn’t completely satisfactory,” Graham continued.  “Legacy stories could discuss some topics with allegory and analogy.  Writers had to be careful with their vocabulary. My writers wanted to write about contemporary situations.  AI hindered them.  People started typing stories and making copies.  The writers and their friends formed literary circles to read and exchange stories like in the time of Solzhenitsyn.  Versions of some stories escaped. The typed stories frosted some AI advocates. The advocates concluded destroying the typewriters would stop the writers.  That’s why I was cagey with the guy who came in earlier. You’re going to keep this to yourself. Right?”

“We’re buddies, Graham.”

“I knew I could trust you,” Samizdat said. “My kids and I are a covert organization like the Underground Railroad.  We are a bunch of people resisting something we can’t accept.”

“Why don’t you just use old computers?”

“Typewriters are easier to find,” Samizdat said. “People use typewriters as décor. They don’t draw attention. I have computer nerds scouring flea markets for old computers and components.  The pickings are slim. Most people recycle old computers. I keep the old computers in a secure location.”

“What are you doing next?” Yale asked.

Before Graham could answer, a delivery man with a hand truck entered the shop.  “I have a delivery for Graham Samizdat,” he said.

“I’m Graham,” Samizdat said. “What have you got for me?”

“Five packages from Ivanhoe Recovery.”

“Could you wheel them to the back?” Samizdat asked.

“Sure.”

“You asked what is next?” Graham said to Yale. “Those packages are five more typewriters from a salvage company. I have a standing order with several salvage companies. I can’t find everything in old houses. The envelopes I received earlier probably contain stories the authors want me to edit.  A new creative writing class starts next week. New students start on typewriters like Valentina did. I’m going to be a busy boy.”

“You need any help?” Yale said. “I learned to type on a manual typewriter.”

Graham chuckled.

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Mr. Wahnefried lives in a suburb of Detroit, Michigan, with his charming and understanding wife. He graduated from the University of Michigan.  After a career in IT, he is either an experienced programmer or an old hacker.  His stories have appeared in Mystery Tribune, Twenty-Two Twenty-Eight, Murderous Ink, Press, Emerging Worlds, Nat1 LLC (Black Ink on a Blank Void), As You Were: The Military Review, Vol. 16, Round Table Literary Journal, Aphelion Magazine, Wingless Dreamer, Havok Publishing, From Beyond Press, Sci-Fi Shorts, State of Matter, 101words.org, commuterlit.com, halfhourtokill.com CafeLit.uk.co, and SuperFastStories.com.

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