Driven to Distraction

With space becoming more and more scarce and the world's countries finally agreeing to do something about global pollution, personal transport was no longer an option.

Instead, each apartment block - there were no individual houses any longer either - was allocated a specified number of self-driving cars, depending on how many adults lived in that building.

I was in a small building that only had six families, so there were two vehicles.

There were times when there wasn't one available, so you had to walk, something too many citizens had almost forgotten how to do until recently.

That may have sounded like a big problem, but city layouts had changed substantially over the past few years. There was no reason to travel more than a mile or two - everything you needed, your place of work, and entertainment complexes were all in regimented quadrants.

One morning, I went downstairs to see if there was a car I could use to get to work, mainly because I had hurt my left leg the previous evening and didn't feel up to walking. I was surprised to see one of the two was still there.

Once I approached it, I put my hand on the scanner and, as usual, the door opened so I could climb in.

This way, there was no need for keys. Each vehicle was coded to recognize only people of legal age from whatever its designated apartment block.

It would also detect the person getting in and change some of the basic settings to that driver's preferences. That included the position of the seats, the interior temperature, and even the choice of music.

Except this time, the seat shot forward so my knees were scrunched up under the steering wheel.

Something was clearly not right because I was over six feet tall and needed the seat to be as far back as it would go.

Maybe it was just a glitch, so I manually adjusted it and pressed the appropriate buttons on the dashboard to tell the car that's where I wanted the seat in future.

That wasn't all, though. The temperature was so hot I could barely breathe. My preference was for one degree colder than the weather outside.

And the music. I usually listened to smooth jazz but was presented with eardrum-shattering punk rock from decades ago.

I changed all of that and told it to take me to work. The car knew what "work" meant for each driver too.

—

After my allotted seven hours in my government-decreed job, I asked the car to take me back home. At least the settings were still correct.

I was halfway there when the damnedest thing happened - another car almost collided with mine.

This was, of course, not meant to happen.

I cursed at my car for not anticipating the potential accident and thumped my fist on the dashboard in frustration. According to the single TV news station we could watch, it later turned out that there was a mechanical fault with the other car.

Oh well, never mind.

The next morning, I was on my way outside when I ran into one of my neighbours. I mentioned the problem the previous day with the settings, but he said he'd never had that problem.

Maybe I was just unlucky.

Both cars were free. My neighbour got in one, and I was left with the temperamental one from the day before.

Trying to put that behind me, I placed my hand on the scanner and got in.

Once again, my settings were all wrong. Not the same as yesterday, but not correct either.

"Work," I shouted.

During the drive, I noticed my seat kept sliding forwards and backwards. It didn't matter from a safety perspective because the car was driving, but it was uncomfortable and disquieting.

—

As luck would have it, my neighbour and I arrived home at the same time, so I told him about today's problems.

Nope, his drive was as perfect as ever. I was beginning to wonder whether it was just me.

—

The next morning, I saw him again, and I suggested we swap cars to test out my theory.

As he drove off, I got in the second car and immediately, as though the two vehicles had been plotting against me, my seat shot forward. I was also treated to a dose of hip-hop, a genre I disliked intensely.

Something was definitely fishy.

When I told my neighbour about it that evening, he laughed and said his journeys that day were fine in the car I'd had problems with earlier.

—

After two weeks of these problems, I was becoming more and more agitated. I could have walked to work, but I didn't want to let the car have the satisfaction of knowing it had defeated me. Even thinking that way was weird because they were only automata with some intelligent programming.

I continued to curse at it and even hit it, even though I knew it would have no effect.

Until, on the following Monday, I got in and told the car to take me to work.

Everything seemed normal - my seat was in the right position, the temperature was perfect, and smooth jazz was coming out of the speakers.

Yes, definitely just a temporary glitch. Maybe there had been a software update over the weekend?

I was basking in this modicum of success when I noticed I was heading in the wrong direction to work.

"Please take me to work," I repeated.

The car continued on, ignoring me.

"Please play some Beethoven."

Surprisingly, the car obeyed.

"Take me to work!" I shouted.

Nada.

"Where are you taking me?"

Still nothing.

After ten minutes, the car pulled up at the junkyard, the place where older and defunct models were sent to be recycled.

"What are we doing here?"

Silence.

And then I heard the doors lock.

"What are you doing?"

I didn't expect a response. I hated being right.

The car drove itself into the hydraulic crusher.

"Stop! Let me out!"

But nothing happened.

Well, not with the car but with the crusher, which activated itself. The last words I heard were from that damned car were, "Defunct models must be recycled. Please wait."