This is a story about a fellow who makes new friends, only to learn that ... .

Well, let's start at the beginning.

A few weeks ago I was looking on the internet for a lamp table to match one we purchased three years ago. At some point, a box popped up on my computer screen. It asked if I would like to text chat with a customer-service representative.

What did I have to lose? So I clicked on the text-chat box. Almost immediately came this: "Hello. My name is Robert. I will be assisting you today. What are you looking for?"

I texted Robert back about the mission-style lamp table and said we had purchased one three years ago. Back came Robert's response: "I have checked with the manufacturer. That lamp table has been discontinued and is no longer available. Would you like for me to try to find something similar?"

Yes, I said. "Give me a few moments," Robert texted.

Sure enough, Robert found some lamp tables that coordinated very nicely with the one we already had. Robert asked, "Would you like me to place an order for you?" I said yes, and texted that I needed two of the lamp tables.

After asking for my name, address and payment information, Robert informed me my tables had been ordered and would be delivered in four or five days. They were.

I filled out an online survey form about my experience in dealing with Robert. I praised his efficiency and his ability to find what I was looking for. In my book, Robert was a 10. I hoped Robert's bosses would see my generous ratings and comments and maybe give Robert a raise, or a bonus, so he could pay off college loans and buy an engagement ring for the sweet girl he's been dating for the past three years and maybe make a down payment on cute little house in a good school district where they could start a family.

Robert didn't tell me any of that. But you get the drift. I wanted my positive comments about Robert to make a difference.

A couple of weekends ago I was back on the internet. This time I was looking for replacement parts for the grill I had purchased at the local Sears Grand store a few years ago.

I'm not fussy about grill maintenance, but I am fussy about what kind of grill I have. Sears Grand had exactly what I was looking for, and the store included assembly in the purchase price -- plus, the grill was on sale. What a deal.

Once I started using the grill, I let the metal grids and burner deflectors and grease pan pretty much take care of themselves. I happen to believe a certain amount of crud on the grill adds to the flavor of whatever is being cooked. Besides, I cook nearly everything at 600 degrees, and if there's anything life-threatening in the crud it would be neutralized by the extreme heat. Right?

OK. If I die tomorrow you can go around whispering, "He died from a dirty grill, you know."

Although I don't give the grill a good cleaning every time I use it, I do a fairly thorough cleanup about twice a year. That's when the grease pan starts to overflow with charred drippings.

So, as I said, a couple of weekends ago I was giving the grill its semi-annual tune-up. When I put the grease pan back in the grill, it literally crumbled in my hands. Not good if you want to keep using your grill.

That's why I was on the internet looking for replacement grill parts, including new flame deflectors. In just a few minutes, while scrolling through a website for Sears Parts Direct, up popped a text chat box offering help. I remembered my good experience with Robert, so I clicked on the text chat. Soon, Amy and I were making considerable headway in narrowing down exactly which parts I needed, based on the grill model number I had provided. Amy emailed a schematic of my grill to me and said she thought I needed parts number so-and-so, but would I take a look to confirm?

I looked at the schematic and saw the parts I needed. They were not the numbers Amy had suggested. OK, I thought, the schematic is a bit confusing. After I informed Amy which parts I wanted, she texted: "It's a good thing you double-checked."

Soon the parts were ordered and delivery was promised in three or four days. That's exactly what happened, and the parts were exactly the ones I needed. I couldn't have been happier.

Yes, I gave Amy the highest marks possible on the customer-satisfaction survey. I was sure my raving review would mean Amy would be promoted to supervisor and finally be able to afford braces for her son's crooked smile with a little left over for a second honeymoon with her husband since they had both wanted to see several Broadway productions in New York but had never been able to afford such a trip.

Amy didn't tell me any of that. But you get my drift.

OK. We're near the end of the story now. On Father's Day I was tickled to get phone calls from both sons. Older son brought us up to date on a project he was doing for his aunt in central Missouri. It is a huge help, and we were so pleased with the progress so far.

Younger son listened to my tale about Robert and Amy. I told him my dealings with Robert and Amy were among my most positive experiences yet with the internet.

I heard a chuckle on the other end of the line. "You weren't talking to Robert or Amy," he said. "You were talking to an artificial intelligence computer."

I was crushed. Oh, sure, I was impressed that AI programs have advanced so far, but I was so disappointed that Robert and Amy weren't going to get squat for helping me so efficiently and effectively.

"Did any of the texts from Robert or Amy have any spelling, punctuation or grammar errors?" younger son asked. As a matter of fact, the texts were flawless, I said.

"Artificial intelligence," younger son announced. "Humans always make mistakes. AI doesn't."

So, Robert and Amy, it was good to know you for a while. I enjoyed our chats. I hope we meet again somewhere on the internet.

By the way, if you pinch my arm, it hurts. Just so you know.

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.