Don't look now! The bridge jump that wasn't (part 3, final)

Somchai had been waiting for somebody to do something.
He had expected more activity.
Perhaps the police would come over.
Perhaps somebody would climb towards him.
Perhaps there would be shouting.
He had seen these things on television.
Instead, there were people arguing.
He couldn't hear everything.
He could hear his wife's voice.
That was never a good sign.
The cold was becoming annoying.
He had brought the sweater.
The sweater was in the bag.
The problem was putting it on.
He would have to move.
He didn't want to move.
If he lost his balance, that would be very embarrassing.
He wasn't ready yet.
He looked at the crowd.
Nobody was looking up.
He wondered whether he should shout.
No.
That would look desperate.
He could wait.
A policeman eventually came closer.
"Somchai."
"What?"
"Want another sandwich?"
Somchai stared at him.
"Another?"
"Yes."
"Where from?"
"Same place."
"How much?"
"I don't know."
Somchai thought this over.
"Maybe."
The policeman nodded.
"OK."
And walked away.
Somchai was disappointed.
That was it?
He had expected more.
He had imagined somebody crawling over to him.
A policeman on all fours.
That would be something.
He might even make the news.
Instead the policeman had asked him if he wanted another sandwich.
He looked down again.
There was now a rescue van.
He hadn't called them.
How had they got there so quickly?
Then he saw another van.
And another.
"Bloody hell," he said.

"You're in our area."
"We got the call."
"Who called you?"
"We heard it on the police radio."
"Well, the police called us. We're here for the jumper."
"So are we."
"You don't work this side."
"Since when?"
"Since always."
"Last year you were on the other side."
"Different arrangement."
A third rescue worker walked over.
"Stop arguing."
"Tell them."
"Tell us what?"
"This is our job, because the police called us."
"The police called us too."
"Then ask the police."
The police officer came over.
"What's the problem?"
"They're in our area."
"They're in our area."
The officer looked at both groups.
"It's one jumper."
"We know."
"He's still alive."
"We know."
"Then why are you fighting?"
Neither group answered.
One of the rescue workers pointed at the other.
"They always do this."
The other man stepped forward.
The first man pushed him.
The second pushed back.
The police officer stepped between them.
"Enough."
One of the men pointed at the other.
He looked towards the bridge.
Somchai was still there.
The two rescue teams had forgotten about him.

Somchai was beginning to think the whole thing had been badly organised.
His wife had turned up, but she seemed more interested in the gold.
The lender was there.
The Thao Share was there.
The reporter had been talking to everybody except him.
The police had given him a sandwich.
The rescue workers were fighting.
His brother-in-law was flying his bloody drone around somewhere, although apparently not here.
And nobody was looking up.
He thought about the gold again.
His wife knew about the gold, but not where he hid it.
However, he forgot to tell the boys.
He couldn't call from the bridge, could he?
“Son, look I'm on the bridge, about to take my life, but about the gold...”
Actually, he couldn't do that either, as he had his phone. Fuck.
He couldn't tell the police, as no one trusts them.
If they could get past the dog, they'd keep it for themselves, and might torch the house for good measure.
He had his son's phone, so couldn't call him.
He couldn't exactly shout the location of the gold across the bridge.
He looked at the bag.
He looked at the sweater.
He looked at the sandwich.
He looked at the drink.
Two hours.
It had been less than two hours.
He could do it another day.
There was no need to rush.
He could prepare better next time.
Bring another phone.
Bring more food.
Sort out the gold.
Perhaps bring the climbing shoes.
That would be more comfortable.
He began climbing down.

The junior policeman called his sergeant.
"Serg."
"What?"
"He has thrown in the towel."
"You mean jumped?"
"No, he's coming down."
"Oh."
A pause.
"Bring me back a pastrami."
"From the jumper's shop?"
"Same deal as last week."
"Serg."

The wife looked towards the bridge.
"Oh, look. He's changed his mind. Knew he would. He can't follow through with anything."
Prasert shrugged.
"At least he's bringing back the phone."
“You and your tech.”
She checked her own phone.
"I've got a message."
"From him?"
"No."
"The new guy?"
She smiled.
"Yes."
"What does he say?"
"Where are you?"
She typed.
"Lunch."

