The case for running an analog errand

I am old enough to remember when, if I needed a phone number or an address, I dialed “O” and a pleasant-voiced operator – invariably a woman – asked what they could do for me. I also remember travel agents: You told them where you wanted to go, and they found the best fare while making amiable chit-chat. And – sigh – I remember when I didn’t pump my own gas while standing in the pouring rain.

Automation certainly has its advantages. I am grateful for 24-hour ATMs, the convenience of being able to conjure knowledge from my laptop in the comfort of my home, and a cellphone that reliably performs myriad journeyman services.

But I also miss the interactions with people that these devices have displaced. The most precious byproduct of these interactions was the spontaneous, friendly banter that often erupted. 

I recall, as a boy, listening to my mother placing a phone order with the butcher. Half the call consisted of laughter. When she hung up, she turned to me: “I always feel better after talking to Patsy.”

Yes, feeling better. After chatting with a waitress (“Oh, you’re working your way through college? How nice!”), a postal employee (“This letter you mailed had the wrong ZIP code, so I corrected it and sent it on its way.”), a bank teller (“Does your son still collect the state quarters? I put some aside for him.”), or an airport agent (“You’re going to Germany? My grandfather came from Germany. Have a good trip!”), I feel better for no other reason than someone took the time to warm the encounter. 

To this end, I recently decided to dedicate a day to accomplishing all of my goals in a nondigital manner. And so I rose early and set out on my analog odyssey.

I began by going – actually going – to the bank. When I entered the lobby I found that the world was my oyster: I was the only customer, with three tellers at my disposal. One of them remembered me from a long-ago visit and greeted me like the prodigal son. Her glow of recognition reminded me of something the playwright Moss Hart wrote in his autobiography: “There is nothing that so quickly opens the floodgates of friendship and intimacy as that light in the other person’s eye that unmistakably signals a delight and pleasure in one’s company.” After my transaction we chatted for a few minutes, sharing news about our children. After that pleasant exchange, I moved on to the post office, where the letter I was sending to Iceland sparked an elated comment by the clerk, who yearned to visit that country. I spent five minutes encouraging him.

There followed a visit to McDonald’s, where I passed up the computer terminal in favor of ordering from a smiling employee; the supermarket where I walked past the self-checkout and was welcomed by a cashier, who suggested that for only one penny more I could get an additional artichoke; and a stop at the public library, where I asked the librarian to help me find a title I could have easily located by myself with a computer search. During our sojourn in the stacks we had the most wonderful conversation about Annie Proulx’s new book about fens, bogs, and swamps.

That evening I had dinner with a friend and, in the course of conversation, reported my experiment to her. She listened attentively but wasn’t buying. She remarked that I could have ordered stamps, shopped, banked, and ordered a book with my cellphone, and it would have taken less than an hour. 

True, but I would have sacrificed all those kind words and friendly smiles, not to mention one precious artichoke.