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by William J. Brazill

(Spotlight slowly up on Man.)

I read in Camus what I already knew, that to be human is to rebel. Say “no,” shout “go to hell” when things don’t go well. A midlife crisis entices me.

I don’t use the f-word or other scent of adolescent rebellion. I don’t like crack or ice or snuff or any such stuff. Whiskey is fine and chablis refined but both would lead in the amounts I need to alcoholism. A suicide bomb would do more harm to myself than to anyone else. My university degree does not let me be crass or low class or a pain in the ass. So I must find another way to scream, “I rebel!”

The office gives me scope, my only hope, to express my anger. Less danger that way. It must be discrete, not the stuff of the street, yet a strike at the system’s heart. Don’t call attention to yourself, my mother taught me, and hell to pay if she caught me. So I follow her admonition and rebel against my condition in a silent affirmation of self-definition.

My act of rebellion must paralyze the system, but I must not be seen. So I will jam the copy machine.

(Spotlight slowly down on Man. Darkness.)