The reporter called the office.
"He's backed out."
"Any heroics?"
"No."
"What happened?"
"The cop is still standing here."
"That's it? Forget it, then. I've got other jobs for you."
The reporter looked across the bridge.
Somchai was almost down.
Nobody was looking up.
"OK," he said.
He put the phone away.
Death can wait another day.

Don't look now! The bridge jump that wasn't (part 2)

Prasert was arguing with his sister.
"You can't send the drone."
"Why not?"
"Police said no."
"It's my drone. I only want a closer look."
"You can look from here."
"Who is that?"
"The lender."
"Why is he here?"
"He wants the house."
"Why?"
"Somchai has the key."
"What does that have to do with him?"
"He wants to repossess the place. Everything falls apart when I'm not there."
"How does he know?"
"The reporter told him."
"How did the reporter know?"
"Somchai called him."
"Of course he did. Bastard wants an audience. We're his bloody funeral cortege. You certainly know how to pick them. Bald and well hung...that's your thing. And of course, rich.
"Well, he's not rich any more."
"So, how's the new guy going?"
"Ball, well hung and rich!"
"He know you're here?"
"I told him I had a lunch date."
"You had better avoid the TV camera, then."
"Can I do a FB live?"
"Better not. Your boss might see it."
"So what? What does he care?"
"He’ll think your life is a mess."
"It’s him on the bridge, not me!"
"Where are the boys?"
"Playing football."
"You mean, he didn't invite them along too?'
"The youngest called to complain that his Dad didn't come back with his phone."
"So why doesn't he come and get it then?"
"I said I'd handle it."
"Of course you did. You say that every time. Your kids have no idea about life. All they know is football and sitting on the couch."
"I set boundaries. Kids are anti these days. You can't just tell them what to do."
"Your boundaries are so wide you could drive a truck through them."
"So, you're the expert in child-rearing? Look how your son turned out. Drugs, a pregnant girlfriend...."
"We don't know she's pregnant yet."
"And what will you do if she is?"
"Her mother can look after it."
"You bloody men."
She looked towards the bridge.
Nobody looked up.

The reporter was talking to the Thao Share.
"How much does he owe?"
The Thao Share gave him a look.
"Which pot?"
"What do you mean, which pot?"
"There are two."
"Two?"
"Old one and new one."
"Which one is Somchai in?"
"Both."
The reporter took out his phone.
"How much?"
"Don't write it."
"Why?"
"People will think I'm a loan shark."
"You aren't?"
"I'm Thao Share."
"What does that mean?"
"You don't know?"
"I know what len share is."
"Then why ask?"
"I want you to explain it."
"I don't explain to journalists."
"Why?"
"They don't understand."
The Thao Share looked towards the bridge.
"I have already paid one instalment for him."
"Because he hasn't paid?"
"Because he cannot pay."
"Why can't he pay?"
"He is up there."
"That's why?"
"No. Because he has no money."
The reporter frowned.
"So if he dies?"
The Thao Share sighed.
"If he dies, I still have the pot."
"And?"
"And his instalment is still missing."
"So you pay?"
"Of course."
"How much?"
"Depends on the round."
"What round?"
"Don't write that."
"I'm not writing anything."
"You journalists always say that."
The reporter smiled.
"So you're worried about the money."
"I'm worried about the pot."

"What happens to the house?"
The Thao Share looked at him.
"Which house?"
"Somchai's."
"Ask the lender."
"He's over there."
The Thao Share looked at him.
"I don't know him."
"You've never met?"
"Not properly."
"He's owed money too."
"Yes."
"What happens if Somchai dies?"
"He can wait his turn."
The reporter laughed.
"You don't get on."
"He is a lender."
"And you're what?"
"I'm Thao Share."
"What's the difference?"
The Thao Share thought about this.
"Different paperwork."

The lender walked over.
"What are you talking about?"
The Thao Share didn't answer.
The lender looked at the reporter.
"You know him?"
"No."
"He can bloody well wait his turn."
The Thao Share looked at him.
"Your turn for what?"
"My money."
"He owes me too."
"I know."
"You know?"
"Everybody knows."
"How much?"
"That's none of your business."
"It is my business! I’m his creditor, and he can bloody well pay up."

