The Study

I’m an inveterate people watcher. Everyone has a story. Some tragic, some heroic—most just mind-numbingly mundane.

The woman in the cubicle to my left shuffles papers at a blue-collar business—an auto parts company. Thin and mousy, she wears tight jeans and an oversized pink sweatshirt—twenty years out of style. She graduated from a rural high school that offered no AP classes. She’s the single mother of two boys—ages eight and ten. Both are brats. When they go to sleep, she watches slasher films—she’s seen Texas Chainsaw Massacre a hundred times. She smiles nervously when I glance her way, as though apologizing for her presence.

The man to my right, on the other hand, makes no apologies. He’s eloquently obnoxious, born to be a telemarketer. He’s tall and big, commandeering broad swaths of space without ever considering whether he’s entitled to them. You’ll see him at Costco with a cart the size of a Volkswagen, the 128-pack of Slim Jims next to the 88-pack of Vitamin Water. 

Its colder than Greenland outside yet he only wears a thin nylon windbreaker. He doesn’t take it off, which irritates me more than it should but it is ninety degrees in here. He lives alone in an upstairs apartment, spending his evenings cruising the internet and engaging in tedious on-line debates. He’s just smart enough to know his life hasn’t amounted to anything. If it had, he wouldn’t be here. No way I’ll be doing this in twenty years.

We walked in together and his gaze lingered as I took off my coat and draped it on the back of my chair. In my baggy sweats there wasn’t much to look at but he still treated himself to an eyeful. 

“Been here before?” he asked, much too loudly.

“Nope. First time,” I said, avoiding his creepy scare. He didn’t say anything else, was waiting for me to ask him if this was his first time too. I knew it wasn’t, knew he was a regular customer, knew this was the most exciting part of his week. If I said nothing, maybe he’d stop talking. 

But I’d been raised to have manners. My mouth, quite independently of my brain, formed the words, “How about you?” I busied myself with straightening my coat as I took my seat. 

“Oh, no,” he said in that same loud voice. “Been coming here for six years.” He laughed.

I said nothing more. I’d done my duty. 

I’m in a fool mood, I know. Must be the weather—if it gets to be bitter and grey, then so do I. 

The clock on the wall reads 9:59. One minute to go time. 

Thirty dollars in thirty minutes, the little slip of paper announced, the one I tore from the bottom of a sheet of paper tacked to a telephone pole on campus. Most of the time I walk by these things—it’s usually someone offering guitar lessons or math tutoring. Still, whoever invented this method of advertising was a genius. I’d look up its origin, who first came up with such a wonderfully utilitarian thing, but have no idea what these fringed fliers are called. Evidently I was the only one who nibbled—nobody here vaguely resembles a college student.

We’re in a small room. I can smell the mousy woman’s perfume and hear every labored breath of the telemarketer. He makes a lot of mouth sounds. The ceiling is far too low for a commercial space—I feel like I’m in the finished basement of my parent’s house. There are no windows. I close my eyes and will the claustrophobia to pass. 

There’s an aisle down the center and four rows of three cubicles each per side, twenty-four total. Every seat is filled. 

Everything is white: white clock, white floor tiles, white ceiling. A white video camera peeks out from a white wall. White clipboards are filled with white papers. White pens. 

A white cup of water, a white plastic container containing two saltine crackers, and two white miniature napkins stacked atop one another complete the ensemble, all neatly aligned on the left side of the white cubicle. The place looks sterile: You could perform surgery in here. 

A laminated piece of paper, slightly askew, is tacked to the panel in front of me. The rules are listed, all in caps in a blocky-looking font that seems too tall and vaguely squished. Each rule is bullet pointed:

·      NO TALKING.

·      NO GUM-CHEWING.

·      NO PHONES.

·      DO NOTHING UNTIL DIRECTED.

·      DO NOT LEAVE UNTIL DISMISSED.

An old lady materializes in the front of the room. Her face is lined with wrinkles, too many to count. Her hair is snow white; she’s dressed in white. She blends nicely into her surroundings, like a chameleon on a tree trunk.

She’s too old to still be working. She and her husband founded the company sixty years ago. He died and she still runs it. She’s distrustful of others so does everything herself, working long hours and weekends. She’s wealthy, doesn’t need the money, yet has nothing else to do. They never had kids. She’ll keel over dead someday, right in the very spot where she’s delivering instructions to two-dozen guinea pigs.

