I’m a Manhattan psychotherapist—and life coach for the rich. My clients are captains of industry, the kind who close billion-dollar deals while running on triple espressos, cortisol, and, occasionally, cocaine. They come to me when the workouts, retreats, and relentless pursuit of dominance stop working. Smart people, but not exactly introspective. Just ask their spouses.
One of them, a hospital executive with a taste for disruption, recently let slip that his company had just acquired an airline—and planned to staff flights with robots.
“Flight attendants?” I asked.
“Fully automated,” he nodded. “Gendered designs. Sleek and angular for the male models, smooth and curvy for the females. Retro mini-skirt uniforms—think Pan Am, 1965, but with more plastic and fewer rights. Realistic voices, 6,800-word vocabulary. They’ll distribute snacks, sell drinks, even manage panicky passengers.”
“And if something goes wrong?”
“The co-pilot takes remote control. Or steps in personally. Simple.”
“It sounds… far-fetched.”
He smirked. “Oh, I get it. But the tech’s already there. We adapted it from the robotic systems used in surgical tools. Specifically… urological ones.” He made a small pinching gesture. “The same robots that maneuver through a prostate via the urethra? That level of precision. Just repurposed.”
“For what, handing out drinks?”
“Exactly. Prostate to peanuts. Same delicate movements, just with a more charming voice.”
Fly! Airlines would be the first to launch them, he explained. Huge cost savings—no salaries, no pensions, no unions. Just sexy, hyper-efficient Roombas in the sky.
“Passengers won’t find that unsettling?” I asked.
“They’ll get used to it. The bots are programmed to smile, tilt their heads, maintain eye contact for exactly 1.7 seconds. Plus, we’ll offer premium service packages. Need help with your carry-on? Tap your card. Want a custom greeting? Tap again. In an emergency, you can even pay for priority evacuation.”
I stared at him. “So survival becomes… a premium feature?”
He shrugged. “Efficiency. Profitability. Patriotism. America needs its airlines.”
He leaned back. “We’ve already run trial flights.”
That caught me off guard. “Wait—you’ve had passengers?”
“Not public ones. Just investors, execs, tech partners. A flight last month from Teterboro to Denver. Everything worked flawlessly.” He hesitated, then smirked. “Well… almost.”
“What happened?”
“Turbulence over Kansas. Rough air. We dropped maybe five hundred feet. Passengers gasped, grabbed their vomit bags. But one woman across the aisle lost it completely. Hyperventilating, crying, saying she needed to get off the plane.” He paused. “We were at 35,000 feet.”
“How did the robots handle it?”
“Perfectly. One glided over, voice warm and soothing:
‘Big feelings are okay! Let’s breathe in through our nose and out through our mouth!’”
I blinked. “Mid-panic?”
“Mid-panic. Then it said, ‘Tap your card now for a personalized calming experience. Or say “yes” to confirm a $29.99 charge.’”
I stared at him. “She was sobbing… and trying to get her credit card out?”
“Dropped it twice.” He chuckled. “The bot just kept repeating, ‘Breathing helps! Breathing helps! Let’s breathe together!’ Like a preschool teacher consoling a toddler who lost a balloon. Except this was a grown woman convinced she was about to die.”
He shook his head. “The lavender mist dispenser even kicked in. ‘Soothing Lavender Calm Mist™—just $19.99!’”
“And the other passengers?”
“Filming it, mostly.” He shrugged. “The turbulence passed, she calmed down. But the airline got fantastic data.”
I jotted something in my notebook: Fear is a revenue stream.
He saw it and grinned. “Exactly. Why let a perfectly good panic go to waste?”
Then he stood to leave, but stopped. “Oh, one more thing.”
“What?”
“One of the robots helped a passenger stow a heavy carry-on. Lifted it like a pro. But the joints weren’t lubricated correctly.” He snorted. “Hydraulic fluid everywhere. From the groin down. Looked like a toddler in a rainstorm.”
I winced. “That bad?”
“Worse.” He shook his head, laughing. “It left a slick trail down the aisle, handing out pretzels and pitching beverage upgrades while it leaked. And the voice just kept chirping,
‘Uh-oh! Bumpy air! Bumpy air! Let’s sit down and buckle up!’”
Later, after he left, I sat quietly for a long time.
I pictured that woman, tapping her card with trembling hands while the bot cooed in its preschool-teacher voice. And that robot, streaks of hydraulic fluid trailing from its legs, cheerfully peddling $12 vodka sodas.
And I realized: someday soon, the same machines navigating prostates will be serving us pretzels at 35,000 feet.
I pulled out my phone.
Not to call my broker.
I said aloud: “Hey Siri, how much for a Premium Therapist Experience?”
