The Children's War

by C. P. Boyko

  Daize, hesitating. “May I speak frankly?”

  Lea. “Naturally. I value— Your opinion’s always valued.”

  Daize. “Really you shouldn’t put every least question to vote. It’s confusing to people, and tiring, and leads to these meetings interminable, which is why they’re so clearly unpopular.”

  Lea. “There are still a couple minutes left yet.”

  Daize. “You’re in a better position than anyone, nearly, for making decisions: you’re expert, and knowledgeable, and your vision is clear. But you open instead every matter to endless and fruitless discussion. The average employee knows nothing, moreover cares nothing, of selling a case at fifteen, or five hundred, or fifty.”

  Lea. “You and I can understand, so we can surely help them understand it also.”

  Daize. “What is the point of that? Wisdom’s no precious, rare, widely distributed ore you accumulate only from numerous mines. It’s a clarity born of a ripened and orderly calm—so’s more commonly found in the sole individual, less in cacophonous crowds. Even three people—two—even one person sometimes must dally and dither. Why multiply muddle, inflicting on everyone else your uncertainty?”

  The two laughing workers reenter.

  Worker. “Oh, right, the meeting. Sorry.” They exit.

  Daize. “When you’re explaining, they listen—because you are better informed, more experienced, et cetera. But then they await, often vainly, your guidance, your reasoned opinion. I won’t resurrect my old arguments why we officially, formally ought to appoint you director. However, I’ll say this much only: they want your direction, Lea—want to be told how to vote! Why then force them to vote at all? Rather, just tell ’em post-facto what you have decided—and why, if you must. They would thank you, I’m sure.”

  Lea. “Maybe, but I cannot work that way, for it’d violate collectivism’s principles: I mean non-hierarchy—anarchy; transparency; democracy. —Often I recall that second day, the day we really took control, the morning after Sid walked out. That morning I let Matheson persuade me equalizing wages—fifth of our demands—would prove too radical, unpopular, extreme, would be defeated if we put it to a referendum, and for all the reasons he adduced: that people more fear change than evil that’s familiar; that we gauge our value only, know our stature only, in comparison with others, and would rather be untall than in a heightless world, would rather be a nobody in midst of somebodies than merely be an anyone, an everyone; that every vote entails a modicum of chance, of risk, and equal wage was too important to be left to chance; that people can’t be trusted to discern and choose what’s best for ’em.”

  Daize. “That’s an assertion I wouldn’t expect from a populist.”

  Lea. “All my faith’s the opposite direction, with enlightened self-determination. Only blinders, ignorance, and barriers prompt our wrongly choosing. Wealthiness and privilege are insupportable with open eyes. There’s few could eat an apple, less enjoy, beneath a starveling’s gaze. The sight of suffering others, their dejection, their abasement, doesn’t cheer or puff us up, but only sickens and dispirits us—and sickens most who benefit the most. The high, no less than low, would gain if lowliness with highness were, in one sharp blow, eradicated. You and I, for instance, had our wages lowered; now there’s none resent us, none whom we despise. We’re better off. And aren’t the shop-floor workers?”

  A knock at the door, which they ignore.

  Daize. “Matheson Church has a different opinion these days, it seems.”

  Lea. “Proof that autocratic, unilateral, oligarchic governance, when even well-intentioned, poisons hearts of those who govern. Half I blame myself for letting him eschew the vote. The only hope for lasting true community of loving and cooperating souls is perfect parity of income—that’s my creed. But I betrayed my faith by implementing it by fiat. I had hoped that ends would expiate for means. Decrees, however, even those decreeing equal freedoms, do perpetuate a hierarchy, which is always built on caste, obedience, inequality. By that same token, every democratic vote, including those relinquishing democracy, do cultivate equality, respect, and freedom. We were lazy shepherds, building sheepfolds; we were nervous, fearful parents nurturing polite propriety with muzzles. Now, today, I’d rather let the factory make joint mistakes than foist on ’em by force or stealth the right decision.”

  Daize. “Doesn’t seem different from Sid’s abdication for spite—no offense.”

  Lea. “Had he done it for the proper reasons, I’d have said it was heroic.” A knock at the door. “Crying heaven, what d’you want?” The male janitor half enters. “Get out! And leave that door unopened till the meeting’s started! Please and thank you!” The janitor closes the door. “When’s this stupid meeting going to start? And where is Matheson? Or doesn’t he think union members have a stake in things like fiscal quarterlies, which only are our lifeblood’s laboratory test results? No, why should anyone find any interest in ’em? Matheson! The problem with decrees personified, is Colleague Church! Beginning from day one, they like a savior treated him, and now he’s all-too-willing master. What the hell does a collective need a union for still, anyway? Without a management, what labor-management relations can there be? There’s no exploitive bosses left to fight! But he continues with his reckless windbag rhetoric, a child repeating witlessly a once-precocious cuss which drew a startled laugh when fresh. A warrior chieftain, he continues rattling spears long after battles have been won, bemused by peace, and loath to yield authority. I wouldn’t doubt this bonus business only’s something meant to keep him grandly busy.”

