Mike Daisey - Twenty-one Dog Years - Doing Time at Amazon.com

Doing Time @ Amazon.com

For Jean-Michele

It is difficult not to marvel at the imagination which was implicit in this gargantuan insanity. If there must be madness something may be said for having it on a heroic scale.

—John Kenneth Galbraith, The Great Crash

It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with such an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished.

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Cover

Title Page Twenty-One Dog Years Doing Time @ Amazon.com

Dedication For Jean-Michele

Epigraphs Epigraphs Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Epigraphs 1: Dilettante 2: Freak Parade 3: Doors for Desks 4: Geek Messiah Subject: introductions 5: Our Physics 6: College Years Subject: transformers, dreams 7: Gorillas vs. Bears 8: 1-Click™ Christmas Subject: oompa-loompa 9: Mission Statements 10: Interviews Subject:to tell you 11: Supervillain Lair 12: Pornsniffing Subject: accident 13: Fiscal Wonderland 14: Exit Interview Subject: au revoir 15: Museum of Ham Subject: laugh with me 16: Field Trip Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright About the Publisher It is difficult not to marvel at the imagination which was implicit in this gargantuan insanity. If there must be madness something may be said for having it on a heroic scale. —John Kenneth Galbraith, The Great Crash It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with such an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished. —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

1: Dilettante

2: Freak Parade

3: Doors for Desks

4: Geek Messiah

Subject: introductions

5: Our Physics

6: College Years

Subject: transformers, dreams

7: Gorillas vs. Bears

8: 1-Click™ Christmas

Subject: oompa-loompa

9: Mission Statements

10: Interviews

Subject:to tell you

11: Supervillain Lair

12: Pornsniffing

Subject: accident

13: Fiscal Wonderland

14: Exit Interview

Subject: au revoir

15: Museum of Ham

Subject: laugh with me

16: Field Trip

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

When Amazon went to temping companies to recruit future employees, it gave a simple directive: send us your freaks. I know this is true because the people at the temping companies, not the sharpest knives in the drawer, would tell the people they were recruiting that this was the requirement. Not that it stopped me, no sir. I might not precisely regard myself as a professional freak, but as job descriptions go it falls well within my range.

I am a dilettante. I do many things, but none particularly well. It is the art of not applying yourself, the only craft I have studied my entire life. Like so many others of my generation, I cherish the delusion that I have superpowers buried deep inside me. They’re awaiting the perfect trigger—radiation, a child in danger—and in that defining moment I will finally know my birthright: mutant healing factor, terrifying strength, maybe kick-ass retractable admantium claws. In a good daydream, it’s all three.

When you know that you are destined for greatness by virtue of your mutant heritage it is difficult to apply yourself to normal life. Why waste the effort when you know that your potential is so tremendous? Better to wait. Better not to try, to save yourself for the Great Works to come. Nothing you do will ever be more than a footnote in light of your own unimaginable future, so save your breath and bide your time. Nurture your talent. Read a book. Play Nintendo.

It’s a depressing life. The word dilettante derives from the Italian dilettare , meaning to delight in. Well, no one buys that—not even the dilettantes. It’s a tough racket that favors the young: I was twenty-five and rapidly becoming the only practicing dilettante left from my college class. Being a dilettante is the opposite of having a viable career, and most people discover they don’t enjoy starving, so they find a life and quickly settle into their private hells by choice or inertia.

I do have an advantage in the dilettante market; I have a bachelor’s degree in aesthetics. No, really. At interviews it’s the first thing people ask about, and I can tell they want to laugh at me. I think they should—it would be a great release for everyone involved. I should have known something was wrong when the recruiting professional for Amazon said my degree was the reason she had called.

Majoring in aesthetics seemed like a good idea at the time—something that would free me up for the life of a wandering scholar without earthly ties, a book-oriented Caine from Kung Fu. You see, I’d grown up in far northern Maine, in the small town of Fort Kent, at the absolute end of U.S. Route 1. There’s actually a sign where the road ends, next to the bridge to Canada: HERE ENDS U.S. ROUTE 1, WHICH BEGINS IN KEY WEST, FLORIDA.

This pronouncement contradicted the idea we were fed in school that roads had no end. Its presence reinforced something that I had always known, even as a child. Growing up between the paper mill and the potato field, it was clear to me that there were places out of which you could not maneuver, places with ends so dead that they defied inhabitants to imagine another way of life. In my eyes that sign had always read: HERE IS THE END OF THE ROAD, AND HERE IS WHERE YOU MUST STAY.

Bragging about how “rural” your upbringing was is like comparing penises—someone else’s tin shack is always further up the mountain. But I usually win, owing to a unique topological irregularity: no matter where you are, Fort Kent is far, far away. These anecdotes sketch some of northern Maine’s character:

a)During winter, gasoline turns to jelly in your tank if you leave your car unheated overnight, so everyone puts a bare light bulb under the hood. My mother goes a step further and puts blankets on the hood, tucking the car in like a baby.