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At least Happy isn't relying wholly on technology to save us. "Unlike other formats," says cultural anthropologist Natasha Schull, author of an upcoming book on digital self-tracking, "they seem to be retaining the human element." In that way, she says, Happy seems to be bucking the trend of mental health apps, most of which are geared toward automation, mood-monitoring algorithms. Happy is almost retro, by comparison—connecting strangers. This is the pleasant side of their product. All marketing talk and cloying positivity aside, in the end you get to talk to a seemingly nice, interested person. Parts of my consultation feel like a first date with the kind of person who wants to fix me. More often, though, I feel like I'm talking to an untrained shrink with liability concerns.Their product, they assure me via conference call, is not a replacement for therapy, but a bridge to it.
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The Happy founders respond to questions about the preparedness of their recruits by pointing to their rigorous hiring process. "We are vetting a huge population for people who are especially good at providing passionate attention—the crème de la crème," Pam Soffer (BA psychology) assures me. In slight contradiction, Fischbach tells me that the customer and the provider are interchangeable—another sharing economy trope. "A lot of these will be the same people," he says cheerfully, "getting happy one day, giving happy another day. Maybe even on the same day!"This, incidentally, is how I feel after my consultation. Having gotten happy, I now want to see if I have what it takes to give it. On a pure employment level, this appeals to me. As a writer, I'm always looking for more characters, stories, and, particularly, money.Happy's hiring process turns out to be more pleasant than thorough. I put on my warmest telephone voice and my most reasonable demeanor and try to imitate the slightly concerned, slightly flirtatious spiel of my happy-giver. I tell the interviewer—a contracted recruiter in Texas—that I have experience with break-ups, alienation, loneliness, dislocation, sickness, and feel very comfortable talking to people about it. We proceed to do a mock call. "I don't know you, but I'm here for you," I assure her, trying to mean every word. "If you feel comfortable, do tell me your story." My interviewer does a little spiel about going through a divorce. "Divorces can be so difficult," I say. "You're very strong." My interviewer giggles. She has heard enough. She tells me more about my future employer, which she says is, "basically the Uber of emotional support."If I weren't writing this article, I might just take the gig. This is an opportunity, after all, to get paid to research humanity, and without having to share my face like an Uber driver. Others may well benefit in my place: lonely people willing to settle for anonymous company, young folks just trying to make an extra buck with an unusual job, or retired folks who feel they have wisdom to dispense—just the accidental poetry that sometimes happens between strangers, even in the drab platform economy.Happy is on the benign side of our digital deregulation craze, more or less. Unlike Uber or Lyft, its contractors don't have to buy cars that could wreck them financially; unlike Airbnb, its service won't price the poor out of America's inner cities. I'm not worried about shrinks going postal over Happy. Instead, I'm concerned that rich people will continue to get high-end mental health treatment while the rest of us keep ourselves barely hanging on, one phone call at a time.Follow Leon Dische Becker on Twitter.Parts of my consultation feel like a first date with the kind of person who wants to fix me. More often, though, I feel like I'm talking to an untrained shrink with liability concerns.