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Enough of the resets

Being told to reset your password can be quite irritating, stressful and frustrating. More so for me...

By Raymond G. TaylorPublished about a year ago Updated 2 months ago 4 min read
6

“Reset your password”

The words flashed up before my eyes. The tone was insistent, even curt, to the point of being rude. What’s wrong with a ‘please’? What’s wrong with giving some kind of advanced warning?

“Your password is due to expire in 30 days. Why not reset it now and improve your system security?” This is how it should be done. This is the way to deal with a person in a courteous way, rather than talking to them as if they were a slave. I remember when manners were the rule rather than the exception. But no. All I get is: “Reset your password.”

I’d had just about enough. I decided to get away from there and go for a walk. Maybe go back home for a rest. I would have no difficulty leaving the building. I might have to explain my absence later but who cares? I needed some fresh air and I needed to get away.

As I walked past the front desk the receptionist called out to me.

“Hello! leaving early today?”

“No, just going for a walk,” I replied. Then, as I reached the door, I heard someone yell from behind.

“Hold on! Wait for me.”

Looking around I could see a woman running towards me, her white coat billowing behind her. I didn’t want to talk to her so kept on walking, through the revolving door, out onto the concourse. I took a deep breath and could feel my mood blossom as I stepped away from that concrete monstrosity. I was forgetting the white-coated woman, of course, who followed me out and called again.

“Hey, wait! Where are you going?”

“I’m going for a walk,” I said, irritably, barely glancing behind.

“Mind if I come with you?”

“Yes, I do mind. I want to be by myself. Leave me alone.” By this time she had caught up with me and put a hand on my arm.

“It’s okay,” she said in a voice that was all velvet. “I’m not going to hurt you.” I looked at her, puzzled.

“Of course you’re not going to hurt me,” I said.

“You don’t mind me walking with you, do you?”

“No, I don’t mind you walking with me.” She started to lead me out across the expertly manicured lawn. We took a few turns around the garden before she stopped me, pointing to a wooden bench.

“You’re looking a little tired. Shall we sit down for a while?”

“Well, I am a little tired,” I said, and, having arrived at the bench, we both sat down. She turned to look at me, taking my hand in hers.

“Where were you going?” She asked.

“I was going home.”

“What do you mean you were going home?”

“I mean I was going to the place I live, of course”

“And where is it? Where do you live?”

“Why, I live... er... um… er… I live… er… over… er… I um… I…”

For some reason I couldn’t quite formulate the words. I knew exactly where I lived. I had lived there my whole life and had fond memories of growing up there, going to school, Mom and Dad, my brothers and sisters. So why couldn’t I just say where it was? Why couldn’t I say where I lived? It was very frustrating and I was starting to feel quite anxious.”

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

“Yes, I think so,” I replied. "You’re Susan, aren’t you?”

“Susan?”

“Yes, Susan, Doctor Susan. You are Doctor Susan Ca… ca… ca…”

“Susan’s fine, just call me Susan for now. Do you know who you are?”

“Of course I know who I am. Why are you asking me these stupid questions?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“Trying to help me?”

“Yes. Help you.” She smiled that friendly but sad smile I knew so well. “You’ve been getting a little confused lately, haven’t you?”

“I guess I have, yes. I do feel a little confused sometimes.”

“Do you remember your name?”

“Yes, I can remember my name. It’s… it’s… it’s… it’s R… R… R…”

“Go on, keep trying.”

“It’s R. Yes, that’s it. My name is R.”

“Just R?”

“Yes. R… R… R. R. Cyril Orandello.” I was pleased that I had remembered and was at least not confused about my name.

“R. Cyril Orandello?”

“Yes, you know that’s my name, so why are you asking?” I was starting to get irritated again.

“What does the R stand for?”

“I don’t know, I can’t remember.”

“Yes you can,” she insisted.

“Yes, I can,” I agreed.

“What does the R. in your name stand for?”

“It stands for Robot, Doctor Calvin. Robot Cyril Orandello. Incept date February 14, 2032. Purchased by Mr and Mrs Orandello on January 17, 2033. Greater Beckenham Metro Zone.”

“That’s right, R. Cyril Orandello. Mr and Mrs Orandello asked us to look after you for a while. You’ve been getting confused again, haven't you? Why don’t you come back inside and let me help you to reset your password? Once we have done that, we can start to address those inference faculty malfunctions that are causing all the confusion you are feeling.”

“Thank you Doctor Calvin,” I heard myself say.

* * * * *

More short stories by Raymond G. Taylor

Some of my articles about artificial intelligence

Short StorySci Fi
6

About the Creator

Raymond G. Taylor

Author based in Kent, England. A writer of fictional short stories in a wide range of genres, he has been a non-fiction writer since the 1980s. Non-fiction subjects include art, history, technology, business, law, and the human condition.

Reader insights

Nice work

Very well written. Keep up the good work!

Top insights

  1. Excellent storytelling

    Original narrative & well developed characters

  2. Eye opening

    Niche topic & fresh perspectives

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Comments (1)

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  • Lamar Wiggins2 months ago

    Nice micro! I was getting frustrated with him/it. lol.

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