Our fast-food location has introduced artificial intelligence drive-thru checkout assistants. Basically, the customer talks to an AI that is programmed to take their order, answer questions, and upsell where it can. It’s truly terrible, but that’s not the point of this particular story.

Another thing to note is that we close at midnight and open up again at 6 AM for breakfast.

I’m setting things up for breakfast one morning, and the opening manager walks over to me, looking confused.

Manager: “Can you check the CCTV from last night?”

Me: “I can. Why? What happened?”

Manager: “Just pull up the CCTV for the drive-thru, from about 12:30 AM onward.”

I do so and see a young guy pull up to the drive-thru. Even though we’re closed, the AI screen is still active. It automatically informs the customer that we’re closed but is happy to answer any follow-up questions. I turn up the volume and listen:

AI: “Hi there! Sorry, but we’re closed until 6 AM for breakfast. Would you like the address of the nearest 24-hour [Chain Restaurant]?”

Customer: “Sure, I’d like that, but first I was wondering: the equation 24×2+25x−47ax−2=−8x−3−53ax−2 is true for all values of x≠2a, where a is a constant. What is the value of a?”

AI: “Oh, good question! The value of a is -3. Let me tell you how I solved it…”

Because the AI shows what it’s saying as text on a screen, the driver has his phone out and is recording the AI both audibly and visually.

AI: “…and that’s how you get the value of a. Now, did you want those directions to the nearest 24-hour [Chain Restaurant], or perhaps you had any questions about our menu for when this location opens for breakfast?”

Customer: “Yeah, breakfast sounds great, but before I can have that I need to get the value of a for this question…”

This goes on for ten more questions and takes over an hour. I don’t listen to the whole thing, but I skip to the end to hear the tail end of the conversation, where the guy thanks the machine and drives away.

I go back to the manager.

Manager: “Did you see the footage?”

Me: “I did.”

Manager: *Gesturing to his computer screen, which shows the AI transcripts.* “Can you explain what the f*** I’m looking at?”

Me: “You’re looking at someone who wants to get their homework done but doesn’t want to use up any AI tokens.”

It’s the early to mid 1990s, and I’m in fourth grade. One of my teachers has recently started to focus on our handwriting (it was all cursive back then) – he sets homework where we have to write an essay that he will then grade for content AND looks. I generally enjoy this type of homework (nothing pleases me more than to talk about the stuff that interests me), but this teacher nearly manages to make me hate it.

Our teacher does not collect the homework but instead walks around the room and looks at everyone’s work, reading a paragraph here and there. He stops at my desk, takes out his red pen and – without even reading a single word – crosses out the page.

Teacher: “Unacceptable. How is anyone supposed to read that chicken scratch? You need to write more legibly – I will not check your homework until it is up to my standards.”

So, I go home and write out the whole essay again, trying really hard with my handwriting. It is very much legible (not that it wasn’t already), which I know because I took a survey of all my classmates who could read the essay without problems. But to no avail – the next day the same thing happens. He takes a look, crosses it out, and tells me to redo it.

After nearly two weeks of this, I am incredibly fed up because I’ve copied this essay so many times, I nearly know it by heart, and on top of doing the regular homework for this class. Still the same thing happens.

Until one afternoon when I am copying that essay yet again, and I am so frustrated that I burst into tears and throw my notebook to the floor. My mom, of course, notices this, and I tell her the whole story. She takes my notebook and flips through the past two weeks. She tells me I won’t have to write it again and that I can go play.

Happy again, I head off to play, and when that teacher later comes into the room for the lesson, he doesn’t even come near my desk. He doesn’t ask to see the essay (or the current homework), doesn’t speak to me, doesn’t look at me.

That evening over dinner, my dad asks about everyone’s day, and my mom says, casually:

Mom: “Oh, I prepped dinner and then went to the elementary school to ream out [Teacher]. Did you know he was making [My Name] copy the same essay for two weeks because he thought her handwriting was too ugly? Like that has any bearing on the quality of her homework! Anyway, I told him and the principal that if he has trouble reading, he should take a refresher course or maybe consider changing careers instead of taking it out on a ten-year-old little girl.”

Many years ago, my dad was a college student who needed to pass a certain math class as a requirement for his computer science major. He failed this class twice before he had the brilliant idea of asking his girlfriend (my mom), a math major, for help. She agreed and told him to bring his homework, some paper, and his textbook.

After discussing the assignment for a few minutes, my mom opened the textbook to see what it said on the subject. When she did so, the spine made a creaking noise, like it was stiff.

Mom: “. . . Have you ever actually OPENED this thing before?”

Dad: “No. Should I have?”

Mom: “You failed this class twice, and you’ve never opened the textbook?!”

Dad: “Who reads the textbook?!”

Mom: “EVERYONE!”

He did pass the class. With the absolute minimum non-failing grade. To this day, he’s pretty sure the professor only passed him because they were sick of seeing him. He now has a successful career in tech.

I’m at home, eight years old at the time, doing basic science homework.

Me: “What direction does gravity pull you?”

Mum: “Down.”

Me: “Alright, but down towards what?”

Mum: “Cornwall?”

This happened several years ago now, longer than I care to admit, but I will never forget it. I was and still am an anxious person. I am also very devoted when it comes to work, and at school, I was a good student. Maybe not the best at every subject, but I was no trouble. I did my homework. I was good.

One day, we were given a project to take home and finish, and we were meant to bring it back for the next lesson. Of course, I forgot it. As soon as I realised, I trotted off to the office to use the phone (paid 20p for the privilege, the joys of life before mobile phones) and called home to ask my mum to please bring it. She said she would.

It got to the lesson where the said project was needed, and the teacher asked for our projects individually. She got to me, and that’s where a core memory was created.

Teacher: “[My Name], do you have your project?”

Me: “Sorry, I forgot it, but my mum—”

Teacher: *Slams down the stack of projects she’s holding and starts yelling.* “[MY NAME]! How do you expect to contribute if you can’t even be bothered to finish it? I suppose you have some valid excuse? You’ll have to redo it all in detention at lunch time today. Now, for those of you who could be bothered—”

Just then, there was a knock at the door. It was one of the receptionist staff.

Receptionist: “Hi! Sorry to disturb. I have [My Name]’s project here. Her mum dropped it off.”

The teacher had a certain look of regret on her face, and I didn’t get to take in any of the lesson because I had been hyperventilating due to crying from the sudden yelling…

I’d understand, maybe if I were a bad student and this kept happening. But as a one-off? No.

Maybe that teacher had other things going on, but maybe don’t take it out on students! She did later apologise, which I suppose redeemed her slightly, but the fact that moment sticks out in my memory after so long speaks volumes.