The Thao Share looked towards the bridge.
"I want to talk to him."
"So do I."
The reporter looked at both men.
"You have his number?"
"No," said the lender.
"I do," said the Thao Share.
The lender turned.
"You have his number?"
"Yes."
"Give it to me."
"No."
"Why?"
"I want to talk to him first."
"About what?"
"The pot."
"I want to talk about the house. He has the gold."
The reporter looked interested.
"What gold?"
Neither man answered.

The wife, standing a few metres away, heard them.
"What gold? I thought he’d sold it.”
The lender looked at her.
She looked at him.
Nobody looked up.

Don't look now! The bridge jump that wasn't (part 1)

Can AI get inside a person's head?

There is a fairly respectable objection to AI-generated fiction: however fluent the prose, a machine cannot really get inside a human mind. It has no childhood, no marriage, no bad boss, no embarrassing memory at 3am. It has never been lonely, jealous, frightened, drunk, dumped or made to wonder where the bloody hell its life went wrong.

So how could it possibly know what any of us are thinking?

Fair enough.

But we thought we would make the test slightly harder.
Could AI get inside the head of a Thai?
Now we're asking for trouble.

The challenge was not to produce a tortured interior monologue, or to reproduce the familiar literary tricks of stream of consciousness. Those are techniques, and techniques can be learned. Literary scholars have long pointed out that even human “stream of consciousness” is not a transcript of a mind at work but a carefully constructed representation of one. PubMed Central (PMC)

We wanted something less obvious.

We wanted to see whether AI could inhabit a particular social mind: not just what a person thinks, but the petty grievances, assumptions, family arguments, financial calculations, status anxieties, casual insults and perfectly reasonable self-interest that make up an ordinary day.

So we gave it Somchai.

Somchai has climbed onto a bridge because he thinks it would be a good way of attracting attention. He has arranged the police, the television reporter, his wife, a few spectators and assorted other interested parties. He has bought a sandwich from a shop that specialises in supplying jumpers. He has thought about the weather, brought a sweater and forgotten to arrange what happens to his gold if he dies. Below him, meanwhile, Bangkok carries on.

The rescue workers listen to the police radio and race to the scene. The len share people worry about the money. The informal lender worries about the house. The reporter worries about his next assignment. Somchai's wife worries about her new boyfriend. Her brother worries about his drone. The police worry about paperwork.
And nobody looks up.

The curious thing is that Somchai isn't fundamentally different from any of them. He has his own agenda too. He is simply the only person on the bridge.

That, perhaps, is the more interesting test of AI fiction.
Not whether a machine can claim to feel like a human being. It can't. Not whether it possesses some mysterious Thai consciousness. It doesn't.

But whether, from the outside, it can construct a mind that behaves as though it belongs to a particular person, in a particular place, among particular people — and whether the reader can recognise that mind without being told what it is.

Critics say AI can't get inside a person's head.
We decided to try getting inside a Thai's head instead.
Which seemed considerably more mysterious.