“Welcome to Nelson Research,” she begins, unsmiling. She might be ancient but her voice is steady. “Today you will be taste-testing three samples of fruit punch. We will pass them out one at a time. They will be labeled A, B, and C. Once you receive your sample, cleanse your palate by taking a bite of cracker and a sip of water. On page two of your packet, the questionnaire for sample A begins. Do not turn there until you have been instructed to do so. Read the instructions carefully. There will be twenty questions per sample. When you complete a page, place it face down to your right. Are there any questions?” 

There are no questions. It’s not rocket science. 

Another woman, short and squat, marches up the aisle, carrying a tray of little white cups. She dons a white lab coat and hair net and see-through plastic gloves. She starts at the front and begins doling out the cups. Like the owner, she’s too old to still be working.

An old maid, this one. Hates her life and the world—but she’s too dull to know why. Her life is almost over and this is what it’s been reduced to: passing out little cups for the Wicked Witch. A child could perform her job. 

When she sets Sample A in front of me, my heart beats faster. That’s dumb. Get a grip, Alexis. There’s nothing to be anxious about. 

The old lady in front speaks. “Turn to page two of your packet. Read the instructions and begin.” Her tone is impatient. You should know this—I’ve repeated these instructions a million times. What’s the matter with you all? 

I do have a question now: Haven’t you people ever heard of computers? I don’t ask it, of course. I don’t have a death wish.  

I press down the clip on the clipboard and remove the blank cover page. The next page is blank too. They must have accidentally put two cover sheets in my packet. But the next page is also blank. I thumb through the papers, about twenty of them. All blank. 

The mousy woman to my left is already sipping and writing. The telemarketer on my right is holding the cup to his nose and sloshing it around and sniffing, like he’s at a wine tasting. I crane my neck and look around. Everyone is busily engaged in the task at hand, as though it’s the most important thing they’ve ever done. 

The old lady is standing in the back with the hair-net lady. I raise my hand and turn in my seat and look at both of them. They either don’t see me or pretend not to. Whatever. I stand up and walk back. 

The old lady’s head quickly turns, fixing me with her gaze, like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. “Please remain seated until dismissed.” Her black eyes blaze. She is genuinely angry, the vertical frown lines between her eyebrows burrowing so deeply they’ve reached her brain.

“But I don’t—” 

“I said sit!” 

I freeze, halfway down the aisle. What on earth? My heart thumps wildly, my ears ring. Time has stopped. Every eye in the room swivels toward me. She juts out her jaw—what was left of it anyway behind the folds of elderly, saggy skin—daring me to take another step. 

I take a deep breath. Swallow. “All I’m trying to say is—”

“Didn’t you hear me?” She rushes toward me. I scurry back to my seat. Is this really happening? She’s right on my heels. I feel like I’m playing a game of tag and my chair is homebase and I need to reach it before I’m tagged out. I just make it, plopping down before the old hag’s talons sink into my flesh.

In my rush to sit, my arm hits the cup of fruit punch and overturns it. The red liquid fans out onto the white surface of the cubicle and drips onto the floor, pooling into a puddle. I back away to avoid getting splashed. I grab up the clipboard. I place the two napkins in the pool of liquid. They instantly become saturated. Tears threaten to burst forth but I hold them back.

I look up to see the old lady towering over me. Her black eyes are as big around as quarters. She wouldn’t have been this angry if I’d slapped her across the face. “You stupid, clumsy girl! Look what you’ve done!”

The tears come now. I quickly wipe my eyes and nose with my sleeve and try to regain control. The woman in the hair net elbows her way in, her body actually touching mine. She unravels a roll of paper towels and wipes up the spill. She gives me one last glare before huffing her way back down the aisle.

The big oaf next to me is holding his cup, staring at me with his mouth open, like I’m part of his own private freak show. I’ve never hated anyone so much. I hope they’ve put poison in his cup. 

The old lady hovers over me, hands on hips, like an ancient schoolmarm, disapproval oozing out of every pore of her translucent skin. “Now what is the problem, young lady?”

My brain screams to itself: Just get up and leave. Walk away. You’ll never see any of these people again. 

But a part of me needs to see this through, the part that says justice needs to be served and you need to be heard and you will be heard and how dare they treat you this way. 

“My clipboard,” I say, in a voice smaller than I’d intended. “It’s empty.” I realize this makes no sense—it’s not what I meant to say. “The pages are blank,” I manage.

“Impossible,” she says quickly. “I put the packets together myself.”

