The Docility Tax

How corporate authoritarianism trains us to police ourselves

So yesterday I was walking by a store that sold fruit and vegetables, and I noticed that tomatoes were priced reasonably for a change. I took out my phone and snapped a photo of them—the sign, with the price and the tomatoes below—to send to my mother, who was just telling me the other day that tomatoes have become a bit expensive. I wanted to know if I should buy her any, I suppose. Anyway, I was then accosted by an employee who told me that I wasn’t allowed to take photos of the produce.

“Because if I do, I’ll be in trouble?” said I, wonderingly. “With the fruit and vegetable police? They’re gonna come down and arrest me? For taking photos of tomatoes?”

This shop is large and affluent, and frequently crowded with customers. It’s a franchise, I think, and whenever I walk by there seems to be a line of people out the door. Oh, and I was standing under three security cameras. So the store records me and my daughters passing by each day—even when we’re not shopping there—but still, nobody is allowed to photograph anything in their store. You know, because of reasons.

The first thought to enter my head? Wealthy people are getting a bit uppish, aren’t they?

I’m becoming a little more annoyed at corporations. Among other things, I no longer pay for streaming services because I don’t see the value. In 2019, Netflix was $8.99 a month and today it’s $15.49. Disney+ was $6.99 in 2019 and now it’s $15.99. They’re all just greedy and—let’s be honest—a little hostile towards customers.

It reminds me of when I was moving my family back to Australia: our flights were canceled by the airline, and they refused to refund us for our tickets. After six months, I wrote to them about how I was talking to the media about it. Half an hour later, they refunded me my $8,000 USD. I may have cc’d their CEO, but it shouldn’t have come to that.

And lately, I’ve been thinking about influencers. I gather that certain sorts of people can make vast piles of money from billionaires and autocratic regimes, as long as they’re prepared to spread hate and anti-democratic sentiment within their home country. Any enterprising sociopath can rake in a large pile of money that way; all they need is the willingness to foment hatred towards—I don’t know?—people with attached earlobes or something. In any case, this behavior is both legal and lucrative.

But I knew nothing about these people until recently. I guess I’m not the sort of person who pays much attention to people who blather from behind podiums. They wave their arms about wildly and issue dire warnings. They point at the air in front of them and... I think they look a bit silly, frankly. They also seem to rant a lot about how people with attached earlobes are genetically inferior and evil, and—somehow—stealing all the jobs from good, clean folk with proper, detached earlobes. So, you know, we have to donate all our money to them right now, or else we will all wake up one day and find people with attached earlobes inside our homes, eating our pet tortoises. Oh, and I guess if we donate in the next fifteen minutes, we receive a free hat.

(I don’t like to be discouraging, but if any of you are writing dystopian fiction at the moment, then I suggest you might as well stop because, frankly, your moment has passed.)

Now, all these things give me the ick. Airlines, political influencers, high-end grocery stores, streaming services—they make me feel a sense of irreparable repugnance. And of course, my perspective is that of a generally happy person. I have no idea how people who suffer from depression are coping with all this.

What fascinates me is that there is an entire section of humanity that goes along with any of this nonsense. Some influencer gets behind a podium and says, “Well, see, the price of tomatoes is high because people with attached earlobes are hoarding them, and what they’re going to do, see, is send them to the moon on a rocket. And that’s why we gotta stop them!”

And everyone in the audience nods angrily and mutters, “I knew it!” and “I gotta give this guy my money, straight away!”

Now, I realize I’m supposed to be one of those people in the crowd. I’m supposed to be docile. Also, I wasn’t supposed to demand my money back from that airline. That’s why they made me wait for six months. They know most customers will give up eventually, and the airline can then keep their money. This entire system requires docility, and if you’re not like that, you’re expected to feel unhappy, depressed, and defeated. (I don’t, by the way; I’m not what you might call a cooperative person. It’s a disorder, remember.)

But there is, it seems to me, a percentage of people who are basically servile and will believe anything an influencer says. And if anyone says, “Hey! Why is my streaming service too expensive?” they reply, “Why are you talking about that? Don’t you know there are people with attached earlobes who are sending our fresh produce to the moon?”

Oh, I just remembered the first time that thing happened to me—the hostile, uppish storekeeper experience. I was in Paris. My wife was on a business trip, and I’d tagged along. There was this formal event, and my wife had forgotten to pack her nice shoes, so she sent me off to a certain store to get some. I found the shoes she’d described but prudently sent her a photo of them with my phone. You know, to ensure she liked them.

The store manager saw me do this, and she screamed at me. Loudly. For, like, two minutes. To be fair, she was French, so I was not astonished by her behavior. I also didn’t buy the somewhat expensive shoes from her shop. C’est la vie.

Then another time, I was passing by the foyer of an office building—this time, I was in Boston—and noticed a beautiful Christmas tree in the window. I went inside to marvel at it and, in fact, take a photo of the tree with my phone (which, I am now realizing, I seem to do an awful lot). Anyway, a security guard came over and told me I wasn’t allowed to take photos of the Christmas tree.

And I said: “Is this because the decorations are top secret? And you have to be on the lookout for international spies, saboteurs, scoundrels, blackguards, and all-round ne’er-do-wells who might come in here and purloin your designs for decorating Christmas trees?”

By the way, after that I went home and used the photograph I took of that Christmas tree as the background for one of my Wrongcards. I guess I felt I had no choice. I’m not proud of this, but I can be a bit of a scofflaw at times.

Now, I’m aware there might be something wrong with me. I mean, I seem to use my phone an awful lot to take random photos everywhere. But I also don’t seem terribly deferential to authority. Whether it’s a man behind a podium spreading hate against his fellow citizens (at the behest of hostile foreign nations and billionaires) or merely some uppish fruit vendor, I’m never entirely cooperative.

Personally, I think I’m suffering from some sort of disorder, and therefore invite your consolation and pity. What is it like, having this disorder? Well, let me describe it for you.

There I was, out and about, and going about my business with blameless innocence—as I generally do—when some self-important Cardinal (personally appointed by the Actual Pope of Produce, in fact!) wafted up to me, looking splendid in his purple robes, and also faintly redolent of incense and perfumes from the Orient. His eyes fell upon me and he frowned. Then he spoke to me—me, a humble peasant!—and I’ll never forget his words. He said: “Thou Shalt Not Take Photos Within These Sacred Chambers!”

His Excellency did not say, “If thou shalt not desist from taking photos of this Sacred Vegetable, then thou shalt incur the Wrath of God. And Thou Shalt Be Smote with Thy Rod, Thy Locust, and Thy Botch of Egypt!” Because I guess standards have fallen off a little these days.

This, at least, is how it feels to be me in a situation of that sort.

I have this sense—clearly, it’s irrational, but I’ll tell you anyway—that the wealthier people in this world have started to look upon themselves as pharaohs, and we—you and I—are, to them, but humble peasants. Meanwhile, everybody is talking about earlobes. And others are worrying about decorum, or whether or not they have, as individuals, been sufficiently pious or fawning towards people who wish to persecute, deport, or even murder millions of other people who happen to have a differently shaped earlobe.

As I reflect upon the matter, it is possible I have not paid close attention to their main argument. Then again, I’m not exactly good cultist material. Try to imagine it.

Cult Leader: Kris, you’re not allowed to take a photo of the Sacred Idol of Boomshaka.

Me: Because if I do, I’ll be in trouble? With the sacred idol police? They’re gonna come down and arrest me? For taking photos of the sacred idol, man? Is that what you’re telling me?

Anyway. With chaste affection,

Kris St. Gabriel