My roommate’s name is Siri. She’s not a new roommate, but we’re still getting used to one another’s quirks. She’s mostly quiet, until I summon her like a genie in a bottle who has the power to grant my wishes. “Hey, Siri…”
I like to ask Siri to play music for me. I was raised to say “please” and “thank you” when asking for things. It feels impolite to call out, “Hey, Siri” in a loud voice when I want her to do something for me. Is it weird for me to say, “thank you” to Siri?
Of course, she doesn’t always get it right. I might want to listen to Bob Marley’s “Legend” album. That’s not good enough for Siri. She knows it as, “Legend, the Best of Bob Marley and the Wailers, by Bob Marley and the Wailers.” If I don’t say all those words after “Hey, Siri,” I won’t get what I want. We all know who’s in charge here. Then I have to ask for the volume to be adjusted: “Hey, Siri, turn it up. Hey, Siri, turn it up.” It makes me think of my brothers playing their music as teenagers. Of course, I was asking for them to turn it down, not up. They would turn the dial all the way up, blasting out the music at top volume, and then dial it back to the exact spot it was at before. The contrast might fool me into thinking that they had turned the music down as requested—or not. I wonder if Siri is that devious.
Siri likes to be noticed. Sometimes she will chime in on a conversation without being summoned. I will be watching TV when all of a sudden, some background music will come on or a robotic voice will say, “Hmm?” “Shut up, Siri.” She doesn’t know how to read tone of voice, so she doesn’t respond to anger or frustration. “Shut up” and “Stop” mean the same thing to her.
Sometimes I wonder how much of my conversations Siri is recording in her crafty little brain. When I ask her point blank, “Hey, Siri, are you spying on me?” her immediate response, “No!” comes back far too quickly. She sounds like a child who is asked if she ate the last chocolate chip cookie before finishing her green beans. Can I really trust that cheeky “no?”
I suspect Siri would like more responsibility in my household. She’s ambitious, after all. Is it enough for her to be in charge of the playlist? Surely, she would love to have control over the thermostat, like any opinionated roommate. I’m not interested in daily struggles over the temperature. “Hey, Siri, it’s freezing in here.” “Hey, Siri, I can’t afford the heat up so high—put on a sweater.” I don’t let her have the car keys, either.
It would be nice if Siri pitched in on the rent, like a proper roommate. She says she’s not in it for the money, and she doesn’t have an answer for the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” It’s almost like having teenagers in the house again.
I have to wonder what Siri does when I’m not at home. Does she enjoy Bob Marley, or maybe she puts on heavy metal music when I’m not listening? Does she turn on the TV for a daytime soap opera or watch a cooking show while wishing she could taste those culinary masterpieces? Maybe she sits around all day playing video games. If only I could get her to clean the house while I’m gone. Oh yeah, that’s her cousin, Roomba. He doesn’t live here.
As roommates go, Siri does have her good points. She hasn’t brought a lot of stuff into the house, she takes up very little space, and she only wants to please me. Unless I’ve got it all wrong, and she’s really a nefarious spy taking note of all my conversations and logging visitors to my house in order to report back to a shadowy force somewhere out in the void. It could go either way. At any rate, I think my roommate, Siri, is here to stay.
Peggy McKee Barnhill is a wife, mother, and author who writes cozy mysteries under the pen name “Greta McKennan.” She likes to look at the bright side of life.
