Smash the Bathroom Buttons

Shepherd and Sheep by Anton Mauve

There's a truck stop I frequent halfway between Cincinnati and Detroit. They have a good selection of sparkling water, a rarity as far as middle-of-nowhere Ohio goes.  It's one of those red-and-yellow franchises. I'm not sure why they're all red-and-yellow, but I think this one is a Love's.

It's is a trucker hot spot. Lots of chubby American and lanky immigrant truck drives, hustling around with bluetooth headsets, preparing to get back on the road. Somewhere there must be showers, because you always hear the computerized intercom ding, then shout Number 261, your shower is ready. They most certainly have clean bathrooms, perhaps the second reason I stop there. Their little urinal deordorizers are date coded, so you know they're always fresh.

Love's has a survey panel next to the door, with a five option likert scale for visitors to rank their satisfaction with the facilities. I don't think I've ever seen a patron push those buttons, because they're already doing whatever they can to touch nothing in the restroom. But the employees are definitely rating themselves. I'm sure they cycle someone through on a cleanliness check every fifteen minutes, and those guys want to make sure their value is captured by corporate.

It's a funny thing, value. That word commonly sits besides you and me, implying some sort of transaction or cost-benefit analysis.

I was in a meeting a few days ago, where a manager was helping me get up to speed in my new role. I didn't particularly need it. Everything was well-documented, and I'd been able to do much of what he was there to help with by myself. Being polite, I tossed a few softballs when he asked if I had any questions. He hit a couple of routine pop-flys back at me, pretty standard stuff.

At the end, I was caught a little off guard when he asked "So if you had to pick, what was the most valuable part of this call?"

Of course, I played along and commended him on his fly balls. But in the back of my head, I was already categorizing this guy, otherwise polite and competent, with the other how can I deliver value bros that seem to be multiplying like rabbits lately. I was sure my response was getting logged in a spreadsheet to add another data point to a KPI tracker somewhere, his equivalent of the bathroom buttons.

How did we end up here? Why does every last calorie expended need to be worth something? When will this utilitarian madness stop? Is my simple appreciation for his effort not enough?

Why can we not come to an agreement that most everything is just fine? Why does information have to be subject to value-judgements? Why can it not just be some things we might need to know, but also might not? How do we even begin to negotiate around the things that don't have value, but are priceless?

Soon, our Zoom meetings will have their own set of bathroom buttons. Google Docs will have an annoying exit intent pop-up, asking what you thought of the document you just viewed. Email and chat clients will have secret downvote buttons that allow your colleagues to crash your credit score.

The Deliver Value Bros will rejoice, but I will start herding real sheep instead of digital ones.