The Children's War

by C. P. Boyko

  Lea. “Read the rest.”

  Matheson. “Our third demand is safety.”

  Sid. “What on earth here’s unsafe?”

  Lea. “Everything!”

  Matheson. “I’ll itemize. The ceiling fans should be replaced. Last week, in the propellant room, a blade fell, nearly killing Radar Houghpt.”

  Sid. “Was he wearing his helmet?”

  Matheson. “We want to see installed some cages round annealers, guardrails round conveyor belts, and by the gangway, barriers, before an arm is lost, or someone’s burned, or falls and breaks their neck. The oldest crimpers, too, are operating hot, which yet’ll cause autoignition, costing eyes—or lives.”

  Sid. “I need help understanding. You’re saying you want to be treated like adults, but still you want Dad to protect you from harm. Keep your arms the hell out of conveyor belts. Shit! Don’t collide with annealers. Wear your goggles! Be careful. Remember the sign: Stay alert, stay alive. We can upgrade machines, we can pack every man in excelsior, shield each sharp corner with bubble wrap, but if you flout regulations, you’re careless, you’re stupid, the whole goddamn factory could, any minute, explode. Every life’s on the line at all times! If I dreamed there was anyone couldn’t be trusted, I’d fire ’em; I wouldn’t have hired ’em. It seems that I’ve got more respect for you all than you do for yourselves.”

  Lea. “Sure, when money’s to be saved.”

  Sid. “There’s no money to save! As accountant, you know that we’re struggling to hold what we’ve got, that we run at full pelt to stay put. Were there money to spare, I would buy you all platinum wristwatches, teeth made of gold, electronic fur coats, pearls of string, and convertible aerodynamical hats for your feet, but there is no more money unless there’s more sales! And repairs, yes, cost money! That’s math!”

  Matheson. “And Lea, as our accountant, also knows the factory makes ten point sixteen net percent in profit.”

  Daize. “That is a little misleading . . .”

  Sid. “That is none of their business. That’s none of your business! What the hell do you know about profit, percents, net or gross? D’you suppose that it goes in my pocket? It keeps this place running. Materials, freight, and the rent, electricity, payroll . . . It’s profit that keeps you in jobs. If it’s oxygen, we’re short of breath—and I’m wasting my own. In this industry, ten sixteen’s nothing. It bores me to say this out loud. It’s a waste of attention to listen to you. Twenty years I have fought on behalf of you stumps, and you don’t even realize; you make me fight you! Mister Matheson Church, who has worked here three years—on the floor! And Lea Pensilby! After thirteen in the office you ought to know better! And you! I gave all of you livelihoods!, paychecks!, intent! Your ingratitude’s second to ignorance only.”

  Matheson. “We’re still not finished, Mister Bab-

  cock—Sid.”

  Sid. “I don’t care. Have it framed, have it hung on the wall. Roll it up, shove it up your collective behind. I’ve been here twenty years, long as any of you puny glorified janitors; longer than them, bloated glorified landlords. I’ve tripled our sales and I’ve doubled our staff. Just the person to oust, with a job action looming. Delightful. Divine. —Go on strike? Great idea! See how you like it: I’m goddamn going on strike. Yes, we’ll see who the hell’s indispensable. I fucking quit. I concede, as director outgoing, to every demand. And I grant all your wishes; worse, power to grant all your own. I bequeath to you infinite rope; may you fashion a noose to contain every neck. Yes, the factory’s yours; may it crush you. Get out of my way. You can all go to hell. With your net percent profit.” He pauses on the threshold. “Go shower yourselves with my shit.” Sid exits.

  After a stunned pause, the janitor returns the garbage bag she has been holding to the garbage can.

  Janitor. “And you can take out your own garbage from now on, too.”

  Lea. “What just happened?”

  Matheson. “It’s over. We have won.”

  The janitor hugs the receptionist.

  Lea. “We weren’t finished reading the demands yet.”

  Matheson. “There’s now no need. They’re all accepted.” To Daize. “Or’s there anything that you would like to say?”

  Daize. “What do you mean?”

  Matheson. “The charter, my associate tells me, lists as vice-director one Daize Glied.”

