“What? No.” Derek or Matt or whatever his name was turned his big brown eyes to me and shook his head. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” This question came from Alex, and plunged the room into stark silence. Alex was . . . well, he was odd. And his voice had a certain quality, one that forced you to listen to it and to him. But presently, something about his tone made the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight.
He-who-claimed-to-be-Matt glanced at Alex and he surveyed the younger man. “It was in pursuit of science. An experiment.”
“An experiment?” Alex asked, looking dissatisfied with the answer.
“What do you mean experiment?” Sandra stood, her hands on her hips.
“Uh, it’s what’s called a deception study. Self-reported behaviors are riddled with bias. So we observe in a non-traditional laboratory setting. Only,” Matt turned an apologetic smile on me, “I’m not usually the one taking the interview. Dr. Merek typically fills that role.”
“Who is Dr. Merek?” I asked dumbly, not at all following the conversation.
“Derek,” Matt said simply, as though this explained everything.
“What?” Elizabeth was growing impatient.
“Derek is Dr. Merek. Dr. Derek Merek,” Matt clarified.
“What an unfortunate name,” Janie said with a small frown.
“What are you talking about? It rhymes.” Sandra shook her head at our friend. “I’ve always wanted a rhyming name, but nothing rhymes with Sandra.”
Crossing my arms, I ignored Sandra’s nonsense and pointed my questions at Matt. “So you’re not Derek.”
“No. Not usually. I’m not as good at the interviews as he is.” He scratched his neck, adding self-deprecatingly, “Or much else, for that matter.”
“You mean you’ve done this before? Posed as your friend?” Elizabeth demanded.
“No. I don’t pose as my friend. He’s my colleague. The profile for ‘Derek Simmons’ is fake. We created it based on aggregate preferences of our target sample group. We have permission from the website’s owners.”
Both Sandra and Elizabeth made similar expressions, as though they were absorbing this information and understood his meaning.
Meanwhile, I shared a confused look with Kat.
“In English, please,” she asked softly.
“Oh, sorry.” He gave her a polite, contrite smile. “We’re looking for subjects—or participants if you prefer that word—who are in their thirties, are working professionals, and have never been married. We looked for patterns in responses for this demographic. We found clusters of likes and dislikes, then created fictional profiles to match these subjects’ preferences.”
Every word out of his mouth grated. “So you created a fake profile to match my likes and dislikes?”
“Not just yours, but women like you. You know, the same shows, interests, music preferences. You’d be surprised how similar you are to other women with your demographics: single, age, education, and income level. Actually, you’re all basically the same person.”
I winced, feeling as though I’d been slapped. Or at least all the air had been driven out of me. The room plunged into dead quiet.
Women like you.
You’d be surprised by how similar you are.
You’re all basically the same person.
That. Stung.
But why did those words sting so much?
“You don’t know her.” This accusation, for it truly sounded like an accusation, came from Janie. “Just because an individual shares common interests with a similar demographic profile doesn’t make them the same person. We all enjoy wine, that doesn’t make us basically the same person!” Her voice lifted until she was nearly shouting. Alex had stealthily approached during her rant and wrapped his arm around her shoulders; Janie appeared ready to jump over the couch and strangle Matt.
“Yes. Of course.” Matt turned a smile to Janie laced with frustration. “I suppose I should apologize. I have a habit of summarizing life into if/then statements, or categorizing people in terms of the aggregate data available on groups with similar profiles. It’s an occupational hazard and I truly do not mean any offense.”
“What is your occupation?” Sandra asked, squinting at him.
“I’m a computer scientist with a focus on AI.”
“AI?” Kat challenged.
“Artificial intelligence.”
Sandra’s squint intensified. “You mean like that creepy movie with the evil robot—”
“Ex Machina, and she wasn’t evil. She just wanted her freedom.” This came from Ashley over Skype. “And would y’all move to one side, I can’t see a thing.”
“She was evil. She killed that adorable Domhnall Gleeson,” Sandra said.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.” Ashley shrugged. “Domhnall Gleeson doesn’t do it for me.”
“What did you mean by deception study?” Elizabeth brought us back on track. “I thought those required an informed consent after participation, so subjects could opt in or out once the data is collected.”
“We’ve received approval from our ethics board to conduct a one-time interview and ascertain true preferences from the subjects.” Matt’s tone was conversationally academic and it made me want to give him paper cuts. Lots and lots of paper cuts. “Usually we consent after the interview, but M-Marie,” he stumbled over my name, his gaze flickering to mine and then away, “left before I could administer post-hoc consent. As I’ve said, I’m not very good at conducting the interviews.” His gaze shifted to me again and held. His smile was carefully detached, like he’d erected a wall between us. “Again, I apologize if I ruined your afternoon by being a ‘weirdo.’”
No one said anything for a long moment, during which I wrestled with this new information.
My date had been part of an experiment.
I had been an experiment.
And I was just like every other woman out there in my demographic.
Apparently, we’re all the same.
I think, on some level, we’d all like to believe we’re special. That something—be it tangible or intangible—makes each person unique.
I considered myself a confident individual. Yes, of course, I knew I had room for improvement. I didn’t think I was in any way perfect, but I’d reached a point in my life where I was happy with myself as a whole. I didn’t want a life partner to complete my life, but as a complement to my life.
Yet something about being told, statistically, I was basically the same as every other woman with similar demographics made me feel immeasurably insignificant. And wretched.
“You’re not a good guy,” Janie said, breaking the silence with her flat declaration. “You should know that so you can try to change yourself for the better.”