“Well, look at it then.” I hand it to her. 

“I will do no such thing.” She turns on her heels and walks away. 

The woman in the hair net returns with another cup of fruit punch, her scowl having gained intensity in the thirty seconds it took to retrieve another sample. 

“Don’t spill this one,” she says as she walks away. 

I look over at the mousy woman, who had been staring at me but quickly averts her eyes. I debate again about getting up and leaving but won’t give them the satisfaction. 

If they want me to fill out their survey, I’ll fill out their freaking survey. I put my head back and down the entire cup in one gulp. I grab the pen and write in capital letters on the top sheet of paper: A – THIS DRINK SUCKS!!!

I unclip the paper and remove it from the clipboard and place it face down on the right side of the cubicle. I know how to follow instructions. I unclip five more sheets of blank paper and place them on top. Survey for sample A completed.

The other two cups arrive without incident. I become more creative in my assessments. For sample B, I write: TASTES LIKE BUTT!!! And for C, my personal favorite, I write: DISTINCT NOTES OF WET DOG AND BODY ODOR!!! YUCK!!! 

The old lady returns to the front. “Please place your completed surveys in the clipboard. You will turn them in as you exit and receive payment at that time. Do not exit until your row is dismissed. Thank you for your participation.”

The hair-net woman collects the trash as she dismisses the rows, beginning in the front. I’m in the second row so can’t exit just yet. I feel like I’m having a panic attack. I can’t breathe, my heart races, my face feels flush. I’m so nauseous I might just puke. It’s almost over, I keep telling myself. 

When my row is called, I stand up quickly, holding my winter coat in one hand and the clipboard in the other. As I move down the aisle, I stand closely behind the telemarketer. He offers good cover. I don’t need people staring at me. I take deep breaths and stare at the floor. Almost to the exit. 

I inch closer to the back. Butterflies swarm in my stomach. My heart rate accelerates even more—you’d think I was walking to my execution. My breath catches when I see the old lady standing by the door. Each participant hands over their clipboard. She flips through the pages. Puts the clipboard in a bin. Dispenses payment—in cash. 

I hadn’t expected this. I assumed I’d be long gone by the time she read my comments. 

I would bolt for the exit but I’m sandwiched between the telemarketer and the mousy woman. The only way out is past the old lady. 

I need to think. I could remove the papers from the clipboard and stick them in my coat pocket. Yes! That would work. 

I lift the clip and remove the papers and fold them in half. Wait. She’ll ask for them. I should just take out the ones I wrote on. 

I sift through the papers to locate the first incriminating one, but my hands are shaking so badly I can barely function. Plus, I’m holding my bulky winter coat and its so freaking hot in here I can’t breathe. And why are you people behind me standing so close—have you no concept of personal space? 

I find my comments for sample A and place that page in my left hand as I frantically dig through the papers for the other two. 

The giant galoot in front of me has stopped. He hands over his clipboard. 

I can’t find the other pages. Where did they go? Finally, the comments for sample B! 

But it’s too late to find the last page. The telemarketer walks out the door and I’m standing face to face with the old lady. The clipboard is empty and I’m holding crumpled papers in each hand. 

I had been a mess waiting in line, but now that the old biddy is in front of me, I calm a bit. What can she really do? Physically attack me? She’s ninety years old—I’m pretty sure I could take her. She only has the authority I give her. So why give her any?

I place the papers back in the clipboard, not quite aligned but good enough. I leave the incriminating pages on top. I take a deep breath and crouch down a little as I hand over the clipboard, as if to avert a blow. I don’t say a word. I don’t care if she pays me or not. All I want is to walk out that door. 

She takes the clipboard. I study her face. I expect daggers but instead see the trace of a smile, or at least I think I do. “Thank you for participating in our study,” she says, as she hands me two paperclipped bills, a twenty on top. 

I take the bills wordlessly, relief washing over me. I slip on my coat as I walk out the door. Freedom. I take a deep breath of the cold, crisp air—it feels heavenly. I turn the little packet of money over, expecting to see a ten on the other side. But it’s not a ten—it’s a hundred!

It takes a moment before realization swoops in and smacks me on the forehead. I stop in my tracks. 

They weren’t testing fruit punch. They were testing me. 

I should have read more carefully the sheaf of papers I signed before beginning the study. I laugh out loud and shake my head. I wonder if I passed.

I see the telemarketer guy walking through the parking lot. What does he really do for a living? I run to catch up to him.