  Lea. “Not the charter . . .”

  Daize. “That was a joke, I assure you, of Sid’s. Or a gesture, quite empty: a title in lieu of a raise, or more duties, or perks. I am only, was only, director’s assistant—his helper or personal aide sort of thing, it was.”

  Matheson. “You’re not allegiant to our former boss, or loyal to the status quo?”

  Daize. “Only to what is the best for the company. Not that it matters what I want. It’s you who’s in charge now, apparently.”

  Lea. “We who are. And you as well are.”

  Matheson. “And yet, it seems to me we hardly need, with no executives, executive assistants anymore. Perhaps the best thing for the company would be for all superfluous employees to resign.”

  Lea. “Don’t be vengeful, Matheson. For crying skies, it’s not a coup or revolution. Let’s not start with purges, reigns of terror, or beheadings.”

  Matheson. “You’re right, of course. At least today, this hour of triumph, shall no stain of bloodshed see.”

  Union member, at the door. “Hey, Matheson, what’s going on? We saw Mister Babcock storm stomping out of here in a huff. Are we going on strike, or what?”

  Matheson. “I’ll tell you all together; first you’ll shut down everything, and gather round below.”

  Union member exits, shouting: “Shut it down! We’re going on strike!”

  Lea. “That decision should’ve been a joint one. They’re already treating him like he’s the new director.”

  At a nod from Matheson, the janitor slides open the window. The last machines wind down and stop, leaving a warm, ticking, echoing silence.

  Lea. “Shouldn’t we discuss first what you’re saying?”

  Matheson. “I’ll know what’s in my heart when out it spills across my tongue, but not before. I feel it’s much; its swelling spate distends my throat with ache like tears unshed. I’ll shout; I must. —My brothers, sisters, friends! Accomplices and colleagues; partners, comrades, kin—rejoice! We’ve overcome! The factory is ours! The tyrant’s left the plant—for good. The threat of our consolidated might, the sight of our united wrath, sufficed to cow, dishearten, overpower him. Our matchless force in solidarity prevailed. We hardly dared to hope for such complete success. My joy’s a measure of my proud amazement; gratitude betrays surprise; but shouldn’t I have known that we would be victorious? For it’s only when divided that we’re conquered; only when disorganized exploited. Conquest, though, and exploitation sow revolt; stung pride, balked need, and desperation unify inevitably, joining all against their common enemy: the profiteers who sell sweat-labor cheap—and, worse, treat cheap, to justify their victimizing bent, the ones whose sweat they sell. From this day forth, we’ll set our price ourselves, and reap our own rewards. Let this day mark the birth of our cooperative! There much remains to do; with freedom comes responsibility, and with responsibility comes work, and sacrifice. But, unlike former pains, which smarted like a whip inflicted, these shall make us pleased and proud, as muscles sore from voluntary exercise are felt as promise, growth, and strength incipient. We have shed the rank excrescence; here’s to clean and streamlined health! The dictatorial head is lopped; long live the body! Now we walk in tandem, not on one another’s backs. We chatter not in raucous counterpoint, but sing in one harmonious unison!”

  Matheson leads the workers in song. “We’ll smash the system, break the bars, the apparatus blast; no longer will we be content to be the least and last!

  “You’ll keep us down no long
er, for together we’re much stronger! You’ll keep us in no fetters, for together we’ve no betters!

  “We’re the best! You’re the worst! You’re the last! We’re the first!

  “Your power, this very hour! Give it us!”

  Matheson speaks over the singers. “We’ll celebrate this breaking dawn with toasts and tippling! To the pub! Let no one treat, but all one tab divide! Come, Lea, and Daize—no more ‘Miz Glied’—teetotaling’s forbidden. Intoxicating triumph we’ll enhance with ale—or simulate with ale, perhaps, until it’s felt for real?”

  Lea. “Everyone can’t leave at once. There’s safety regulations for a shutdown, surely. Stations to secure, machines to power off, and doors to lock, at least? I hardly know; it’s never happened, to my knowledge.”

