Trying to purchase a gift for my brother at a department store, something unusual happened. Right after the cashier told me my purchase would be $25.98, and before I could get out my wallet, a balding, paunchy caped man jumped between us and yelled, "$25.98 for that wallet is outrageous!"
The cashier and I shared a look before I asked the man inquisitively, "Am I paying too much?"
He replied, "Too little! That wallet should cost $32.65!"
At which point he laughed maniacally then disappeared in a cloud of steam.
The cashier looked back down at the price tag, scanned the item again, and said, "That'll be $32.65, please."
This was my first encounter with Middle Man.
But not my last.
From then on everywhere I went, he was there, too. Buying bananas from the supermarket, getting gas for my truck, or even purchasing a large Big Grab of Flamin' Hot Cheetos from my very favorite convenience store. If something was $1.79 by the time I picked it up and got to the cash register it'd be $2.57.
It began to get ridiculous, every day something went up: property taxes, utility bills, cell phone bill. Everything, it turned out, except my paycheck.
The straw that broke the camel's back was the night I took my girlfriend out for a romantic meal, left the table for a moment, and came back to find Middle Man sitting in my chair, drinking my Pinot Noir and wooing her in his tight Lycra outfit. When I made a grab for him he disappeared in his now trademark puff of steam.
Naturally, the check on the table had been marked up 7.5%.
Here I was, just barely making it, and this caped interloper was ruining my personal economy. Who, in fact, was Middle Man? And, moreover, how could I stop him?
I decided my first tactic to elude him would be by shopping at the Farmers' Market. Sunday morning I tested the waters gingerly, by picking up a pound and a half of locally grown Pink Lady apples from the farmer himself.
"That'll be $3.50, please."
I looked around cautiously and handed him my cash. He handed me the apples.
No steam. No price increases. No Middle Man.
It was then and there I decided to become Middle Man's arch nemesis.
I shopped solely at Farmers' Markets and small boutiques. I got off The Grid by putting solar panels on my roof. I started washing my own car and learned to make lattes myself. I began creating an elaborate and complex plan to disassemble the Electoral College.
In my secret laboratory, far below the earth, I fashioned a Lycra costume of my own, emblazoned with a bold dollar sign with a red circle and slash across it on the front. After weeks my look finally came together: The Sovereign Shield of Independence, the Gloves of Self-Reliance, the Spear of Individualism, and the Cape of Good Hope (which was a hand-me-down from another arch nemesis I met on MySpace).
Wherever people gathered at a knitting circle to make their own clothes, I was there. Whenever a man brewed his own beer, I was there. Every time some sniveling child in this city picked themselves up from the ground, dusted themselves off, and fixed their own bike without taking it to an expensive high-end bicycle shop, I was there.
Though I realized I couldn't go on like this without coming face-to-face with my mortal enemy.
So it happened one foggy late evening by the docks. A shipment of Etch-A-Sketches had come into a seedy port and Middle Man was making sure every price had increased before they reached the toy stores. I came out of the shadows and called him out.
"Middle Man, I might have expected," I said with a chuckle. He was startled, but steeled his eyes at me.
"Who are you?" he questioned.
I puffed out my chest and told him, "I'm Pink Lady Man!" (I hadn't really been able to come up with any interesting names, so settle on using my first apple purchase at the Farmers' Market as an inspiration. But actually saying it to my enemy I realized it didn't sound as hot as I'd originally thought.)
It dawned on him exactly who I was. "So you're the one who has been fouling my work."
"Glad to be of service! Especially when there are children involved," came my retort. "But I'm afraid it's been YOU who's been fouling things up. For me and the citizenry of Megopolis. I've come to stop you!"
He stopped, looked at me, and laughed. "Why, Pink Lady Man, I actually think you are the confused one. You're trying to cut me out, but without me, Metropolis wouldn't have any money to fund hospitals. Or schools."
Ack! He'd found my weakness, my Kryptonite! I fell to my knees.
"Or a Metropolis Police force." POW! "Or libraries." BLAM! "Or a Coast Guard, government, lifeguards, or street repair people!" BOOM! BASH! KA-BLAM!
I had been knocked on my back onto the edge of the dock, bloody and beaten. Middle Man leaned over me and stared me straight in the eye.
"And you, of all people, should be the last to complain. You're in middle management!" he intoned.
I thought I saw a slight smile on his face the moment before I blacked out.
Four months have come and gone, and I've since closed my secret lab, gone back on the grid, and only sometimes visit that famous Farmers' Market which first gave me my super name (they still have the best apples).
At my day job (no longer my secret identity) I often stop and wonder about that rotund masked man.
