Slave to the Man

An average-looking young white guy in his mid-20s rolls out of bed in a meager apartment. He brushes his teeth, puts on deodorant, and so on. Eventually, he sits down, picks up a phone, and dials a number, holding some paperwork in his other hand.

“Hi, this is Tim Patrick. Timesheet number…uh, hold on, let me see…#43701-B. Is The ID number? Is that the same same as the timesheet? Oh, wait a second. Okay, it’s 472. Yeah, I’ll hold.”

There is a long pause as he scratches himself absently and flips through a copy of Time. Eventually, he gets someone on the line again.

“Hi. Uh huh…yeah, I was just wondering if there were any assignments for me today. Yeah? Yeah, absolutely. Sure, I’m available for an evening. Yeah? Yeah. Okay, where is it? Oh. Yeah, I know it. How much? Uh huh. That’s good. Okay. And who should I talk to? Okay. Yeah. All right, thanks.”

He hangs up the phone and dresses, putting on worn tan Dockers, tennis shoes, a button-down denim shirt and a brown knit tie. He mutters forlornly as he leaves his apartment.

“Man. I always get the worst jobs.”

Cut to Tim riding the bus, looking absently out the window, on his way to his new temp job. A title card flashes across the screen, superimposed over his face:


Dissolve to a dangerous-looking inner-city neighborhood. 1970s funk-soul blares in the background as Tim walks sheepishly down the street. He timidly approaches a group of gaudily dressed prostitutes. They regard him with a mixture of surprise and scorn.

“Er…which one of you is Miss Thing? I was supposed to talk to a Miss Thing.”

No one answers. He looks at one ratty-looking woman in a magenta halter top.

“Are you Miss Thing?”

The women stare at him with disregard.

“Aw, nuts.”

Cut to Tim and the hookers sitting around a small table at a Dunkin Donuts. They’re all glaring at him with their arms folded; he’s sipping guiltily on a mochaccino.

“Oh, was I supposed to bring the crack? I’m sorry. They didn’t tell me I was supposed to bring anything.”

One of the hookers shakes her head dismissively.

“Must have been a, uh, communications mix up. Ha ha. I can call the agency if you want.”

Cut to Tim in a ratty second-floor walk-up. He’s been dressed in a red feather boa, a lime-green polyester leisure suit jacket with padded shoulders, and a matching big hat. He looks very uncomfortable. He addresses another one of the hookers, who is bringing in a pair of ruby red platform shoes from the kitchenette.

“Um…do I really have to wear this?”

Cut to Tim talking to a group of the hookers on a street corner, underneath a light post. A couple of teenagers are playing cee-lo nearby.

“I was supposed to slap you bitches around if you didn’t have my goddamn money, but I’m not sure if I can do that. If the agency calls, would you just tell them I did it?”

The hookers look at him bemusedly.

“Come on.”

Cut to Tim in a filthy alleyway, behind an overflowing dumpster. He’s hovering tentatively around a flashy-looking prostitute giving a blowjob to a fat, sweaty businessman in his early 50s. He lamely proffers a flimsy carbon triplicate form as she’s doing her business.

“Uh…can I get you to sign my timesheet?”


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