What If, by Carol Tarlen

What if my supervisor cracked my personal computer passwords and discovered they were all the names of dead revolutionary poets? What if she un-erased Jason’s e-mail to the staff and found out he called her fat-assed? Would her buttocks block the hallway as she waddled to her office to write a warning letter for his personnel file? What if on dress down Friday we didn’t come to work in jeans and T-shirts, but only wore our skin, and instead of sitting at our desks and staring at our PCs, we rolled naked on the office carpet and made love not profit?


What if Che Guevara rose from his grave in Bolivia and joined the UCSF School of Dentistry, then with his vanguard of peritoneal assistants took over the entire University and declared himself Chancellor and decided that all UC departments would remain the property of the people of the state of California and profit would be outlawed, and what if I wasn’t laid off of my easy job which allows my heart to beat uninterrupted and doesn’t give me headaches, high blood pressure, clogged arteries or diarrhea, and I wasn’t thrown into the private sector without the protection of a union contract and forced to work for a mean, snarly boss with body odor, a BMW and a walled estate in Hillsborough?


What if we got off work one Friday evening, say on April 30th, went to a movie, had a drink, then went to bed and when we awoke one minute had become an hour, every hour had turned into a day, every day a millennium, and Monday morning never came, and we walked in the San Francisco late spring sun, sat around at UN Plaza which had miraculously been cleansed of pigeon shit and there was no urine smell because there were free toilets for everyone, and Food Not Bombs brought buckets of soup and fresh at last bagels to people in the parks, and we all ate together then danced around May poles because we owned the means of production which was now totally automated and only needed a flick of the switch to run the world and May 1st never ended?


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