Pattern Recognition

Take for example a father and husband who sells his house and car for lottery tickets because he's tired of working. Such a pattern correlates only with lunatics and idiots because the probability of winning at least a quarter million dollars from a quarter million tickets is startlingly small. Now, suppose he wins third place, one million dollars, and can now buy back his house and have a comfortable one hundred grand left after taxes. This is the pattern of someone whose family will be divided over, where he can do no wrong for some even though he still has the pattern of a lunatic or idiot.
Pattern are my truck; they are also everywhere. From the rythem of my breath when I run to the predictable duration of my activities and the speed of traffic at different spots on the road, there are pattern I use to make time my pace and plan my days.
Catherine Grate enters the double-sliding doors with a swing in her step and a particular smile on her face that can only mean *ding-dong* “hello? hello? anybody home?”
Picture a pyramid, a flying saucer on a stick, and a beach ball all melted into the ground; now you have some idea of the Escher-like design of the corporate offices into which Ms. Grate has just walked. The saucer on a stick comes out of the pyramid, and the beach ball half buried in the ground sits off to one side. The beach ball is where Icine Corp stores its archives, the saucer is the executive offices, and the pyramid contains both the main lobby and the laboratories.
In the following scenes it is important to keep in mind that everybody is always smiling. It is a corporate office, and nobody gets promoted or hired—in Ms. Grate's case—if they seem to have a bad attitude.
“Hello,” says the receptionist, Inya, a young Indian woman whose full name has more letters than I care to count. “Who are you here to see?”
Catherine stops, perplexed. She had been expecting to tell the receptionist that she was here to see someone, that was what her mom had told her she would need to do. “How did you know I was here to see someone?”
“You are not wearing a company badge,” Inya pointed out. “That means you don't work here.”
“Ohhkay. I'm here to see a mister...” Catherine takes out a sheet of paper that she printed out from her computer. “Yano. A mister Eric Yano. About a job that I applied for over the Internet and I received this email for.” She held the sheet of paper out for the receptionist to see.
It is difficult for humans from different cultures to read each other because, aside from some universal facial expressions, a great deal of body language is based upon upbringing. In this case, and Indian would see immediately that Inya the receptionist is not impressed with Ms. Grate's diction, but is amused by it. Ms. Grate, being born and raised in Middle America, doesn't notice a thing. “I'll buzz you right in. You may have a seat on that couch behind you,” Inya gestures to a clean, burgundy-colored love seat.
Catherine sits and Inya goes back to reading material for her correspondent's course on tax preparation.
Ten minutes later Eric Yano is leading Catherine Grate up a staircase to his lab on the third floor of the pyramid. Like Ms. Grate and the receptionist, he wears some permutation of a smile at all times. Right now, the energy in his steps and his words show that he actually is very happy. In the lobby, he'd practically burst in to greet her, and at the bottom of the stairs he charged up and—after he saw that she moved slower than he—had almost tap-danced back down to her. Right now he is still dancing by accenting every third step with a tap from his toes against the marble stairs.
“So how was Inya and your little chat?” Dance, dance, dance.
“Fine. She's nice.” Step, step.
“Fantastic! Wonderful! You will be a great assistant.” Dance, dance, tap. “E-mail, the e-mail we sent you. Notice how