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The Forgotten Man He had always been a responsible person. He had learned very early
in life to clean after himself and to tidy his bed. He had handed in
assignments on time, gotten along with others, been the steady, unsung
teammate. He was dedicated, temperate, and well-mannered. So it was
odd that it should happen to someone who was, in so many ways,
respectable. It began for Robert Barker several months prior to his recognition
of the phenomenon. As he was prone to do, he had written his congressman;
again, Barker received no reply; and, again, his congressman had voted
the other way. When Barker phoned to complain, his rather pronounced
and uncharacteristic emotional outburst was dismissed by a polite female
voice, which explained that while Mr. Barker had exercised his free
speech privilege, so had many other constituents. Clearly, the overwhelming
voice of the district favored the bill for which his representative
had voted. As for a response, it would be impractical to respond to
everyone who phoned or wrote, and fiscally irresponsible, as well. She
asked, "You do believe in fiscal responsibility, don't you?"
Barker, of course, had to agree. Upon deeper reflection, Barker realized that the people for whom he
voted were seldom elected. And he noticed that his political perspective
was rarely represented on television shows, where pundits argued furiously
and emotionally in a verbal dance around, but never touching upon, the
substance of issues. He became perplexed, and began to notice how far
separated he felt from the culture flashed on television shows and joked
about on radio; he became disassociated from the mainstream, alienated
from the rest of the world by a thin invisible veil whose presence he
felt but could not remove. What mattered to others, what engulfed their
interests and stirred their passions — celebrity infidelity for
example — seemed terribly inconsequential to him. There was little
for him to read in the papers; still less to enjoy through other media.
Fortunately for his sanity, he still had a select collection of books
that he could delve into, and this brought him peace. His peace, however,
could not change the course of his disassociation, which slowly invaded
his professional and personal life. The first time he noticed something strange at work was when he spoke
up at a meeting and everyone kept talking. He tried again, but no one
seemed to hear him. He cleared his throat a third time and began again.
Only Olsen, the sales manager from the South end, turned to listen.
Olsen asked, "Did you say something, Barker?" "Yes," said Robert, "I was just saying that —"
but the din of conversations continuing around the table drowned him
out. A few weeks after that he noticed that when he passed by cubicles people
wouldn't look up. When he bumped into the assistant in the hall, a young
woman named Jessica, with whom he felt he had always had a cordial relationship,
she failed to acknowledge his presence, darting past him without turning
her head, his, "Good morning, Jessica," floating somewhere
in her wake, spinning in the vacuum of her passing like a leaf in a
breeze, and tumbling into the void. Although she meant nothing to him
emotionally, he could not help but be disturbed by the event. Two days later he went into his boss' office for a meeting. The office
was plushly carpeted and the walls were lined with genuine wood bookshelves
and perhaps fabricated diplomas. Robert sat in the high leather chair
opposite his boss, and waited silently for his boss to speak. But his
boss kept writing on a notepad, until, finally, looking at his watch
and pressing the intercom. "Denise, will you page Barker? He was supposed to be here for
a meeting about five minutes ago." "Yes. Right away," said Denise. But Robert had walked directly past her! Robert cleared his throat
and began to speak, but his boss kept scribbling on a notepad. The phone
buzzed. "Yes?" "He's not at his desk, sir," came Denise's voice. "Not at his desk? Where is he then?" "We're trying to find out. I'll let you know as soon as I know." "If you can't find him by ten-thirty, then forget about him, and
just let me know." "Yes sir." Robert's boss resumed scribbling on his notepad, and Robert stood up
and stomped his foot. "I'm ready for the meeting!" he declared. His boss stopped writing, looked up, blinked twice, and then said,
"You're late." Robert accepted this without objection, then sat through a conversation
dominated by his boss. Afterwards, on his way out to lunch, Robert was
nearly struck by an automobile in spite of the fact that the traffic
light was red and he was in a pedestrian walkway.
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