And as I busily work on spreadsheet after spreadsheet full of markups, margins, and gross profits, I realize, after all is said and done...
Aren't we all Middle Man?
The cashier and I shared a look before I asked the man inquisitively, "Am I paying too much?"
He replied, "Too little! That wallet should cost $32.65!"
At which point he laughed maniacally then disappeared in a cloud of steam.
The cashier looked back down at the price tag, scanned the item again, and said, "That'll be $32.65, please."
This was my first encounter with Middle Man.
But not my last.
From then on everywhere I went, he was there, too. Buying bananas from the supermarket, getting gas for my truck, or even purchasing a large Big Grab of Flamin' Hot Cheetos from my very favorite convenience store. If something was $1.79 by the time I picked it up and got to the cash register it'd be $2.57.
It began to get ridiculous, every day something went up: property taxes, utility bills, cell phone bill. Everything, it turned out, except my paycheck.
The straw that broke the camel's back was the night I took my girlfriend out for a romantic meal, left the table for a moment, and came back to find Middle Man sitting in my chair, drinking my Pinot Noir and wooing her in his tight Lycra outfit. When I made a grab for him he disappeared in his now trademark puff of steam.
Naturally, the check on the table had been marked up 7.5%.
Here I was, just barely making it, and this caped interloper was ruining my personal economy. Who, in fact, was Middle Man? And, moreover, how could I stop him?
I decided my first tactic to elude him would be by shopping at the Farmers' Market. Sunday morning I tested the waters gingerly, by picking up a pound and a half of locally grown Pink Lady apples from the farmer himself.
"That'll be $3.50, please."
I looked around cautiously and handed him my cash. He handed me the apples.
No steam. No price increases. No Middle Man.
It was then and there I decided to become Middle Man's arch nemesis.
I shopped solely at Farmers' Markets and small boutiques. I got off The Grid by putting solar panels on my roof. I started washing my own car and learned to make lattes myself. I began creating an elaborate and complex plan to disassemble the Electoral College.
In my secret laboratory, far below the earth, I fashioned a Lycra costume of my own, emblazoned with a bold dollar sign with a red circle and slash across it on the front. After weeks my look finally came together: The Sovereign Shield of Independence, the Gloves of Self-Reliance, the Spear of Individualism, and the Cape of Good Hope (which was a hand-me-down from another arch nemesis I met on MySpace).
Wherever people gathered at a knitting circle to make their own clothes, I was there. Whenever a man brewed his own beer, I was there. Every time some sniveling child in this city picked themselves up from the ground, dusted themselves off, and fixed their own bike without taking it to an expensive high-end bicycle shop, I was there.
Though I realized I couldn't go on like this without coming face-to-face with my mortal enemy.
So it happened one foggy late evening by the docks. A shipment of Etch-A-Sketches had come into a seedy port and Middle Man was making sure every price had increased before they reached the toy stores. I came out of the shadows and called him out.
"Middle Man, I might have expected," I said with a chuckle. He was startled, but steeled his eyes at me.
"Who are you?" he questioned.
I puffed out my chest and told him, "I'm Pink Lady Man!" (I hadn't really been able to come up with any interesting names, so settle on using my first apple purchase at the Farmers' Market as an inspiration. But actually saying it to my enemy I realized it didn't sound as hot as I'd originally thought.)
It dawned on him exactly who I was. "So you're the one who has been fouling my work."
"Glad to be of service! Especially when there are children involved," came my retort. "But I'm afraid it's been YOU who's been fouling things up. For me and the citizenry of Megopolis. I've come to stop you!"
He stopped, looked at me, and laughed. "Why, Pink Lady Man, I actually think you are the confused one. You're trying to cut me out, but without me, Metropolis wouldn't have any money to fund hospitals. Or schools."
Ack! He'd found my weakness, my Kryptonite! I fell to my knees.
"Or a Metropolis Police force." POW! "Or libraries." BLAM! "Or a Coast Guard, government, lifeguards, or street repair people!" BOOM! BASH! KA-BLAM!
I had been knocked on my back onto the edge of the dock, bloody and beaten. Middle Man leaned over me and stared me straight in the eye.
"And you, of all people, should be the last to complain. You're in middle management!" he intoned.
I thought I saw a slight smile on his face the moment before I blacked out.
Four months have come and gone, and I've since closed my secret lab, gone back on the grid, and only sometimes visit that famous Farmers' Market which first gave me my super name (they still have the best apples).
At my day job (no longer my secret identity) I often stop and wonder about that rotund masked man.
And as I busily work on spreadsheet after spreadsheet full of markups, margins, and gross profits, I realize, after all is said and done...
Aren't we all Middle Man?
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