Intuitivity

Intuitivity

When I received the notice, I set it on the desk with all the others. Applying for jobs has gotten to be an exercise in futility, but one I can’t afford to abandon. Not a joke, not a last-ditch effort to procrastinate my way to a better world. I needed to find work. Not just for the money, which I needed desperately, but I was turning into a bowl of Jell-O fruit salad. I was that grape suspended in the green shimmering coagulated mess of what Auntie had insisted I take home with me after our, “old fashioned,” holiday dinner. She said, “You look thin.” Only one way to respond to that. I took the Jell-O, thanked her, kissed her goodbye, and left before she decided I needed more substantial.

Being bored is not difficult when your life seems to belong to someone else. I began to debate the possibility of finding that umbrella that would allow me to feel, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” if even for just a day.

It was during this internal struggle between deciding whether chocolate would be better given my present state, or perhaps Tootie-Fruitie given the chance I would be abducted by any foreign entity that would have me, and for no other reason than, they could.

 So, as I have learned to do when experiencing stress, and no immediate remedies are in sight, I go to sleep. Not going to bed, not that kind of sleep. More like hibernation, where you are awake, but it is as if you are watching yourself dream. The most imaginative way of escaping, while remaining, as it is at the moment, the only thing I can afford.

The notice I received, although it looked like just another nebulous attempt at redefining my employment status, changed my perception of what could be mind-altering, if I remained in my self-induced limbo.

# 

“Go down the hall. On the left, the last door, go in, fill out the application form. An electronic screen will appear, once you have scanned the completed form, it will advise you how to continue. Please proceed as instructed.”

The voice, much like the automated voice of any call center reassured me by its non-committal tone, that I was safe, we were safe. Nothing out of the ordinary would or could occur within the confines of this concrete building. Its interior complicit with its structural systems, floors, walls, ceilings, all a glazed white. 

Walking towards the last door required concentration, as I began to become disoriented. The lights on the ceiling appeared to be on the floor and the wall on the left, mirrored the walls on the right, making my entombment more satisfying than I expected it would be, but then I knew, they knew that.

The last door was not really a door, more a suggestion of what a door could be. I passed through to find a monitor situated on a concrete pedestal. Next to it was a folder which I didn’t see at first, because it blended so efficiently into its surroundings. The form was three-dimensional print on a single dimension paper. It took a few minutes to relate to its purpose.

The questions were precise; there were only two. The first question confusingly simple: Do you believe? The second question appropriately following the first and related to its need, asked: If so, why? and If not, why not?

My natural tendency when asked a definitive question, is to give a non-definitive answer, which I knew they were expecting, and therefore considered giving the answer I believed they were looking for, but didn’t expect. Upon further deliberation, I realized they weren’t as devious as I had presupposed, and answered as I would under normal conditions; I left the question blank.

The why question was a bit more difficult because, it supposed I had answered the preceding question, which I had not. The conundrum I faced was not unusual, given the circumstances. Deviance I had been trained to both respect and expect. It was the way civility was ordained and order maintained. One for all, and all for one, that sort of thing. But then one never could be sure because there were no rules. Rules would have been against the rules, as Intuitivity was the only subject, or I should say, the only subject, subject to intuitive scrutiny, should one not adhere to intuitive principles.

As I pondered my responses before submitting them to the scanning apparatus, a red light appeared, like that on an English Bobbies vehicle, began to spin, and the piercing sound of a siren ricocheted off the walls making concentration extremely difficult. I could only assume my reaction was being captured and recorded, for examination at a later time. It was fortunate I had been trained to expect the unexpected.

As suddenly as it had begun, the lights and noise subsided into the nothingness that surrounded me. The monitor blinked to life. A black screen with iridescent green letters, floating in a random sequence appeared. I realized, that what I was intended to do, or what they would assume I would do, was find direction by combining the letters, to provide the answer I knew I was destined to find, and then relay that answer to the machine for confirmation.

 It was all so predictable, I knew there had to be a hidden agenda buried somewhere in the façade of the disorganized colliding letters that complained loudly as they bumped into one another. Our accepted civil responses, “sorry and excuse me,” were being abdicated for more perverse and derogatory examples of the language, “Watch it buddy,” and, “try that again and I’ll,” and on and on. I had never experience such uncivility in my entire existence, which is what I realized I was expected to feel, so I pretended to be titillated by the unique situation, and the jargon that accompanied it.

One thing I have learned and retained over the terms of my existence, is to always do the opposite of what Intuitivity expects of you. It is not only required, but in some corners of our universe, is the only way to get and keep a means of employment, that is commensurate with the limitations of your programmed existence. 

My predictable behavior, no matter its unpredictability, was apparently not what was predictably required. The room turned from its majestic, glazed white, to the used tire blackness and bleakness of a Monday here on Creptillian. My future had been shortened proportionately by my irreconcilable responses to our yearly assimilation test, which determines whether you are considered compromiseable because of opinions developed on your own, and with no consideration to the unpredictability of un-intuitiveness, or whether you had been paying attention at all.

I was found to be in the top 1% of all those that failed the likelihood of becoming compatible, when it came to believing that hope was possible, after being confirmed by the best intuitive minds in the galaxy that it may be irreconcilable with Intuitivity.

 And all because I didn’t believe in the old adage, “You can’t teach an old dog, new tricks.”