THE BOSS
BY
ROBERT WALLACE PAOLINELLI
"Arbeit Macht Frei"
--Motto of Auschwitz
Every day we
slaves report to work. We do not grumble too loudly;
we do not complain; we do not
rebel; we do not question; we do not argue or talk back; we are good slaves; our slave master loves us; he is good to us; he gives us work to do and we feel productive
and useful; he likes our ideas and, of
course, our labor; he likes innovation
and increased productivity; he even
rewards us when we work extra hard.
We are grateful to him for keeping us.
And when we get too old to work, he gladly
retires us and we can go to our homes knowing that we did a good job for our
slave master, the boss.
When we are
sick he sees to it that we are cared for; if we have teeth problems he sends us
to the dentist; if we need medication,
we can go to the pharmacist and get medicine;
if our eyes grow weak, he gladly sends us to the eye doctor for
glasses. He does everything to keep us
healthy so our physical problems do not interfere with his profit.
It is
necessary to keep the money rolling in for him;
that is why he gives us so many benefits; we help him maintain his high standard of
living and he often tells us that if we work hard for him, that we, too, can be
bosses someday and live much as he does. "Self-manumission Through
Hard Work" is the motto we march under every morning as we enter the boss'
domain.
Our slave
master-boss does not keep us chained; he does not need whips; he does not need neck collars or any kind of
manacles, for we are wage slaves; the
job is our bondage and our paycheck is our reward for being good slaves.
Not everyone
can be the boss' slave;
oh, no; he is very
selective and he created a special department to screen, investigate, interview
and recommend applicant-slaves who come to the office in an unending stream to
fill out applications, leave resumes, take tests and submit to all kinds of
probes and examinations. The personnel
department slaves feel they are superior to us worker slaves because they have
been given the master's authority to hire and fire; to make policy and to enforce his
rules and regulations.
A few years
ago, when the hair styles were long and men wore
beards and large moustaches, the boss ordered the personnel slaves to send out
a memo to all slaves that no long hair, no beards, moustaches or any type of
facial hair would be worn.
We did not
protest; well,
not really all of us; some of the
younger slaves who had beards, big bushy beards complained; but they were told they would shave or be
fired. The boss is merciless when he
wants to be. We tremble at his power.
Many of us
have families, children in college; we own our own homes, cars, boats,
summer cottages; we have mortgages to
pay, and monthly payments to make on washer/dryers, VCRs, televisions,
refrigerators, furniture, credit card bills and the like.
Without the
boss' largesse where would we be?
I hate the
boss. I HATE THE BOSS! But each morning I smile and say good morning
to him as if I meant it;
but I don't mean it and neither do most of the other slaves. And I know he knows I (or
the others) don't mean for him to have a good morning; but I am vital to his organization so he just
tolerates my deceit because I earn him lots of money, and although I could be
replaced, he keeps me on because it would be a lot of trouble to find another
slave already trained, to replace me, because that would be disruptive, and
what the boss doesn't like is disruption of the routine because disruption of
the routine means loss of revenue and his sole purpose in life is to make
money.
We do a damn
good job; and
if anyone of us should die--well--so be it.
There are more just waiting to be called.
When I first
became a slave I struck up a friendship with a kindly
old woman who had been a slave since she'd been graduated from high
school. She seemed to love being a slave; she was always so
willing to work hard, work overtime if necessary; she even took work home and never asked to be
compensated for her home work. She
always had a cheery smile and a good word for everyone--especially the boss on
whom she doted as if he were a favorite nephew or grandchild.
One day I
heard her clearing her throat over and over again; then I heard her gasp for breath, then she
screamed out in pain, clutched her chest, then fell face down over her
typewriter, trembling and gasping for air;
she turned blue. I rushed to her
aid; but I
could do nothing for her. I called out
to the other slaves; they came running; someone called for an ambulance; the paramedics were not long in coming; they did what they could, but she was already
dead.
We all felt a
little sad; the
boss came out of his office; he looked
down at his old slave on the floor with the plastic oxygen mask over her dead
face; he shook his head. "How long are you going to leave her
here?" he asked the paramedics.
As they were
wheeling her covered body out of the office on a gurney, the boss was on the
telephone. Soon afterwards, a temporary
office slave-worker from a nearby temporary slave rental agency was at the old
slave's desk preparing to finish typing the report the old slave was working on
when she had had her heart attack.
"Business as usual, business as usual," called
out the boss.
We all went back to our desks. We had an important deadline to meet,. Reports had to be prepared and a budget revised and orders sent out to our
field representative slaves and to the production slaves to fill the new orders
as soon as possible. The boss told the
accounting slaves to send some flowers to the family of our dead slave and had the slave janitor clear out her locker and
told the personnel slaves to find another slave to take her place.
THE END