"And we're just going to change that green to a red, there we go, and just press the right-hand trigger if you feel that it grabs your attention a little bit better. Good." The voice coming through the headphones is almost sickly-sweet, dribbling into Sheryl's ears like warm strawberry syrup, and she promises herself that she can use a little bit of the fifty dollar debit card she's earning right now to get some pancakes when all this is over. She's probably going to need a little food by the time they finish--this audience feedback session has been going on for well over an hour, and they still haven't gotten past the credits of the 'exciting new screening' they were promised.
The young man next to her raises his hand, boredom and frustration dripping from every word as he speaks without waiting to be acknowledged. "You've shown us these credits, like, twenty times," he whines, squirming in his chair in a vain attempt to get comfortable. Sheryl doesn't even notice the hard plastic beneath her anymore. Perhaps her butt's just gone numb or something. "Can't we get to the movie? Or the show, or whatever? I've got places to be, okay?"
The man in the booth responds with a smooth, condescending calm. "An eye-catching title sequence is essential for capturing our target audience," he says in an unctuous tone. "We want every last detail to be perfect, so if you could just quiet down and let folks pay attention to their screens? Remember, press the trigger on the right if you feel like you're affected, emotionally that is, by what you see. Press the trigger on the left if it's not doing anything for you."
Sheryl glances back over at the small monitor in front of her, noticing that the tiny tracery of green that weaves through the spinning yellow circles is now red. She tries to concentrate on the difference, to study the patterns that twist and writhe on the screen to the pounding techno beat that comes through the headphones and decide if she feels 'emotionally affected' by the difference. It does seem to contrast better, and it makes it easier for Sheryl to follow the lines with her eyes... she decides to squeeze the right-hand grip. Hopefully they'll find that useful.
She really doesn't know. Even after all these repetitions... Sheryl has lost count of the number of times she's watched this sequence, there's no clear beginning and no clear end to the swirling patterns or the thumping base... she has no idea what they're responding to. There are easily thirty people in the room, a mix of men and women all near her own age, and any one of them could be giving the decisive feedback that makes the man in the booth change the background or raise the contrast or brighten a particular shade of red. Or maybe none of them. Maybe they've planned all their alternatives in advance and Sheryl is just going through the catalog of choices.
The voice comes in again, mingling with the music like it's providing lyrics to the techno beat. "Okay, we're slowing it down just five percent, here, just enough to give your eyes time to linger over the patterns. Squeeze right if you like it, people!" Sheryl's not sure whether the credit sequence is looping back to the beginning now, or whether the patterns simply slow down midway through. There aren't any names on the screen, just some placeholder text that flashes past too quickly for her to read. But she does notice that slight, languid hesitation to the curling, twisting lines of color. It's nice. She's happy to squeeze on the right-hand trigger this time.
The young man next to her doesn't seem so thrilled. He raises his head to the heavens, rolls his eyes with such theatrical intensity that Sheryl's worried he might sprain something. She tries to tune him out and focus on the screen--the only thing worse at this point than staring vacantly at the same two minutes of footage for hours would be staring at the same two minutes of footage until they kick her out for not taking this seriously. She wants to at least give them value for their money. It seems like the only responsible thing to do.
"Okay, yes, it looks even fucking slower!" he snaps, but Sheryl's trying hard not to listen. She doesn't want to be disruptive and rude, not when so many people have clearly worked so hard on making this credits sequence the best they can. She wants to keep watching, to focus her attention as closely as possible and follow the instructions of the man in the booth. It's the same kind of conscientiousness that makes her such a good student, such a good... a good girl.
The voice from the booth breaks in again. "Please try to deliver all your feedback through the trigger buttons provided," the man says, studiously neutral disapproval in his voice. "Verbal discussion can be saved for our question-and-answer period afterwards, where it won't disrupt the other subjects." Sheryl can't imagine maintaining a pose of defiance in the face of those calm, disappointed tones, but obviously the young man next to her doesn't seem bothered by it. He's clearly not appreciating the music and the slow, seamless crawl of the interweaving lines on the screen the way Sheryl is. He's not even trying. Sheryl doesn't understand why he's so pointlessly contrarian about something so beautiful.
The young man holds up his left hand, three fingers tightly squeezing the grip and the middle finger outstretched at the booth behind him. "This good?" he shouts, but Sheryl's already stopped paying attention to him. He's just another spoiled, immature brat who's not used to working for his money. The fifty dollars probably doesn't even matter to him; he just came here looking for a free movie, and he's mad now that his wants and his needs aren't being catered to. Sheryl isn't that kind of person. She understands that sometimes you just have to be patient and serve others to get what you want. That's what a g-good... a good girl does.
A frown of consternation furrows Sheryl's pale pink forehead, quirking her lips down and causing her to momentarily register her discontent with a release of the right-hand trigger button. That's twice now she's thought those two words. 'Good girl'. That's twice she's caught herself squeezing extra hard on her grip when they crossed her mind, as though the intensity of her approval could communicate itself to the booth through pressure alone. She--she normally doesn't use that term for herself, does she? It's not something she usually describes herself as. Conscientious, yes. Responsible, yes. But 'good'? A 'good girl'? It seems odd. It seems--
