PAST AND PRESENT CONVERGE AT OUR DEALER’S ANNUAL INDUSTRY CONVENTION
Bill Tanner, our fictional dealer in 2030, attends the annual big industry convention, where he connects with new technology, reunites with old friends and discovers why he loves being in the auto retailing business so much, no matter the pace of change.
I love the smell of a trade show in the morning. Coffee, adrenaline, and, of course, when you get a few thousand car guys together, there’s also the scent of BS. All my favourites. I swipe the MyLife on my wrist along one of the info panels dotted around the lobby. It flashes green, telling me it has successfully uploaded my schedule, lunch menu, workshop handouts and the booths their system has flagged as being of particular interest to me.
I head for the coffee bar, grabbing a long espresso before I take a seat and put my hand on the table in front of me. A quick swipe and a 3D rendition of the association logo comes up on the tabletop, then disappears, replaced by the event main screen.
“Welcome, Bill,” says the ever-elegant Fiona in my earbud. “Would you like to see your itinerary?” I tap yes and assorted orientations and receptions, a couple of workshops here and there, demos and speakers are highlighted.
Tomorrow’s the big one. They’ve managed to draw that Silicon Valley CEO — the one who founded America’s fourth largest automaker — out of hiding for the keynote address. Quite a coup and there’s going to be big crowds for that, lots of media. I make a mental note to wear the T-shirt with the big dealership logo on the back.
The workshops haven’t changed much over the years — strategic planning, stress management blah blah blah. I’ve facilitated a couple of times, but I stopped doing it when they started the virtual convention roadshow. With no people there to play off, I just couldn’t get into the groove.
The last time I did it, maybe five or six years ago, they had these little sensor thingies they wanted to hook up to me to create my hologram for the roadshow, and there I’d be, talking to thin air, pretending I had an audience, with these little black discs stuck on my forehead like devil horns. Forget it.
BACK TO REALITY
A couple of years ago, though, there was this groundswell and the event went live again. Score one for the luddites, bless ‘em. These days, attendance is almost back up to where it was before.
They folded up the virtual roadshow all together. You can still get holographic webcasts of most of the seminars remotely, but the round tables and stuff you actually have to attend. I guess I wasn’t the only one who thought three days in Vegas with your comrades beats the hell out of three days by yourself in a boardroom in Brampton talking to a glorified cartoon.
“Bill Tanner!” I hear behind me, in the booming voice of Alabama’s finest. I make the screen disappear and turn around.
“Ted Marsh!” I bellow in return. “How the hell are you?” Ted looks a little fat, actually, and a little tired. “I’m good, I’m good. Different times, you know. Closed the doors at the old site a couple of months back. Got me one of those little boutique shops after all.” He sighs. “Swore I never would.”
“Hey, I went that way, too,” I say, and he looks surprised. “What’s the alternative? All virtual? Not for me. I like having a place to go to each day. It’s not so bad. We still get a few live people. Almost every day!” We laugh, even though I don’t think either one of us believes it’s funny.
“How’s Fiona?” he asks, smiling. Fiona’s our sales and communications hologram. These days, she’s my near-constant companion. I think Ted has a little crush on her.
“Gorgeous as always,” I say, realizing that I had this exchange with a couple of guys in the hotel last night too. Seems we’ve fallen into a habit of asking after each other’s holograms before we ask about our children or wives. What does that tell you? I’m not sure if it’s a symptom of workaholism or a sign of the times.
“I’d really like to talk to you. You got plans for dinner?” he asks, and I shake my head. “Great. I’m, uh, well, I’m thinking of getting out of the business. Wanted to talk over a few things.”
“Sure, of course,” I say, as MyLife vibrates and Fiona’s voice in my ear says, “Bill, you have a demonstration scheduled in 15 minutes. Would you like me to reschedule?” I swipe no.
ALL SEEING, ALL KNOWING?
We make plans to meet for dinner, and I tell MyLife to lead me to my appointment, which it turns out is the one I’ve most been looking forward to. A beefy blond guy with an old school moustache is waiting for me at the EyeTrack booth, and our wrists flash as we near one another. “You must be Bill,” he says, approaching with an outstretched hand.
He draws me into the booth and starts telling me how EyeTrack works. You’re supposed to be able to install it on your lapel and it will tell you within a few minutes whether your prospect is ready to buy based on its observation of eye movements, hand gestures, body language — it’s cool, and supposedly upwards of 90 per cent accurate, but I’m just not sure. There’s something a little creepy about it.
When he’s done, Fiona tells me Jay Wallace is looking for me and that she has plotted a path towards him. I thank EyeTrack guy, and follow Fiona’s directions back out onto the show floor. I soon spot Jay walking towards me. God, he looks like his dad. Jim was my best friend. Wish he were still around — he would be thriving with all this technology. He loved that stuff. The earliest of early adopters, was Jim.
I give his doppelganger kid a hug. “Uncle Bill,” he says, grinning. He must be what, now, 26? He’s a good kid. Jim would be proud. “Little Jay Wallace,” I say with affectionate irony, looking up at him.
A GREAT BUSINESS
We compare notes on workshops and speakers, and he tells me about an instant-dry carwash he’s thinking about adding. I tell Fiona to add a demo for it to my schedule. But I can tell there’s something else on his mind. “What’s up, son?” I wonder when I developed such a fatherly tone. It almost seems just yesterday that I was Jay’s age.
“Oh, nothing,” he says, but then changes his mind. “Yeah, actually, something. I’m thinking of selling the business.”
I can’t say I’m really surprised. He never did love it. I think he just hung on this long because he thought it’s what Jim would have wanted. “OK,” I say, and grasp his upper arm for a second. “Let’s talk over dinner.”
He thanks me and wanders off. I look skyward, and send Jim a silent half-formed mental message — something along the lines of, I know, you just want him to be happy, I’ll tell him. It’s a great business, but it’s not for everyone.
For myself, I can’t imagine ever wanting to do anything else. I step into the aisle and let the flowing crowd carry me along.
