September 14th, 2012
The Man: Who is He, Really?

“Fuck The Man.” “Let’s stick it to The Man.” “I wish I could go, but I’m stuck working for The Man.” Who is this Man, really? Ever shadowy and elusive, the concept of The Man evokes power, wealth and fear in the hearts of all young idealists, hippies, hipsters, burnouts and lazy people everywhere. Who is this Man, really? The Gabbler sat down with the white collar myth, the conformist legend: The Man, himself.

TG: So…you’re The Man.

TM: Yes. Yes, I am.

TG: What does it mean, exactly? To be…The Man?

TM: Can I pour you a drink?

TG: It’s like 10 am.

TM: Will Ardbeg 25 do?

TG: Uh, sure. Wait – this is my office. Where did you even get that? I only have apple juice and some stale pad thai in there. I should be getting you something–

TM: Rocks or neat?

TG: Um, how do you take it?

TM: A double, neat.

TG: Could I have rocks? With a cherry?

TM: Double neat it is.

TG:  Um, thank you, Sir. I mean, uh – let’s get back on track. Mr. Man, tell me: who are you?

TM: I’m who you report to. The man you answer to. I’m your boss. I’m Gatsby, minus the sappy love bullshit. You hate me a little, but lick my ass because you have no other option. Fuck, I’m capitalism, incarnate.

TG: Who do you work for?

TM: (Laughs.) I suppose that would be “The Establishment,” right?

TG: That’s what those Occupy kids say, anyway.

TM: It doesn’t matter what I do, exactly. I just have significantly more wealth and power than you do.

TG: That’s not as impressive as it sounds, you know. I’m a writer. Most people make more money than me. So, what are you reading these days, Sir?

TM: I read the Wall Street Journal in the mornings, and the Financial Times in the afternoons.

TG: You ever watch TV?

TM: On occasion. I do enjoy “Mad Men.”

TG: Shocking.

TM: I’m not really big on all that, though. I find it unnecessary.

TG: What, leisure? Well, that’s simply not true, Sir. Art is what makes life worth living.

TM: And is living paycheck to paycheck and eating Ramen for dinner “living?” Let me ask you a question. Have you really never dreamed of that beautiful two-story with the built-in garage and a white picket fence? Or the corner office with the view of the park and a secretary with perfect C’s and a voice as smooth as molasses? Or ordering the $40 steak without a second thought?

TG: That’s three questions.

TM: Don’t fuck around. Just answer, truthfully.

TG: I mean, of course I want to make more money–

TM: –But you damn well know that it’s more than money. It’s security. It’s success. It’s being part of The Club.

TG:  What does it mean? To be The Man?

TM: Well, I may be The Man, but I’m not the only Man.

TG: Who was the first?

TM: The concept has been around since Man first clubbed another man to claim his woman and animal carcases as his own, but the term was actually first coined by Alexander Hamilton in the late 1700s.

TG: What does it take to be The Man?

TM: Well, you should know that you can’t be the man, for obvious reasons (you’re a woman). Then maybe. Also, The Man really should be white whenever possible. Preferably a WASP. Blue eyes are ideal, but they must be steely blue, not like a Santa Claus blue. He’s at least 6’2. Well developed biceps. Great pectorals. Ivy educated. No scholarship, unless he doesn’t tell a damn soul. He’s a realist. He’s fiscally conservative, socially uninterested. Stoic, and always steady. And he drinks scotch. Always.

TG: If being “The Man” is the model of success, why do people hate you so much?

TM: Because it represents being an adult, and most Americans have some sort of fucking Peter Pan Syndrome. Working in an office? Wah! Paying taxes? Wah, wah! Wearing a tie? You’d think it was a noose, the way these people bitch about it. Luckily, I look great in a tie. Look, people get all freaked out because with a “real job,” they can’t sleep in until 11, or go surfing on a Tuesday, or watch “Saved By the Bell” reruns while they gorge on leftover cold pizza. I don’t give a fuck if they blame it on me. But it’s not my fault that earning a living isn’t always an easy, pretty business in a capitalist society. Plus, let’s not forget that when people work for me, they enjoy health insurance for their families, a decent salary, and the respect that white collar positions represent. Yeah, of course I think about quitting it all, growing out a beard, and selling handmade dreamcatchers by some dusty old road from time to time. But then I remember that I’m a fucking adult.

TG: So you never had dreams of being like a firefighter, or an adventurer?

TM: Don’t be a sap. And never make the mistake of believing that your job is going to bring you happiness. That, my friend, is what the dreamcatchers are for. Can I top you off?

TG: (Sighs.) Sure. Make it a double.