You need to buy shoes.
Your running shoes are falling apart.
It’s only a matter of time before a sole starts flapping.
As you wander closer to the displays at the shoe shop, you’re approached by one of the employees.
You’ve been dealing with sales pitches for as long as you’ve been shopping, which is almost as long as you’ve been alive.
You’re used to both the soft and hard sell, the obsequious attention and the dealings of a hassled employee.
This employee is unobtrusive.
Even now it would be difficult to describe him.
He’s just a guy, an extension of the store, a helping hand who would like to make a sale.
As you’re talking to him you have a thought.
You know what?
There’s that other shoe store.
It’s further away, but it’s worth a shot.
They stock sensible shoes.
Sensible running shoes might be a good thing these days.
So, after looking at a couple of pairs, and even trying on some Nikes, and walking a few feet in them, feeling for pinching in the toes, you turn to the sales associate and tell him what you’ve told people working in stores for all your shopping life: ‘I really appreciate the help.’
Then you’re out of there, and the door closes.
You walk to the corner and wait to cross the road.
You’ve got other stuff on your mind, so you don’t immediately recognize the person standing beside you, looking at you.
Where have you seen that sandy-blond hair before?
Where have you seen that face?
It’s the sales associate.
That’s weird.
He must move with speed.
Perhaps it’s one of the reasons why he got a job at a store selling athletic shoes.
After you give him a weak smile, a smile you hope will act as a farewell, he says, ‘Are you sure you don’t want those Nikes?’
‘The Nikes I tried on?’ you ask.
‘Yes,’ he responds. ‘I’ve got a photo of them right here.’
So you give it a cursory glance and then say, again, ‘Thank you, no.’
You walk away, and you don’t look back to see if the guy is following you because you don’t want to encourage him in any way.
One way of taking your mind off that odd experience is to buy vegetables for dinner. There’s a supermarket nearby, a calming place, especially the vegetable section, especially when the overhead sprays come on to dampen all the produce.
You’re looking at the apples.
Then you notice something, or someone, a man hiding behind the pyramid of apples.
When you edge closer you notice it’s the guy from the shoe store.
He’s crouched down, staring up at you with – you’ve got to admit it – a fervent look in his eyes.
‘Hi, I’m just wondering if you’ve reconsidered,’ he says in that insistent voice.
‘Reconsidered what?’ you ask.
You check to see if there’s a grocery store employee nearby, just in case.
‘Reconsidered the shoes,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a photo of them here.’
And he rises out of his squat to show you the photo.
‘I really don’t need to see that photo,’ you say.
‘They come in other colours,’ he replies, ‘and it’s a great deal.’
‘Look,’ you reply, ‘I left your store.
‘I’m not interested, and even if I was, I don’t appreciate you popping up like this while I’m in another store.
‘Is it even legal for you to be behaving like this?’
He doesn’t say anything.
He stands very still.
Now things get strange.
As you’re walking home you can see him in other stores, staring out of the windows as you pass by.
And when you arrive home and set the groceries down to grab the mail, you open the mailbox to find it’s already packed with flyers and mailouts and newsletters from the shoe store, and there’s that photo of the same pair of Nikes.
It’s dark but you begin to sense something, a presence, in the darkness.
And sure enough, when you turn on the light, there’s the sales associate, with his bland face, and that look in his eyes, sitting on your couch like there’s nothing wrong, like it’s fine to be in your space, to know your habits, to follow you around – that blankness is not the look of someone engaging in behaviour they know to be bad, or even questionable.
He’s just looking at you.
‘You’d be surprised,’ he says, ‘how much I know about you.
‘I’d be happy to suggest some other shoes you might like based on your trip to the store.’
‘I wouldn’t like that, thank you,’ you say, somehow still dealing with this guy with a politeness he seems to have forgotten.
In days gone past this would have been called home intrusion.
‘Would you like me to show you the shoes again?’ he asks.
Is there something wrong here?
Is there a reason why he doesn’t seem fazed by this?
Are you the problem in that you remember, somewhere in the recesses of your mind, a world before both our shopping habits and our sense of privacy got capsized?
‘People don’t mind this,’ the man says, and you think of how often a statement like this has been used to justify change.
You’re guilty of it.
‘People live their life on smartphones,’ you yourself announced a while ago.
You don’t want a scene.
You did, after all, go into the store.
But when you ask him to leave he looks at you, again, with that look of a man who has done nothing wrong, who is unimpeachably innocent, and says, ‘That’s fine.
‘But could you fill out this survey first?’
*
This book is for people whose professional and personal lives have been upended by technology.
It’s for those who are now required to be ‘always on’, for those who have been drawn into lives of convenience at all cost.
It’s for those who want to read short sentences and then get angry.
It’s for those who want to question the online status quo and explore the possibilities of the internet, perhaps even envision a future where we finally understand the effects of spam, clickbait and attention-sapping media.
I’m not Jaron Lanier, or any other tech seer you’d like to name.
I’m not a genius.
I can talk from a position of a touch of success.
This is all based on real-life experiences within a (soon to be) billion-dollar company, WeTransfer.
The book will view the world from both inside and outside the bubble.
It will include the voices of those operating within tech and those on the fringe.
Most importantly, I’d like – in some small way – to encourage people to consider who they trust, how they should pay for the internet, and whether they are prepared to keep providing their own data, the totality of their online lives, to private companies – like an endless font, like an endlessly spouting oil well.
After all, what is the cost?