  Matheson. “We’ll leave all that to those responsible. Assume each person knows their job. You’re not in charge, remember? No one is! Besides, we’re not abandoning the factory completely, I should guess. Let’s not forget the thirty-two percent of clerical, custodial, and support staff who withheld support, and whom you do not represent. Let them hold down the fort!”

  Daize, rummaging in the filing cabinet. “I’ll stay behind and ensure that procedures are followed correctly.”

  Lea. “I’ll stay too. I’ll join you later, Matheson. Promise. After all, there’s still so much we haven’t figured out . . . The fifth and sixth of our demands, for instance, which we never thought he’d grant us . . .”

  Matheson. “Tomorrow’s soon enough to change the world. Let’s leave things as they are for one day more.” Matheson exits with the others, singing.

  Daize withdraws papers from the cabinet. “Here. And a copy for you.”

  Lea. “Right. What’s first?”

  Daize. “First is the coolant controller, which hopefully someone’s already put into its standby mode.”

  Lea. “What a mess.”

  As they exit, Daize begins to shut the door behind them, but on second thought leaves it open.

  The office has become a workers’ lounge, as evidenced by disarrayed chairs, and clothing and scraps of food and garbage lying about. The desk has been cleared of papers, which have been replaced by a chessboard and microwave. The filing cabinet hangs open, as does the door. A poster on the wall reads Cleanliness Is Next to Solidarity. A worker in overalls sits at the conference table, eating from a plastic container. The two janitors enter.

  Male janitor, to the worker. “You here for the quarterly meeting?”

  The worker makes a sarcastic gesture towards his meal.

  Male janitor. “Well, there’s gonna be a meeting in here in a few minutes, so you maybe gonna want to leave before it starts.”

  Female janitor. “Leave ’im alone.”

  Male janitor. “Aw, I’m only saying.”

  The worker finishes eating without haste, and exits.

  Male janitor. “Pull yourself a chair up. We’re first ones here. Maybe they let me take the minutes.”

  Female janitor. “I gotta say, I find your newfound enthusiasm a little hard to digest.”

  Male janitor. “Heh. Get me a few new marketable skills and take me to someplace maybe where they pay me more.”

  Female janitor. “You’re the worst kind of opportunist! You shouldn’t been allowed in the union.”

  Male janitor. “I ain’t had me a raise since this hullabaloo started.”

  Female janitor. “That was only three months ago! And before that, when did you ever see a raise? Besides, that wasn’t a raise. That was wage equalization. Some folks lost money.”

  Male janitor. “And they should’ve taken themself elsewhere—like what I plan to do.”

  A couple of workers enter, laughing and chatting. “Thing took hold of his entire arm, right up to the shoulder there! No shit!”

  Female janitor. “You all here for the meeting?”

  Worker. “You kidding. Another fucking meeting?”

  Male janitor. “This one’s the quarterly. Wanna get here early and get a good seat.”

  The workers exchange a look and exit.

  Female janitor. “What I’d like to know is where your loyalty’s at. They ain’t been training you around in different jobs just so you can take your trained-up ass someplace else. And you think they’re gonna ask your opinion or give you a vote at some other company?”

  Male janitor. “They sure maybe might, if they know I been asked for my vote in the past. That’s called resumé. And I’m getting me some steel-shiny resumé.”

  Female janitor. “You never should’ve been allowed in. You and all the other latecomer bandwagon-jumpers looking out for themself. Sometimes I don’t know what Matheson Church is thinking.”

  Male janitor. “I could be loyal maybe to these bonuses he been talking about.”

  Female janitor. “Those’re gonna be for the hardest workers—not you. It’s another kind of equalization, actually. Some work’s harder than other work, even if you do put in the same number hours.”

  Male janitor. “Way I hear it, it’s the union will decide who works hardest.”

  Female janitor. “So? Who else would decide?”

  Male janitor. “Well, I’m union now, ain’t I? So maybe I decide it’s I’m who’s working hardest.”

  Female janitor. “And maybe I joined the union before you, and maybe I got a different view on the matter.”

  Male janitor. “Aw.”