Somchai's bridge date with destiny

Somchai thought the view was quite good.
He had not been expecting it to be so cold.
He checked the bag again.
Sweater.
Sandwich.
Drink.
Phone.
Enough for two hours, he thought.
Two hours was plenty.
He had not actually decided where to jump.
First, he needed to see what it would be like.
The bridge was high enough. That was the main thing. He had checked that.
He had also checked where the police could get to him and where they couldn't. They would have trouble getting up to where he was sitting. That was good.
There was no point coming all this way only to have some policeman grab him after five minutes.
The sandwich was from the jumper's shop.
He had gone there earlier with the backpack and gloves and the shopkeeper had taken one look at him.
"Bridge?"
"Yes."
"First time?"
"Yes."
The man had nodded as if Somchai had told him he wanted a phone charger.
"Pastrami?"
"What's that?"
"Best for jumpers."
"Why?"
"Easy to eat."
"Thai food isn't?"
The shopkeeper looked at him.
"Can you eat noodles while sitting on a bridge?"
Somchai had thought about this.
"No."
"Exactly."
So, he bought the pastrami.
The shopkeeper had also told him about the other shop, beside the temple, where he could get beer if he wanted it.
Somchai didn't want beer.
Not yet.
He could always send somebody later.
That was the good thing about having the television reporter's number. He could direct people.
He looked down.
The crowd was coming along nicely.
He could see his wife.
Her bloody brother was with her.
He hadn't invited him.
Of course Prasert would come.
Prasert had his drone and insists on showing it off, even for a solemn occasion like this.
The man was obsessed with technology.
He flew it around the house. He flew it over the football pitch. He had once flown it into a tree and blamed the tree.
Somchai could see the police.
He could see the television reporter.
He could see the head of the len share group.
That was good.
He had also spotted the informal lender.
Very good.
They could all watch him jump and calculate their losses.
He wondered where his boss was.
That annoyed him.
After 25 years, you would think the man could come to a bridge.
HR had come, though.
His boss delegated the bridge visit - wasn't he important enough?
The last time he had seen the HR woman was when the company had finished with him as a full-time employee and put him on an annual contract. One month's notice. After 25 years.
Very nice.
They had also stopped giving long-service payments in gold.
Cash, now.
Everything is in cash.
At least he had got the provident fund.
The HR woman had told him to take care of the cheque.
"Don't lose it."
He had looked at her.
"If you lose it on the way to the bank, we can't issue another one."
Who did she think he was?
A child?
Eight million baht was not a child's amount of money.
There wasn't much left now.
That's life.
He had put one million into gold earlier in the year, when the price was already ridiculously high.
He had told his wife not to buy it.
She had never owned gold before, so wanted to get her hands around it.
Women liked gold.
Now the gold was worth about 100,000 baht less.
Fine, she could have it.
As long as she didn't give it to the new man.
Somchai looked down again.
Nobody was looking up.
The policeman was standing there, doing nothing.
He wouldn't even look up.
Somchai thought this was very unprofessional.
He had called the police.
He had called the television station.
He had arranged the crowd.
What more did the man want?
He looked at the sandwich.
He might ask for another one.
Perhaps two.
There was no harm in having supplies.
He had the reporter's number.
Or he could ask the police.
They could send somebody to the jumper's shop.
Or the grocery shop beside the temple.
That shop sold beer.
He knew that shop from his days as a novice.
Sneaky supplies.
The old days.
He wondered whether the reporter would put him on television.
He hoped so.

The junior policeman called his sergeant.
"Serg, we have a 10-11."
"A what?"
"A 10-11."
"For fuck's sake. Plain English."
"A jumper."
"Where?"
"Rama VIII Bridge."
"Christ. That's the second one this week."
"Media is here, Serg. Wife too."
"How did they find out so fast?"
"He called them."
"The jumper?"
"Serg."
"Of course he did. What's that noise?
"The cheer squad, Serg."
"You mean the bridge dwellers?"
"Serg."
"How the fuck did he find them?"
"The jumper store guy recommends them. They turn out for blue party protests and the red shirts…
"…Yes, I know, I know."
"...and jumpers."
"What are they saying for themselves?"
"Somchai, come down, come down. It's not too late."
"How much is he paying?"
"100 baht an hour."
"Cheapskate. How many?"
"Three people so far. They said they might bring friends."
"You mean, he’s paying a lump sum up front?"
"Serg."
"How long?"
"Two hours."
"So, they’re putting on a show for two hours. Make contact and fix it."
"Serg."
"Have you checked the jumper's shop?"
"Yes."
"What did he buy?"
"Pastrami and a drink."
"Anything else?"
"He has a phone."
"How do you know?"
"TV3 reporter told me. Somchai called him."
"Of course he did."
The sergeant paused.
"Any other admirers?"
"His wife. Brother-in-law. HR."
"Dog?"
Serg?
"Damn it, does he have a dog?"
"Yes, at home, but Somchai has the key."
"Send somebody to get the dog."
"Why?"
"Maybe he'll come down for the dog."
"Serg."
"What?"
"The brother-in-law wants to send up a drone."
"No."
"He has a camera."
"No."
"He says he can get a closer look."
"No. If we send up a drone, it's our drone."
"Serg."
"But then I have to tell the city and the aviation people, and I can't be bothered.
"Serg?"
"What?"
"There are two rescue vans."
The sergeant sighed again.
"Ah."