Mitt shuffled along the corridor; cold, scared, and alone. The sight of people wearing dirty clothes frightened Mitt; the smell of sweat offended his nostrils so much, he sought refuge by holding his tie to his nose; his face and body began to feel a little damp, and this worried Mitt. “Why is it so hot?” he wondered. “Why are my armpits wet?”
A younger man began approaching him. Mitt Romney liked this man immediately, for he wore a William Fioravanti suit. “Dad,” the man said. “Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you.” Mitt did not hear the man speak as he was lost in a flashback of earlier, when he wandered into the break-room and overheard employees talking. A woman had been telling a co-worker about her trip to Walmart over the weekend to buy house paint. “Ha! Ha! Buy your own paint?!” He had yelled at them.
The man led him to a big, noisy room. Mitt did not like this big, noisy room because it smelled like paint and humidity. “Where’s the AC in this place?” Mitt wondered. Two men approached Mitt. He did not like the two men, for they wore cheap, off-the-rack suits. ”Mitt, we need you to read this proposal to the board out there, okay? You just have to read these pages and look out into the crowd once in a while. The board thought it would be fun to dress up like factory workers, so don’t be scared of them. They aren’t real workers, Mitt. Just the board. Read these words to them and then we can leave,” one of the men told Mitt. “Why are my armpits wet?” Mitt asked the man.
They directed him to walk through the curtain that divided them from the awaiting crowd of factory workers.
“Walmart?” Mitt wondered.