Costless Signaling
Technology. 1,100 words, 5 minute read. With Gemini and ChatGPT.
The old reel mower bit into the thick spring grass with a rhythmic shick-shick-shick, a sound swallowed almost immediately by the humid Ohio air. Chip Henderson’s shoulders burned with the effort, each push a familiar battle against the damp earth and the sheer stubbornness of his own fescue blend.
Around him, Maple Creek Drive slumbered – respectable brick-fronted houses dreaming behind chemically perfect lawns. Chip’s own house, solid enough, showed its age in the slightly faded window trim, a stark contrast to the gleaming power-washed siding on Roy Chenko’s identical model next door. Saturday morning, barely nine, and already Chip felt the familiar dampness under his shirt, the metallic scent of the aging mower mingling with chlorophyll. He wrestled the blades over a defiant patch of broadleaf plantain, the cylinder jamming momentarily. Maybe seventy minutes of this, he figured, scanning the remaining green expanse. His weekly workout, his budget balancer.
Roy Chenko emerged onto his porch, coffee mug steaming, dressed in weekend leisure wear that looked suspiciously new. His landscaping wasn't just tidy; it featured low-voltage lighting tucked discreetly among professionally edged beds filled with dark, fragrant mulch. He surveyed Chip’s labor, then his own waiting lawn, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before settling into neighborly pleasantry. He lifted his mug.
“Morning, Chip. Chasing the dew away?” Roy called, his voice smooth.
Chip paused, leaning heavily on the mower handle. A bead of sweat traced a line through the grime on his temple. “Trying to stay ahead of it, Roy. Or at least keep it from looking like a hayfield.” He gave the mower’s faded red paint a rueful glance.
“Right,” Roy nodded slowly, gaze drifting past Chip towards the street. “Wouldn’t want that.” The low rumble of a powerful engine turned onto their loop. A pristine white truck, logo emblazoned – “GreenGo Lawn Pros: We Mean Clean Green” – pulled up, towing an equally immaculate trailer. Two men in crisp, matching uniforms disembarked with practiced speed. The backpack blower whined to life first, unnecessarily scouring Roy’s spotless driveway. Then, the zero-turn mower, practically glowing, was guided onto the turf.
The roar of the commercial engine felt like an assault after the relative quiet. Chip watched the operator, comfortably seated under a canopy, effortlessly pilot the machine in precise, military stripes. It devoured Roy’s lawn in minutes, a whirlwind of noise, power, and exhaust. Chip felt a familiar pang – not quite envy, but the dull ache of recognizing the sheer inefficiency of his own labor, measured against the brute force of disposable income. That machine probably costs more than my car, he thought, turning back to his own Sisyphean task. He pictured Roy inside, checking emails, cool and undisturbed. The shick-shick-shick of his own mower felt suddenly frail.
Twelve minutes. A final, aggressive blow-dry of the pavement, and the GreenGo truck rumbled away, leaving behind only the scent of cut grass and the faint echo of horsepower.
Chip pushed onward, his rhythm slower now. His gaze drifted to the corner lot, Fred Carmichael’s place. Fred’s lawn was less a lawn and more a statement: a seamless, impossibly dense carpet of emerald green that looked soft enough to sleep on. Patrolling this perfection was the ‘Lawnba 5000’, a sleek, silent disc gliding with eerie precision. Chip hadn't seen Fred himself touch the lawn in years; the house, the smartest on the block with its solar panels and visible smart-home tech, seemed to manage its own exterior. Guess Fred’s idea of yard work is updating the firmware, Chip mused, recalling Roy's "sod-oku" joke with a grimace.
Then, the silence of Fred’s yard ruptured. A violent plume of water erupted near the center of the lawn, punching ten feet into the still morning air. The Lawnba, encountering this unexpected obstacle, paused, its indicator light blinking blue, before calculating a new route and continuing its silent patrol, leaving the geyser to gush unimpeded. Water quickly saturated the hyper-absorbent turf, then spilled over, forming instant rivers across Fred’s expensive flagstone walkway and heading downhill towards Roy's stained concrete and Chip's half-finished work.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Chip muttered, dropping the mower handle. Instinct took over. “Fred! Roy! Sprinkler’s blown!” He trotted towards Fred’s property line, eyes scanning the ground near the house for a shut-off valve.
Roy reappeared, phone already pressed to his ear. “Tried Fred, no answer. Finding my plumber’s emergency number…” He eyed the muddy stream now lapping at the edge of his driveway with distinct displeasure. “This is going to leave a mark.”
The rogue sprinkler head continued its frantic pulsing. Chip located the green, circular lid of the main valve box near the curb. He knelt, trying to grip the shallow indentation, his fingers slipping on the dew-slicked plastic. It felt cheap, brittle. He glanced around, spotting a decorative chunk of granite from Fred’s rock garden.
Fred’s sliding door whispered open. He emerged, holding a sleek tablet, his expression puzzled, like discovering a bug in software code. He looked at the fountain display, then at the water pooling near his patio furniture. “Odd,” he commented to no one in particular. “The hydro-management system reported optimal pressure just this morning.”
“Fred, your robot must’ve whacked the sprinkler!” Chip shouted, wedging the granite awkwardly against the valve lid, straining. Sweat dripped into his eyes. “We need to kill the water main! Where’s the shut-off key?”
Fred frowned, tapping at his tablet. “Key? It’s usually controlled via the network. Or maybe the quarterly maintenance crew handles that… Let me check the support logs.” He seemed genuinely more concerned with the system reporting than the miniature flood engulfing his award-winning Zoysia.
Chip grunted, throwing his weight against the rock. The cheap plastic lid groaned, then cracked slightly, but didn’t budge. He stood up, breathing heavily, frustration curdling in his stomach. He looked at Roy, still on hold, pacing just beyond the reach of the spreading water. He looked at Fred, scrolling through menus on his tablet, utterly detached from the physical reality unfolding feet away. Then he looked down at his own hands, dirty, scraped, clutching a useless rock. His lawn remained half-mown. The sun climbed higher, the sound of wasted water roared on, and the ghosts of three different approaches to a Saturday morning hung heavy in the humid air.