The Abolitionist
	I sat at my desk, carefully checking a manuscript of a book which promised to "awaken the giant within" for spelling or grammatical errors.  The red light on the bottom corner of my desk phone flashed, letting me know I had a voice mail, so I picked up the phone and punched in the code.       It was my boss, whose office was next door.  "Seth, you need to check your box for your next manuscript.  Please do not edit for structural errors, just spelling and punctuation.  We're working with professional writers here, and you're just a copy editor.  It's really not your place to criticize logic or writing style.  I need The Giant Within by three o'clock.  Put it in my box."      I finished the last two pages of the current manuscript quickly, and headed next door to turn it in.  Alyssa's door was closed.  I could hear her laughter mingled with the rather masculine laughter of Katerina, another managing editor.  The laughing stopped abruptly when I knocked.       "Yes?"      "It's Seth.  I have that manuscript."      "I said to put it in my box."      "Okay."  The mailroom was in the basement.  I plodded over to the elevator and leaned against the wall as I descended.      Ian, the mailroom guy, was reclining in his chair, his feet propped on a postal carton.  He was listening to some fast music with a lot of drums on a small silver boombox.      "Hey," I said.       "Hey, Seth."  He put down the stack of papers he had been reading.      "Can you put this in Alyssa's box?"       He rolled his eyes.  "Isn't that the bitch whose office is right next to yours?"      "She's my boss.  She told me to put it in her box."      "I can't believe you're willing to go against all logic just because your boss told you to.  Beckstein, right?"      "No, McWhorter."      "I meant your boss."      "Oh.  Yeah, right."      He inserted the manuscript into the appropriate cubbyhole, then settled back down to his sheaf of papers, singing along with his music under his breath.
		"Ian?"      "Hmm?"      "Can I get what's in my box?"      "Yeah."  He handed me a fat stack of paper without looking up from his reading.  I glanced at the new manuscript, entitled How to Survive Without a Man, then stood there holding it, trying to get a glimpse of the text on Ian's papers.       "What are you reading?"  I asked.      "Hakim Bey."      "Oh, I didn't know you were a Hindu."      "What?"      "Isn't that one of the Hindu religious texts?"      "No... he's an anarchist writer."      "So you're reading about blowing up buildings and things like that?"      He laughed.  "That's not what anarchism's really about-- it's more about challenging and rethinking the rules of society... this guy writes about 'temporary autonomous zones' and the abolition of work."      "The abolition of work?  How would we eat?"      "It's complicated.  You'd have to read it.  You want me to lend you some stuff?"      "No thanks.  I get plenty of reading done at work.  I don't want to do it in my free time too."  I turned to go.      "You call that reading?  I really don't know how I'd handle that job... I'd go insane."      This from a mailroom employee, who made maybe twenty-five thousand, if he was lucky?  "You think the mailroom's better?" I said, somewhat nastily.       "Hell yeah," he said.  "I have only a finite amount of work to do each day.  The mail comes, I sort it.  I have a system, and it gets done in an hour or two.  Then I can spend the rest of the day reading and only occasionally filing your boss's shit.  And as long as I get things sorted in the morning, my boss never bothers me."
			"Well, I sit at a desk and read all day too... and I get paid a lot more than you do, I'm sure."      "I get paid enough to be comfortable.  And I don't have to read self-help books.  And nobody tells me to do stupid stuff, like go down four flights of stairs to the mailroom to deliver something to somebody whose office is right next to mine."      "Hmmm.  Well, I enjoy my job."      He snorted.  "Do you realy?  Well, I guess if you care about money so much, you have to find a way to justify it, right?"  He leaned back in his chair and went back to reading his papers.      I stood and stared at him.  He looked sort of incongruous, dressed in a blue oxford cloth shirt, khakis, a black belt with silver spikes, and enormous black motorcycle boots.  I knew I looked just right in my designer suit and matched accessories.
				There was a complimentary note in my box the next day from Alyssa.  "POSITIV-OGRAM" was printed at the top, next to a picture of a smiling cartoon man with plus signs for eyes.  "Great job on the Giant Within," was written below in Alyssa's bubbly, seventh-graderish handwriting.  I always half-expected the 'I's to be dotted with hearts.  I had made only five corrections to the manuscript, all of which were misused 'theres' and 'theirs.'      "What are you so happy about?"  Ian asked.      "Oh, just some positive feedback from my boss."  I leaned against the mailroom counter and leafed through the bright pink company newsletter.      "Pfft.  What'd she do, praise you for never using your brain or something?"     "No.  She said I did a good job on my last manuscript."      "Is that the one you turned in yesterday-- the one without any marks on it?"      "Yes.  You shouldn't look through other people's mail."      "I'm the mailroom guy.  What else am I going to do?"      "Our company has a strict privacy policy."      "So?  It's not like we're the CIA or something."       "Whatever."  I went back to my office to work on How to Survive Without a Man.  In the first chapter, the author stressed that is was not important to have a boyfriend.  The second and third chapter listed strategies for meeting men and rules of deportment for first dates.  The fourth discussed being satisfied with the support and companionship of friends and family members.  The fifth involved some sort of diet and exercise plan.  The sixth was a sort of abridged Kama Sutra.  Maybe the reader didn't have a man because she was no good in bed?
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