I’m Not Tipping the Robot

Apparently, I can feel guilty about stiffing a machine.

The Tip Screen

I have reached an age where I am no longer surprised when a machine asks me for a tip.

I’m surprised when it doesn’t.

The other day I read about a bar in Las Vegas where two robotic arms make cocktails. You order your drink on a screen, and the robots spring into action. They grab the bottles, pour the liquor, mix everything together and perform what sounds like a highly choreographed mechanical dance before delivering your drink.

Apparently, it's quite entertaining.

The margarita costs $17.

Then the machine asks you for a tip.

I’m sorry.

What exactly am I tipping here?

I understand tipping a bartender. The bartender actually has to deal with me. He makes my drink, remembers what I ordered, answers my questions, deals with the guy next to me who is convinced he’s been waiting forever, and smiles when I change my mind for the third time. That’s service.

I understand tipping a server.

They bring me my food. They refill my water. They check to make sure everything is okay. They put up with my questions about the menu even when the answer is probably sitting right there in front of me. And if they’re good at what they do, they somehow make the whole meal feel easy.

And I understand tipping someone who delivers something to my house when it’s raining sideways and I’ve decided that putting on pants and leaving the house would be an unreasonable burden.

Those people get a tip.

But the robot?

The robot has one job.

Make the margarita.

And apparently it's doing that well enough to have developed an opinion about its compensation.

The Little Screen of Judgment

This is where I begin to have a problem.

Because I have become increasingly confused about tipping in general.

I remember when tipping was simple.

Someone did something for you. You appreciated it. You gave them some money.

There was a little jar on the counter. You put a dollar in it. Maybe two.

Nobody handed you a tablet and asked whether you wanted to tip 18%, 20%, 25% or custom.

And nobody made you feel like you had just failed a character test because you selected zero.

Now I encounter that screen everywhere.

I buy a coffee.

20%
25%
30%

For coffee.

The coffee is already made.

I'm standing at the counter.

I have not been seated.

Nobody has brought me anything.

And yet the screen is asking me whether I would like to reward someone for this extraordinary display of service.

Sometimes I stare at those buttons longer than I should.

This is one of my more embarrassing personal traits.

I overthink things.

Jan knows this.

If there are three reasonable choices, I will somehow create a fourth, fifth and sixth option and then spend twenty minutes evaluating them.

So naturally, a tipping screen is a nightmare.

Because now I'm not just deciding how much to tip.

I'm deciding what kind of person I am.

If I press 20%, I'm generous.

If I press 25%, I'm really generous.

If I press zero, I'm cheap.

And if I press custom, I'm apparently the guy who thinks he's smarter than the machine.

Meanwhile, there's somebody standing behind me waiting for their coffee, and I'm conducting an ethical examination of a $4.87 transaction.

Is this a tip situation?

Did they actually provide service?

Where does the money go?

Am I being cheap?

Is everybody else tipping?

Why am I thinking this hard about a cup of coffee?

Tap.

Twenty percent.

And five minutes later I'm driving down the road thinking:

Why did I just do that?

What Am I Actually Tipping?

And then it hit me.

The tipping screen isn't really asking me for money.

It's asking me who I am.

Pretty clever, when you think about it.

Because I don't want to be the cheap guy.

Nobody wants to be the cheap guy.

We like to think of ourselves as generous people. Good people. People who appreciate other people's work.

So when that screen comes up, there's a little social pressure attached to it.

The machine doesn't have to say anything.

It just sits there with three percentages staring back at me.

And somehow I feel like I'm disappointing it.

Now apparently we've decided robots should get in on this psychological game.

That's where I draw the line.

I don't care how good the margarita is.

I'm not tipping the robot.

Who Gets the Money?

And before anyone thinks I'm some kind of anti-technology crank, let me explain.

I actually think there is a legitimate question here.

The people who study this stuff point out that sometimes the robot isn't really replacing the human. There are still people behind the scenes. Somebody has to stock the place, maintain the machines, clean up, troubleshoot things and deal with whatever happens when a robotic arm decides it no longer feels like making margaritas.

In some places, the tips go to those employees.

If that's the case, I'm happy to tip.

Because then I'm not tipping the robot.

I'm tipping the people. That's who I'm trying to thank.

What bothers me is that I increasingly don't know the difference.

I don't know where the tip goes.

I don't know who gets it.

I don't know whether the person actually providing the service receives it or whether it simply disappears into the financial plumbing of the business.

And now we're entering an era where companies can put a tip screen in front of me even when there isn't a human being performing the traditional service.

Which makes me wonder: are we tipping because someone deserves it... or because somebody figured out that asking is profitable?

We Kept the Tip Jar

There is something almost beautiful about the audacity of it.

We have automated the work and retained the tip jar.

That's America.

We can eliminate the human interaction and somehow keep the awkward part.

But here's where this gets bigger than robots.

We're going through a period where machines are becoming capable of doing an extraordinary number of things that people used to do.

They can make coffee.

They can deliver food.

They can check you out at the grocery store.

They can answer questions.

They can generate pictures.

They can help you plan dinner.

They can probably tell you how to fix the thing you broke while trying to fix the other thing you broke.

And now they're apparently asking for gratuity.

It makes me wonder what we're going to consider a "service" ten years from now.

Will I be expected to tip the self-checkout machine because it successfully scanned all twelve items?

Will my car eventually ask for a tip after parallel parking itself?

Will my refrigerator suggest 20% after reminding me that I'm out of milk?

Will my washing machine eventually ask for a tip because it successfully finished the delicate cycle?

Will my GPS expect 20% because it got me there without taking me through a cornfield?

At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Actually, knowing me, I’ll probably tip the garage door.

I’ll tell myself it’s been very reliable.

Why We Tip

That's the problem.

I'm beginning to suspect that humans are going to be the easiest part of this whole transition.

Machines don't need our tips.

Pretty soon, we may have to rethink what we're actually tipping for.

Because tipping was never really about the money.

Not entirely.

It was about recognition.

I saw what you did.

I appreciated it.

Here's something for you.

There's something profoundly human about that.

A robot doesn't need recognition.

A corporation might.

A machine certainly doesn't.

A person does.

And maybe that's the line I want to hold onto.

If a human makes my life a little easier, I'm happy to say thank you with a few dollars.

If a machine makes my life easier, I'll say thank you.

I'll even tell it that it did a good job.

But I'm not giving it twenty percent.

I'm sorry.

It doesn't have a mortgage.

It doesn't have a grocery bill.

It doesn't have a kid who needs braces.

It doesn't have a car that suddenly makes a noise that sounds expensive.

It doesn't have a bad week.

It doesn't have a boss.

It doesn't have a retirement account.

And it certainly doesn't lie awake at night wondering whether some guy at the bar thought it did a good job making his margarita.

It is a machine.

It has one advantage over the rest of us.

It doesn't care what I think.

No Tip

So the next time a robot hands me a coffee and the screen asks whether I'd like to leave a tip, I'm going to be brave.

I'm going to hit No Tip.

I'm going to walk away.

I'm going to feel completely comfortable with my decision.

And then, approximately fourteen seconds later, I'm going to wonder if I was being a jerk.

That's the real confession.

I don't need a robot to guilt me into tipping.

Apparently, I can do that all by myself.