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Aug. 12, 2014 - Sargon of Akkad - Carl Benjamin
07:02
The Terrifying Future of Social Justice
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Time Text
You're at your office job.
It's 9am Monday morning, and you've already been there for an hour.
You take all the overtime you can get.
The office is open plan.
Each desk has dividers, so you can hear everything, but you can't make eye contact with everyone.
You're sat in your pseudo-cubicle, entering information from a stack of paper forms onto your computer, one at a time.
It's dull, rote work, and you're not even allowed to put headphones on, in case the phone rings.
You continue entering data from the forms to the computer and contemplate why you didn't become a builder.
Why didn't you choose a job outdoors?
It's not like the rain even bothers you.
At 9.15, your supervisor flounces in, bouncing past the rows of pseudo-cubicles, giving everyone a vivaciously empty greeting.
You attempt to avoid eye contact with her, but she clocks you, and you mumble a good morning as she goes past.
She's 15 minutes late, but her manager is never in before 9.30, and it wouldn't matter anyway.
Above your pay grade, timekeeping becomes a lot less important.
You'd be called up if you arrived in the office at 9.05, but you're always early for the overtime, so that never happens.
It's just a measure to keep the working plebeians in line, though.
She sits across from you and settles in at her workstation.
You can see her in profile, at least a decade younger than you, white and overweight.
She puts her headphones in her ears and spends her time punching her phone with podgy fingers as she waits for her machine to boot up and log in.
She strikes up a conversation with the girl who sits opposite her.
You finish the form you're on, put it on the completed pile, and start on the next one.
You drift off into your thoughts and try to ignore how the people around you are doing such little work.
I want 24 of these forms processed by the end of the day.
You snap out of your daydream to see your supervisor leering over you.
I'm sorry?
I want you to have done 24 of these forms by the end of the day.
I've got my performance review meeting tomorrow morning, so I want to look good.
Alright.
Are you giving me attitude?
No.
I think you are.
If you haven't done 24 of these by the end of the day, I'm going to dock your wages to the Reparations Fund again.
Alright.
The Reparations Fund for Women, a restitution of thousands of years of men out-earning women since Midas struck the first coin.
All men have their salaries docked 25% by law, but the law also allows corporations to dock 5% extra per infraction.
At the end of each month, the reparations fund is evenly split between all female and female identifying employees.
Not for the first time, you wonder if you should get a sex change, but you know you can't afford it.
You continue to work despite the endless tedium, and you've done 10 by lunchtime.
The office manager bustles past your supervisor's desk.
She's in her 40s, although she wears the same style as your early 20s supervisor.
They chat loudly about the clubs they went to over the weekend, and they give each other false flattery and giggle loudly, desperately trying to attract attention to themselves.
Some of the women in the office look up over their desks and join in, in a deferential and servile way, but none of the other men in the office so much as glance up.
They keep their heads down to avoid having their own wages docked for the reparation fund.
Your supervisor notices you watching them.
Oh shit.
Are you stair raping us?
She shouts, incredulously.
All the women in the office turn to look at you, their faces automatically contorting in disgust.
No, I'm sorry you felt like I was, you say, practised.
I was just admiring how strong you both are.
They look at you doubtfully.
Check your privilege, the manager says.
Yeah, remember how oppressive you are, you white ablest male, your supervisor says.
A low chorus of booing comes from the inferior women of the office.
The men remain silent.
They don't so much as look at you.
I'm sorry, you mumble, and return to your work.
Satisfied that you've been cowed, your manager, supervisor, and a gaggle of favoured female employees head off to lunch.
You take out your sandwich and eat it at your desk, slowly.
You continue to work in silence for the rest of the day.
It's almost 6pm before your manager bothers you again, on her way out.
You've got 23 forms completed, and you're on your final one.
Have you done 30 of those forms yet?
I thought you needed 24.
I said I needed 30.
Are you questioning me?
No, I'm sorry.
I'm on the 24th one now.
So you're not going to get 30 done?
I don't think so.
I'm sorry.
That's not good enough.
You should have thought about how your privilege is going to affect my performance review.
I'm docking you twice for this.
You don't say anything, and she stalks out of the office.
After you're sure she's gone, you stand up and push your chair in.
Where are you going? hisses one of the men from a few cubicles away.
You don't even know his name.
I'm going to the Human Resources Department to lodge complaint.
He shakes his head and returns in silence to his work.
There are still women in the office working on their flexi time.
You walk through the offices to the HR department.
Three fat women turn to look at you disdainfully as you enter.
Can we help you? asks one.
I think my boss is bullying me.
Don't be ridiculous.
Your boss is a woman.
How could she bully you?
She keeps changing the rules after I deliver my work and then penalising me for it.
Well, we've had complaints from her about your misogyny.
Only this morning we had one from her.
We notice you've been docked twice already today.
Do you want to make it a third time?
No.
You turn and leave.
You go to your desk, sit down, and resume work.
The man who spoke to you glances over his cubicle and makes eye contact with you.
He's worried about you.
You can see it in his face.
You work until the building closes at 8pm.
All the men do.
You aren't allowed to fraternise with other men on company time, however, so none of you talk as you file out of the building, punching your time cards on the way.
You walk home as you can't afford a car, and reach your rented, one-bedroom apartment by 9pm.
You open the door and collect the mail on the floor.
You put a can of soup in a saucepan on the hob, and while it heats up, you open your mail.
Bills, final demands, and a new alimony judgment from a woman you're not familiar with, but with whom you have been convicted in absentia of fathering a child.
You eat your soup and bend down to reach under your bed.
Outwardly, you don't display any emotion, but your thoughts are a torrent of confused rage.
How could you be so bad?
Why are you so evil to women?
Don't you care about anyone but yourself?
You pull out a thick length of rope and begin fashioning it into a crude noose.
You sling it over an exposed roof beam and tie it securely.
You stand up on your chair and put the noose over your head and hesitate for a moment.
But the moment of doubt passes and you kick out the chair from beneath your feet.
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