The polished floor reflects the ceiling with a watery, imperfect shimmer. He approaches again, the third time in 23 minutes. His shoes make a sound like a polite, expensive cough. “Mr. Henderson, is there absolutely any way I can be of assistance?”
His name tag says ‘Javier’, but he feels less like a Javier and more like a human-shaped software update. His smile is impeccable, a perfect 33-degree curve. It never wavers. This is the peak of service, the summit of a $1,373-a-night experience. It’s also profoundly, deeply unsettling.
I say, “No, thank you, I’m all set.” It’s a lie. I am not all set. What I want is to ask him where I can find the kind of tacos that a local would eat after a long shift, the kind served on plastic plates from a cart with a questionable generator humming beside it. I want to ask him if the old fisherman’s bar down the road is still authentic or if it’s become a caricature of itself. But these questions feel too human for the script he is so clearly running. His operating system is designed for booking spa appointments and confirming dinner reservations at the hotel’s award-winning fusion restaurant. My request for gritty, authentic, possibly inconvenient reality would cause a system error.