This demo highlights Joe's impressive narration stylings as well as his ability to differentiate among multiple characters without sounding forced or unnatural.
Middle Aged (35-54)
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Maybe we should never have ventured out into space. Our race has but two basic innate fears noise and the fear of falling those terrible heights. Why should any man in his right mind let himself be placed where he could fall and fall and fall? But all space men are crazy. Everyone knows that the medicos have been very kind. He's supposed You're lucky. You want to remember that old fellow. You're still young and you're retired. Pay relieves you of all worry about your future. You've got both arms and legs and are in fine shape. Fine shape. His voice was unintentionally contemptuous. No, I need it. The chief psychiatrist had persisted gently. The little quirk you have does you no harm at all except that you can't go out into space again. I can't honestly call acrophobia a neurosis. Fear falling is normal insane. You just got a little more stronger than most. But that is not abnormal in view of what you've been through. The reminder set him to shaking again. He closed his eyes and saw the stars wheeling below him again. He was falling, falling endlessly. The psychiatrists voice came back through to him and pulled him back. Steady, old man. Look around you. Sorry. Not at all. Now tell me, what do you plan to d'oh? I don't know. Get a job. I suppose the company will give you a job. You know, He should have said I don't want to hang around a spaceport where a little button on his shirt to show he was once a man be addressed by a courtesy title of Captain claimed the privileges of the pilots lounge on the basis of what he used to be here. The shoptalk die down Whenever he approached a group. I wonder what they were saying behind his back? No, thank you. I think you're wise. Best to make a clean break for a while. At least until you're feeling better. You think I'll get over it? The psychiatrist pursed his lips possible. It's functional, you know. No trauma. But you don't think so? I didn't say that. I honestly don't know. We still know very little about what makes a man tick. I see. Well, I might as well be leaving. The psychiatrist stood up and shoved out his hand. Holler if you want anything and come back to us, in any case. Thanks. You're going to be all right. I know it. But the psychiatrist shook his head as his patient walked out. The man did not walk like a space man. The easy animal self confidence was gone. Only a small part of great New York was roof over in those days. He stayed underground until he was in that section, then sought out a passageway lined with bachelor rooms. He stuck a coin in the slot of the 1st 1 which display delighted vacant sign truck his jump bag inside and left the monitor of the intersection give him the address of the nearest placement office. He went there, seated himself in an interview desk, stamped on his fingerprints and started filling out forms. It gave him a curious back to the beginning, feeling he had not looked for a job since pre K. That days, he left filling in his name to the last and hesitated. Even then, he had had more than his belly full of publicity. He did not want to be recognized. He certainly did not want to be throbbed over, and most of all, he did not want anyone telling him he was a hero. Presently. He printed in the name William Saunders and dropped the forms in the slot. He was well into his third cigarette and getting ready to strike another. When the screen in front of him at last lighted up, he found himself staring at a nice looking predict, Mr. Saunders. Image said, Well, you come inside, please. Door 17. The Burnett in person was there to offer him a seat and a cigarette. Make yourself comfortable. Mr. Saunders. I miss Joyce. I'd like to talk with you about your application. He settled himself and waited without speaking. When she saw that he did not intend to speak. She added. Now, take this name William Saunders, which you have given us. We know who you are, of course, from your prints. And I suppose so. Of course I know what everyone knows about you but your action and calling yourself William Saunders. Mr. Saunders, Mr. Saunders cost me to query the files. She held up a microfilm school, turns so that he might read his own name on it. I know quite a bit about you know, more than the public knows, and more than you saw fit to put into your application. It's a good record, Mr Saunders. Thank you, but I can't use it in placing you on a job. I can't even refer to it if you insist on designated in yourself A Saunders. His voice was flat rather than emphatic.
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