where an activist now begrudgingly conforms to the mechanized corporate slavery of the tie wearing capitalist regime he once fought

The alarm retched John awake too early. The sun had not even broke the seems of the heavy curtains blocking the windows of his bedroom. They kept most of the light out on weekends, when he could sleep past the buzzer. Today was Monday, the first of many days until Saturday. He ambled unconsciously to the kitchen to begin his pot of coffee while he took a morning wake up shower. He brushed his teeth. While his hair was still wet he brushed it to the side, the traditional office haircut. Some nights he would dream of his once long locks. Aside from a receding hairline his mane could be shoulder length and beautiful again. He had no bald spots. John guessed that his boss, a grumpy old man with a chrome dome, detested the younger employees with the ability to grow on their head. For this talent he cursed them to waste those glory years until they were as bitter as he. Then, they would be ready to supervise a company.

John went back to the kitchen for his brew. He sipped the hot java from an industrial metal thermos mug. He had reached a point in his life that the caffeine was necessary for him to function adequately. Without the slow poison his body would reject the world and his brain would hurt. His eyes would tear from the incredible pounding in his head. He returned to his bedroom to pick out a formal attire for the business day.

A bandana hung on his tie rack, reminding him of the protests he attended in college. He had been maced and shot with a riot gun. He held posters declaring "Mayday" and "Fire Your Boss." He shouted against oil companies and animal testing. Now, he put on a suit and walked among them. He put on slacks and loafers instead of cammo and combat boots. He was part of the establishment he once tried to take down. He tightened his belt. He straightened his collar.

He watched the sunrise leaving the suburbs from a freeway into the city. The total drive to the cubicle warehouse without traffic was about an hour. One hour of his life there and another hour home wasted listening to morning radio. Even the BBC news hour failed to stimulate him. He would rather hear the two perverse Disc Jockeys make prank calls to unsuspecting fellow suburbanites. He would even laugh at their ridiculous reptilian humor and talk about it with coworkers around the water cooler. He would never make the mistake of bringing up something he heard on Pacifica or Public Access. They looked at him like he was some sort of freakshow. It did not fit their corporate demeanor.

He watched the fuel tank level drop steadily. Every three days he would refill it for no less than fifty dollars. Adding up the gallons every week, every month, every year he multiplied the statistics of pollution he was creating in the environment just from the drive. He thought of the hot water heater running for his three time a day showers: morning, after work, and before bed. He thought of the water wasted in his dishwasher because he did not have time to do the dishes by hand. He thought of his plasma screen television and surround sound system contributing to the energy bills for watching prime time crap on the networks.

John parked in the garage. He went up the elevator to a mid level floor with no windows. He sat in his cubicle and began entering numbers for the next eight hours. At this moment every day John would be sufficiently awake enough to realize that he was the Man.