I happen to think that in fifty years' time when Liberal sociologists look back on our era, they'll remark on the unfairness of having to routinely work nights and weekends for no extra pay. This is some giant scam perpetrated by the malefactors of great wealth who dominate our world today. We are not part of management and don't share the benefits of management, except when we work extra hours, we are considered management, so no extra compensation is forth-coming.
I think the entire world has employment equivalent to that in a 19th century coal-mine. We are breaker boys combing through slag heaps looking for shards of usable coal left behind for pennies a day.
Something is dramatically unfair that we are tethered to devices, always on call, always prisoner of the job all for no additional pay. Eaten alive by the job. Loyalty and dedication are expected from us, but we can expect none in return. When the moguls decide we are too old or too expensive, out we'll go--like yesterday's slag.
Arthur Miller in his 1949 Pulitzer Prize-winning play "The Death of a Salesman," did it best:
HOWARD (moving away, to
the right): That’s just the thing,
Willy.
WILLY: If I had forty
dollars a week — that’s all I’d need. Forty
dollars, Howard.
HOWARD: Kid, I can’t
take blood from a stone, I...
WILLY (desperation is on
him now): Howard, the year Al Smith
was nominated, your
father came to me and...
HOWARD (starting to go
off): I’ve got to see some people, kid.
WILLY (stopping him).
I’m talking about your father! There were
promises made across
this desk! You mustn’t tell me you’ve got
people to see — I put
thirty-four years into this firm, Howard,
and now I can’t pay my
insurance! You can’t eat the orange
and throw the peel away
— a man is not a piece of fruit! (After
a pause.) Now pay
attention. Your father — in 1928 I had a big
year. I averaged a
hundred and seventy dollars a week in commissions.
HOWARD (impatiently):
Now, Willy, you never averaged...
WILLY (banging his hand
on the desk): I averaged a hundred and
seventy dollars a week
in the year of 1928! And your father
came to me — or rather,
I was in the office here — it was right
over this desk — and he
put his hand on my shoulder...
HOWARD (getting up):
You’ll have to excuse me, Willy, I gotta see
some people. Pull
yourself together. (Going out.) I’ll be back in
a little while. (On
Howard’s exit, the light on his chair grows
very bright and
strange.)
WILLY: Pull myself
together! What the hell did I say to him? My
God, I was yelling at
him! How could I? (Willy breaks off, staring
at the light, which
occupies the chair, animating it. He approaches
this chair, standing
across the desk from it.) Frank,
Frank, don’t you
remember what you told me that time? How
you put your hand on my
shoulder, and Frank... (He leans on
the desk and as he
speaks the dead man’s name he accidentally
switches on the
recorder, and instantly)
HOWARD’S SON: »... of
New York is Albany. The capital of Ohio
is Cincinnati, the
capital of Rhode Island is...« (The recitation
continues.)
WILLY (leaping away with
fright, shouting): Ha, Howard! Howard!
Howard!
HOWARD (rushing in):
What happened?
WILLY (pointing at the
machine, which continues nasally, childishly,
with the capital
cities): Shut it off! Shut it off!
HOWARD (pulling the plug
out): Look, Willy...
WILLY (pressing his
hands to his eyes): I gotta get myself some
coffee. I’ll get some
coffee... (Willy starts to walk out. Howard
stops him.)
HOWARD (rolling up the
cord): Willy, look...
WILLY: I’ll go to Boston.
HOWARD: Willy, you can’t
go to Boston for us.
WILLY: Why can’t I go?
HOWARD: I don’t want you
to represent us. I’ve been meaning to
tell you for a long time
now.
WILLY: Howard, are you
firing me?
HOWARD: I think you need
a good long rest, Willy.
We have forgotten the Lomans.
We have forgotten humanity.
We are all just pieces of fruit.
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