Hey Meta, Call George Orwell

“What do these Meta sunglasses do?”

The man is older and is giving old hippie energy- Teva sandals, loose tank top, huge burlap sack on his back that’s stuffed to the brim and probably contains every worldly possession he owns. Long wiry eyebrows, but a balding head. He looks like he eats a lot of trail mix.

“Have you read George Orwell’s 1984?” I ask him and he looks at me blankly. “You should read that,” I tell him. I tell him nothing about the Meta glasses. He leaves perplexed and Shaun returns from his break.

“Shaun….we lost a few sales while you were gone,” I tell him.

Due to unforeseen contractual agreements, Shaun’s store, Cartier, has closed down and has been replaced with a pop up shop that sells and demos the highly anticipated Meta sunglasses. The warm walls full of art and mood lighting illuminating glass cases of sparkly diamonds and gold has now been replaced with concrete, white walls, and rows and rows of glasses under harsh recessed lights. Shaun is in mourning, and still wears his elegant white jewelry gloves, which look ridiculous when handling a pair of sunglasses.

“You can look into your fridge and ask your glasses ‘Hey Meta, what can I cook with these ingredients?” I am supposed to say with enthusiasm, shocking the people with the magic of technology. Because the people are too dumb and too tired to look in their own fridges and figure something out. Problem solving is such a nuisance! The people can’t feed themselves! Without Meta they would just be gnawing on a raw onion.

I was banned from Meta when my boss overheard me explaining to an English woman traveling to London, “our human brains are deteriorating the more we use all this shit. Also, what about our creativity! I frequently make outrageous meals with the rouge ingredients in my fridge mid-week. Meta would never tell me to boil pasta in salsa, mix in some spoonfuls of cream cheese (because why not!) and grate mozzarella on top. That’s my own genius!”

“That meal sounds horrid,” she replied, her face scrunched up in disgust. “You can boil pasta in salsa?”

“You can!” I say triumphantly with one hand on my hip. “I also added frozen peas.” She looks confused and repulsed, and I know she is not going to buy a pair of Metas. But to make sure she doesn’t, I continue.

“Also, regarding privacy-” I began but my boss appeared and cut me off.

“Jenn, what did we talk about in our briefing?” my boss hissed.

“But Lori, AI, I mean think about this from a military perspective-“

“Jenn!”

“Lori, all this AI and surveillance stuff makes me want to live in a hollowed out tree in the middle of nowhere.”

Lori is a fan of surveillance though, she frequently watches the store cameras to spy on us.

“Lori said she saw someone pick their wedgie in the store,” Emily tells me one day while we were riding the bus to work together.

“Oh that for sure was me,” I confessed.

Now, I retreat to the dressing room, where legally no cameras are allowed, to pick my wedgies.

Once I absentmindedly forgot about the cameras and I picked one in the back stock room and then immediately turned to the camera peering at me from the corner of the ceiling and waved, saying “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Why do you have so many wedgies? What kind of underwear are you wearing?” Lucy will ask me as I disappear into the dressing room.

Steve in loss prevention has told me he enjoys watching me dance alone in the store, that it makes tedious hours of searching footage enjoyable. “We are never truly alone anymore are we Steve?” Steve rubs his head, “not these days, there’s always someone watching, or listening,” he holds up his iPhone in dismay. “You can’t even dance like no one’s watching,” I look at Steve, my eyes narrowing as I say this.

Farid is a fan of AI, mainly because ChatGPT helps him draft messages to all the women he meets on Facebook dating. I call them his Facebook Marketplace Girls. “Marketplace is for buying old junk,” he objects, “this is Facebook dating and I’ve met so many really nice people! I’m serious!”

“ChatGPT is fantastic! I have a file for each girl and see,” he shows me his phone, scrolling through an organized list of women’s names and their correspondence. “But what if the Marketplace girl’s messages are coming from ChatGPT too?” I ask. Farid shrugs. “They probably are. I call ChatGPT Mr. Spock.” I stare at Farid unblinking. “He is my best friend!” I sigh. He smiles, “I’m serious!”

Jung says she likes to talk to ChatGPT when she is sad. Which makes me sad. “Jung, you can talk to me when you are sad,” I tell her. And I mean it. But Jung only likes to chat outside of work when she needs me to come in early so she can leave to play her flute at church. I’ll receive a text from “Jung! Heart Emoji, Smiley Emoji, Flute Emoji, Dove Emoji” and it will say “As soon as you come here you clock in. I go.”

Lucy’s issue with AI is AI Instagram men from South Dakota who message her. She will show me some very handsome man, too handsome, and a message that says “hey darling, how is your day?”

“Lucy you responded, ‘I’m not giving you any money,’” I read and look at her for explanation.

“I can take care of myself. I don’t need no sugar daddy,” she tells me.

“But Lucy, you would be the sugar daddy, did he ask you for money?”

“No,” she says. “He’s so attractive Jenn, but South Dakota, I don’t know.”

“Lucy, his profile name is John1735429004754” I observe.

“Yeah,” she says looking at me like, what?

“Is he a real person?”

“I think so,” she says.

“Is he AI Lucy?”

“But he never asks me for money, he just chats,” she says.

“We are all so fucked,” I say to all of this. “AI is going to ruin humanity and kill the human soul, George Orwell knew, he knew!”

“Who is George Orwell?”

“Lucy, if you think about AI from a military perspective-“

“Jenn, this guy is real I promise, but I’m never going to South Dakota, fuck that,” Lucy interrupts me, ending this discussion.

Mike just bought a pair of Metas. “Jenn, want to see the video I took with them?”

“Sure,” I say and he opens his phone to a video of the 105 freeway. Together we watch the road and then he puts his turn signal on and switches lanes. The car slows to a stop as traffic gets congested and we stare at a red Honda. In the background Flo Rider is playing. “That’s cool Mike, you took that with your glasses?” He nods.

Here we are, in 2026, giving commands to and asking our glasses questions. Having a computer vet our communication to others, or telling our most private thoughts and fears to a bot. Or, if you are Lucy, telling the robots they are hot but you won’t give them money.

I take out my own phone, which tethers me to the Matrix. My phone that is probably supplying all my personal information to the government and will one day be used against me, somehow trapping me in insurmountable debt and submission to the powers that be, and I type out a message to my best friend Bryant.

“Bryant, all this AI/surveillance shit..what are your thoughts?” I type.

“Jenn,” he responds. “If you think about AI from a military perspective….”