Corporate Revolutionary
put on a sweater, not a tie. Yeah, that might piss
somebody off. One of the stuffed shirts from Account
Support, no doubt. They look at me funny as I ride the
elevator with these commuting dregs who think that what they
do for media is important. They think advertising lets them
say something. Those automatons don�t say anything but what
they are told to say. I, on the other hand, am a real
revolutionary.
I have to work in the same place though, because even revolutionaries need to pay the rent. I walk through the hallowed halls of big media, with framed pictures on the walls, showing the ads that convinced the most people to buy something they did not really want. But what is the cost of my conformity? While they create campaigns for Nike, Blockbuster Video, and American Express, I pay their bills. Sit in front of the computer in this tiny cubicle and get Carpel Tunnel Syndrome. The invoices are mailed in and I put them in the lousy computer. When it�s all said and done the agency gets its fifteen percent commission and the CEO sips margaritas in BridgeHampton, while I go home and smoke pot.
Some say, �It�s just a job, man.� To hell with that! I cannot accept that I am one of the people they control, but let them think it anyway. It will do me nothing but good, because now, I can catch them by surprise.
Advertising is tricky. I might be able hide my leftist affiliations better if I were a bank teller or in the service industry. However, the intrigue of where I am and what I am doing lies in the covert nature of my operation. I know they are monitoring me; keeping tabs of the websites I visit and where my e-mail is going. I did mess up once, though, and downloaded some pictures of Che` Guevara and Huey Newton. They were probably all over that. Fucking Fascists! Even with all my distractions, the phone never stops ringing.
Station after station, market after market, they come calling.
�This is Barbara, from WFUC, in Birmingham, Alabama. I�m showing a lot of money outstanding here. When will it be paid?�
�This is Frank from KTLA, when can we expect payment?�
How the hell should I know? What, does your precious little station need more money so they can manipulate mass media and then, in turn, can hold the worker of the world down. I should be in a union, then maybe I�d get some respect. I�d go on strike! No way they�re gonna let that happen. In the meantime, I�ll do guerrilla actions like throwing away invoices so they don�t get paid. They can deal with the angry stations. I�ll sabotage the computer system. Yes! I got a feeling they don�t know how much I can control. Give the common man a gun and he becomes a revolutionary. My gun is the computer in front of me. And guess what, baby, I�m letting off shots.
It starts everyday at 9am, like clockwork. I get away with everything I can. I get my breakfast in the canteen, just an overpriced deli, another way for them to get even more profits. However, I succumb to the vices my stomach presents and eat at my desk, so it appears as if I am working. A subtle victory for my greater cause. At 10am, I take my first break and get coffee. Just another couple of minutes I can save myself from doing the devil�s bidding.
The rest of the morning is spent in between my data input and the internet. You see, it doesn�t take me too long to get my stuff done, if I concentrate. I think of it like an elementary school report card; if you come home with A�s, they�re the standard of your work. If you come home with C�s, there is room for improvement. The way I look at it, in their eyes, I can only get better. And that�s how I want them to think.
Lunchtime rolls around at about 1pm, usually spent somewhere far away from the cubicle. I enlist Eddie, the revolutionary posing as a corporate secretary, to spend the lunchtime hour with me planning strategy. We get sandwiches at one of the pricey Madison Avenue deli�s and make our way into the masses of hired help to our destination: Bryant Park.
We walk past the Bryant Park grill. We like to think of it as breeding ground for the New York city bourgeois.
�The place sure is packed today�, I say.
�Full of people trying to climb that ladder. Trying to get that Co-op on the upper east side�, replied Eddie.
�Or trying to keep it.�
We make our way over to an empty spot on the grass. I pause to think. What can we do next? How can we stir up some resistance? Eddie looks pretty scrappy, he could probably take the CEO in a fight. No, that would be too extreme. Maybe he can dress in drag like Klinger on MASH. Nah, that never seemed to do any good on TV. Suddenly, it came to me. We needed to take part in a covert, terrorist action. Create anarchy the likes of which even Emma Goldman has never seen.
�Eddie, how many copy machines do we have on our floor?�, I ask.
�About four. Whatcha have in mind?�
Then I break it down. The master plan. The first step towards ultimate uprising. And we would be the catalysts! My blood began to boil, my eyes could envision the mass hysteria. We would hit them where it would hurt the advertising community the most. Duplication!
I could see it now, it would go down in history as the Great Toner Fiasco. We would, with the help of others in the network, get every toner cartridge in the building, thus halting all duplication for the afternoon. We would essentially be in control of the building.
Eddie likes the idea and we leave knowing we need time to get to all the copy machines. I�m so excited. No more time for talk, I think to myself, we�re taking action. I get back to my desk and set up the paper�s and computer to look as though I had just gone to the bathroom.
Eddie and I each take one of the large recycling bins that roll around, and divvied up floors. He had 1-6, I had 6-12. We had about 40 toner cartridges to get in about a half an hour. If we took too much time we would surely be detected and pan-handling in Times Square by 6pm. With this in mind, we made haste and took ourselves to task.
However, this was truly a team effort that would need support. I had called an ally in the supply room, Henry, and he had stashed all of the extra toners in the basement, so their would be no reinforcements. He offered to rig the copiers so they would blow up when people tried to copy, but both Eddie and I agreed it was too extreme. I guess Henry is one of those fundamentalists. None-the-less, we had all the bases covered.
We finish ahead of schedule, and stash the bins in an empty office. We are spotted on the way out of the office by a maid, but she smiles at us and keeps working. It was obvious the proletariat was sympathetic to our actions. We got back to our desks just as everyone was beginning to return from lunch. I am anxious; I feel like I did when I was waiting to lose my virginity. I decide to just get back to work, after all, I had a lot of messages to return and invoices to input.
Fifteen minutes after the wick is lit, the bomb explodes.
�None of the copy machines work on this fucking floor!�, an executive proclaims.
�Why don�t you go downstairs?�, replied Eddie, and I saw him holding back a chuckle.
�Because they don�t work either, Goddammit!� At this point the exec stormed away, cussing to himself.
Little by little, the hysteria grew. A secretary called from the fifth floor saying that people were tripping over each other in the stairwells. The supply room was mobbed by the smarter contingent who knew enough to look for more toner. Some executives started sending people to Kinko�s, and before long they were having trouble controlling the crowd.
At this point, I just sat back and soaked it in. My plan had worked. The capitalists were pulling out their hair while the guerrillas sat laughing at the farce. I was in the zone. What could stop us now? My mind began to wander again. I mean, what if all the cubicle boys and closet trotskyites on Madison Avenue all of sudden became fed up enough, we could revolt and take control of all of the video equipment and editing stuff and make slow, depressing art films and show them to the masses in Time�s Square projected on Kate Moss� ever-so-small ass. And then we could paint all the cars yellow and everyone would just give everyone else rides! Wouldn�t be great? And then all the artists could run around naked and.....
�KYLE!�
The real world rears it ugly head.
�Get these into the computer, before you leave.�
�But it�s five to five?�
�Sorry.�
Yeah, you�re real sorry. So is everybody else. But not as sorry as they�ll be when the revolution comes. When nobody wants to �be like Mike�, and Pepsi isn�t the choice of a new generation. You�ll be real sorry when you get a paint brush stuck up your ass. Cubicle Libre!
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