A Look on the Lighter Side: Chips are down at the Luddite Club

Judy Epstein

Hear ye, Hear ye!  The Luddite Chip & Dip Club will hereby come to order!

Laura, Stew, I’ve called this meeting so you can share my outrage about this company called Three Square in Wis-consin.  They’re implanting chips in their employees!”

“What, like they’re dogs?” says my friend Stew, pouring us mugs of cider he’d made in his cel-lar. “That’s outrageous!”

“I agree!” I said, passing out bowls of chips.  “That’s why we’re here tonight.  Now, they’re say-ing that 50 of their employees have signed up to do it and it’s completely voluntary — but how long will that last? And then what?”

“I have a more basic question,” said Laura.  “How big are these chips, anyway, and where do  they put them?”

“The New York Times says they’re the size of a grain of rice,” I answer, “injected just under the skin between the thumb and index finger.”  We each studied our hands.

I continue. “The article says that the chips have no energy source of their own, so they won’t beam your location, like smart phones … but once they’re implanted, people will be able to get into their offices, make photocopies, or buy food in the cafeteria — all with the swipe of a hand.”

“You mean, like ‘Open Sesame?’ ” said Laura, waving a hand.

“More like ‘Open? Not!’ ” said Stewart. “Because if that thing works anything like my hotel key did, this vacation, it’ll be a total nightmare.  I kept waving that sucker in front of the door lock, with my wife and kids tired and yelling at me that they just wanted to go to bed… and the desk kept telling me it should work … but it never did, and I had to go get new key cards.  How will employers do that, when it’s under your skin?”

“Like we need one more way for our jobs to get under our skin!” said Laura.

“Why does it have to be implanted, anyway? Couldn’t they just put this chip thing in a ring? Or a wristband?  It could be like another Fitbit.”

“And if they’re implanted, what happens when the system is hacked, say, by North Korea? What then? Will they have to re-chip everyone?” Stew shuddered.

“I’m wondering about the cafeteria,” said Laura.  “What if you’re just fixing your hair, near the scanner — will that mean you’ve suddenly bought the day’s special?  Or I’m waving — ‘Hi, Ju-dy — oops!  Looks like you owe me a latte!”

“I’ll just wave back and buy it for you!”  We all laugh, and refill our mugs.

“I’ve got another question,” said Stew.  “These news reports, they keep saying ‘It can’t be used to track you,’ like that’s supposed to be reassuring — which only means that someday, they will.”

“Real mission creep,” said Laura, “with the emphasis on the ‘creep.”

“How do you mean that?” I ask, putting down my mug.

“Well, say they do start this tracking thing, and start timing how long everybody’s breaks are, and where they go, and if they leave the building…then what?” said Laura.

“And what happens if they decide to lay you off?” adds Stew.

I can see it now.  Two men in lab coats approach me. “Judy, come in to our office.  We need to have a little chat.”

“About what?” I say nervously.  I look at the desk behind them, where a paper towel is covering some things on a tray.  It looks like the one at your dentist’s.

“We’d just like to talk about your schedule…and your productivity score.  Norquist here has the numbers.”

I turn to eye the second man.  He says, “It’s all here in black and white.  On average, you spend 2.5 hours every day going back and forth to the rest room.  You spend 3.5 hours every day ‘look-ing for the office coffee pot.’ There is no office coffee pot, any more, so we don’t even know what you’re doing.  You spend another 45 minutes a day randomly waving your hands in the air; and you spend no time at all, as far as we can see, in your seat doing work for us.”

Suddenly, I jump up and start waving my hands.  “You’re absolutely right!” I yell. “I don’t be-long here at all!” The lights flash on and off, and the photocopier starts cranking out paper.  It distracts the men long enough for me to get around them and out the door.

“Judy, what’s wrong? You’re spilling your chips!”

I wake up.  Stew and Laura are shaking me gently.  “No chips for me,” I murmur.  “Meeting ad-journed!”

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