The Algorithm of an Asshole (Or: The Limits of Determinism)

I spent the last week trying to be a radically empathetic person. I highly recommend against it; it is absolutely exhausting.

To escape the oat-milk anxiety of the digital nomad cafes, I found a tiny, traditional pastelaria tucked down a steep side street. It’s perfect. The walls are covered in beautiful, faded blue and white azulejo tiles. The man behind the counter looks like he has been baking pastéis de nata (custard tarts) since the Carnation Revolution. It is quiet. It smells like warm sugar and strong espresso.

Then, the door banged open.

In walked a loud American guy in his late twenties, vibrating with misplaced aggressive energy. He practically marched up to the counter and immediately started barking at the older Portuguese worker in rapid-fire English.

He was furious that there were no QR codes on the tables. He demanded to know the Wi-Fi password, and when the baker politely tried to explain in broken English that the shop didn't have customer Wi-Fi, the guy actually scoffed. He loudly complained about how "impossible it is to work in this city" and rolled his eyes like he was the victim of a targeted hate crime by the 19th century.

I sat at my little marble table and tried to run my new software.

Look at him as an algorithm, I told myself. He is just a product of his inputs. He is conditioned by a culture of instant digital gratification. He lacks the socioeconomic elasticity to handle minor friction. He is terrified of inefficiency. Pity his broken code. Pity the machine.

I stared at him for three full minutes, trying to simulate his neurobiology.

And then I just gave up.

It takes an unbelievable amount of cognitive bandwidth to justify someone else's terrible behavior. Understanding why a machine is broken doesn't make the noise it makes any less grating. Even if free will is an illusion and this guy is just the tragic output of a consumerist meat-grinder, it genuinely felt like he was trying to be an absolute asshole to a very nice old man.

I decided I didn't want to be a sociologist today. I just wanted to eat my tart.

I abandoned the high road, fully embraced the judgment, and just glared at the back of his head with the full, unfiltered hostility of a Seattle barista who hasn't had a break in six hours. It felt fantastic.

I slid my hand into my jacket pocket and grabbed La Boule Magique (my French Magic 8-Ball). I shook it beneath the table, completely out of sight.

Is it okay if I just hate this guy?

I pulled it out just enough to read the little blue triangle. "C'est certain." It is certain.