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."