The Ignored Read Free Page A

me, then caught the eye of one of the elderly women behind the counter
and pointed down the hall. The other woman nodded back.
    She led me down the same hallway in which I’d sat while waiting for my
interview, and I glanced at the closed door to the interview room as we passed
by. I still did not understand why I’d been hired. From the questions I’d been
asked, I’d gathered that they were looking for someone knowledgeable about, or
at least somewhat familiar with, computers. But I had no computer experience at
all. Not only did I not know anything about them, I had no interest in knowing
anything about them.
    Was this all a huge mistake?
    We continued down the hall and stopped in front of a closed door. Lisa
pushed open the door, and we walked inside. “Have a seat,” she said.
    The room was empty save for a long conference table, its attendant
chairs and a combination television/VCR on a moveable metal stand near the
table’s head. I pulled out a chair and sat down while Lisa turned on the TV and
VCR. She made a show of it, exaggeratedly bending over, obviously aware of the
way she filled out her stretch pants, and I could see the outline of her
underwear against the material. “Okay,” she said. “Take your pen and survey form
out of the packet. You’re going to need them at the end of the video.” She
straightened. “I’ll be back down the hall at the counter. Just come and get me
when you’re done, and I’ll help you fill out the necessary forms. You can leave
the videotape on, but turn off the TV when you leave the room. Do you know how
to turn it off?”
    “I’ll figure it out.”
    “It’s this button here.” She pressed a red square at the lower left
corner of the console. The television flicked off. She pressed the square again,
and the TV snapped back to life. “I’ll see you in about half an hour.” She
pressed a button on the VCR, then walked around the table. She touched my
shoulder as she passed by, patted it, and then she was out the door, closing it
behind her.
    I leaned back in my chair to watch the show, but I could tell after the
first few minutes that I was not going to like it. The video was
state-of-the-art industrial PR, but though it had the clean look and
sophisticated techniques of a modern production, the narration and determinedly
cheerful background music reminded me of those leftover educational films from
the early 1960s that they’d shown at my grammar school. That depressed me.
Nostalgia always depressed me, and I suppose that was why I never liked to think
about the past. It wasn’t because it reminded me of what once was, but because
it reminded me of what could have been. My past had not been that great, but my
future was supposed to have been so.
    My future was not supposed to be spent watching PR videos at Automated
Interface, Inc.
    I didn’t want to think about it. I refused to let myself think about it.
I tried to tune out the sound track and concentrate on the images, but that
didn’t work, and I found myself getting out of my chair, walking over to the
window, and staring down at the parking lot until the video was over. I returned
to the table as sound faded to silence and realized that I hadn’t paid attention
to the survey question instructions at the end of the video, but I looked down
at the form and it was pretty self-explanatory. I answered the questions on my
own before turning off the TV and VCR, grabbing my packet, and walking back down
the hall.
    It took another twenty minutes to fill out the additional forms and
answer the questions put to me by Lisa. Although I was required to fill out two
pages of personal information for my health insurance, she told me that I had my
choice of three plans and that the information would be forwarded to the
insurance company of my choosing.
    “If you have any other problems or questions, over anything at all, you
can come to me.” She smiled, and there seemed to be more than