  Female janitor. “Anyway, you’re half right. Janitor’s among the hardest work there is, and people still treat us like second-class. Probably I wouldn’t doubt it’s the harder you work, the more the soft and lazy people gotta look down on you—way to try and maintain their own self-respect. Only way to fix that’s to pay us a little more. Get some of that prestige up. Should be called prestige equalization, really.”

  Male janitor. “All I know’s buy me some nice new shoes. These getting pretty ratty. No prestige in that.”

  Lea and Daize enter.

  Lea. “It’s projected loss, until we’re out of stock. It’s maddening, however. Really aggravating. Aren’t we all supposed to be this unified collective, working for each other, for ourselves? A happy family?”

  Daize. “Sid used to say that too.”

  Lea. “That’s because he saw himself as father, with a father’s power, and infallible. All paternalists think they’re paternal. There’s a grain of righteousness within the adolescent’s peeved rebelliousness, when taking little somethings from the old man’s wallet. But to pilfer from your siblings? From yourselves? It’s lunacy, obtuseness.”

  A worker enters.

  Lea. “You here for the meeting?”

  Worker. “Oh, is that now?”

  Lea. “Starting in about five minutes. Will you come back then?”

  Worker. “Oh, I can’t in five minutes, sorry.”

  Lea. “Never mind. But close the door behind you, will you?” To the janitors. “And’re you here for the meeting?”

  Male janitor. “Sure as sharks eat fish!”

  Lea. “Wonderful, but will you let us have the room until it starts? We’ve got some things that need discussing. I appreciate it.”

  Male janitor. “All right, no problem, can do.” The janitors exit, closing the door behind them.

  Lea. “Nine point ninety-seven’s not so measly. We have fallen under ten, four other times, four other quarters, over five years. Thus, this quarter’s round the twentieth, twenty-fourth percentile. But you go back ten, it’s right around the average. Not so lousy. I should even say it’s quite within the range of normal fluctuation. Taking in consideration all the drastic changes we’ve experienced, the upheaval undergone, the transformation we’ve been able to achieve these past three months, one’s bound to say that it’s a miracle we’ve done so well. I’m not ashamed of nine point ninety-seven—though I do wish it
were better. —Did you talk to whatsisname, the guy who never cared for Sid, your contact at Horizon Techware?”

  Daize. “Selton Faraj. Yes, this morning, at length. Says they won’t place an order unless we can drop down to fifty a case.”

  Lea. “Has he lost his reason?”

  Daize. “All the departments, he says, he supplies, have been downsized, or will be, or worry they soon will be. Money is scarce these days.”

  Lea. “Isn’t crime increasing? What’s the matter with this country?”

  Daize. “That’s the perception, in any case. Violence in crime is apparently down, though, according to him. Law and order’s unpopular just at the moment, he says. Individual freedom’s the catchword right now—independence, autonomy. So the departments’re feeling the squeeze in their budgets.”

  Lea. “What we need’s a thumping civil war. —Of course I’m only joking.”

  A worker enters. “Oh.”

  Lea. “Hi. You coming for the meeting?”

  Worker. “No thanks.” The worker exits.

  Daize. “Maybe I could’ve persuaded him better in person.”

  Lea. “Can’t afford to fly you clear across the continent whenever there’s a contract needs negotiating. Makes us look a little desperate, too, I’d think. It’s better, surely, to appear unneedy, and a little bit aloof. Suggest to him that we’ve less need of him than he has need of us. Besides, we can’t go low as fifty. It’d set a precedent.”

  Daize. “You’ve the decision to make.”

  Lea. “Or you don’t agree? If your opinion’s we should sell at fifty, I’ll present both sides and bring it to a vote.”

  Daize. “Anything sold’d reduce excess stock—though the thieving is doing that too—and help transfer some numbers to ledgers’ black sides.”

  Lea. “Yes, I’d feel much better if our books looked better. But I’m hopeful we can get to ten point ten by end of year. The owners cannot hardly be displeased with that. And with the workers happier, the future of the company is solider than ever. Anyway, they’ve tasted freedom, and are dead against all interference. No, the owners wouldn’t dare appoint a new director, risking costly turmoil, if we manage ten point ten, or somewhat better, overall, and by year-end. Or don’t you think so?”