  Daize. “Full-time crusaders require crusades.”

  Lea. “So, a tethered dog, he digs and paws to mud his own backyard. I understand what people mean by saying a successful revolution’s first concern is getting rid of revolutionaries. Sometimes I could wish we had a guillotine—but he’d have used it first on us, undoubted.”

  Daize. “Let me return, at the risk of displeasing you, to the directorship—which, I believe, in your hands, could be power to neutralize Matheson. He like an enemy treats you already; he’s calling for war. Well, an army needs generals.”

  Lea. “No, no leaders! That’s a crucial tenet. I renounce that, I’m as bad as he is.”

  Daize. “Sometimes to save your abode you must leave it.”

  Lea. “But you don’t protect your valuables by smashing them upon the burglar’s head. I know it’s me who started metaphoring, but let’s stop. They carry us away. This isn’t war or home invasion, and the union’s not a junta—yet. There are no enemies here, only baffled friends. And I’m no leader. I despise both leaders and, increasingly of late, the led.”

  Daize. “What more desirable trait in a leader? Those feelings prevent your corruption, prohibit your power’s abuse.”

  Lea. “Let it be. This revolution will be saved without inverting or debasing or betraying it; or else we’ll let it die a sinless infant’s death. —Well, look who’s come to join us!”

  Matheson, entering. “Hello. I hope I’m not too late to vote.”

  Daize. “What are we voting on?”

  Matheson. “Whatever. Always there’s so much to vote on, isn’t there? Today I come prepared. I’m representing eighty-seven of our union members. Here’s their signatures.”

  Lea. “What is this? The maximum allowed a deputy is five deputed votes, and only then when the deputers cannot come themselves, for whatsoever reason.”

  Matheson. “They’ve all good reasons: either they’re asleep, at work, or at the union hall.”

  Daize. “Meaning the pub!”

  Matheson. “And, point of fact, I only represent these five deputers, as you call ’em; but themselves they represent five others each, which transfer with the deputation; then, those twenty-five in turn are deputies for fifty-some, whose votes all transfer with the transfer of their own.”

  Lea. “Transfers aren’t subsumed
that way; your limit absolute is five.”

  Matheson. “We tweaked that rule. We thought the language was ambivalent. Three words inserted, one removed, was all it took. We’ll find this more efficient, don’t you think? And comfortable. It’s always hard to shoehorn everyone inside this room. But now, how little space our eighty-seven voters take—with you two, eighty-nine.”

  Lea. “Don’t be flippant. We have barely managed quorum for two months now.”

  Matheson. “A flattering adversity: it shows the faith of our constituents. The price of able governance is apathy.”

  Daize. “Anyway, changes to charter amendments aren’t valid unless you’ve got supermajority.”

  Matheson. “We held a meeting—I’m surprised the two of you weren’t there—and changed that rule as well.”

  Lea. “But you cannot change those regulations lacking absolute two-thirds majority!”

  Matheson. “A simple two of every three, in fact, of those both present and allowed to vote.”

  Lea. “You’re precisely wrong; it’s absolute: two-thirds of all who’re eligible. Also, you are obligated to announce all meetings that pertain to charter changes one week in advance, by bulletin board, and by post, or telephone, or leaflet.”

  Matheson. “We also changed those rules, which wasted time.”

  Lea. “None of this is legal. All these things the charter quite explicitly prohibits.”

  Daize. “What’d I tell you? He’s staging a coup.”

  Matheson. “Inaccurate. We’re asking only that our eighty-seven votes be recognized.”

  Lea. “You keep mentioning a vote. But what vote?”

  Matheson. “There isn’t always votes? You do so love ’em, I assumed there’d be at least a few. But if, however, your agenda’s blank, there is one little matter we could put upon the table for discussion’s sake.”

  Daize, studying the signatures. “This is more signatures than your whole membership.”

  Matheson. “It actually’s our total membership. We lately’ve grown significantly more.”

  Daize. “Carmihhal Palst is support staff! Edwina van Sowt and Alfredo Mafal are receiving, and Ben Yi’s a foreman!”

  Matheson. “He’s called a supervisor now, and feels a bit disgruntled by the loss of his prestige, and pay, and power. Nor is he alone in that, a feeling widely shared.”

  Lea. “You dismay and bewilder me. You court the very same support staff formerly you vilified, enlisting to your cause the disaffected victims of your cause! You’re playing pharmacist to those you’ve poisoned!”

  Matheson. “We’re widening the revolution’s scope and draw, while staying true to principles.”

  Lea. “Nonsense! You are buying their allegiance; you are bribing them with promises of bonuses—that is, return to wages being stratified. Let’s never mind a moment it’s a Ponzi pyramid, in which the earliest comers only profit; my concern’s its diametric treason to those very principles so glibly you espouse—i.e., equality in everything, especially in wages. That was our foundation stone, our flagship—fifth of our demands, but first important.”

  Matheson. “I’m grateful that you bring that matter up, that our agendas have some overlap; the bonuses were just the thing I thought perhaps we’d vote on. Let me rectify a misconception first, or titivate a frowzy memory. I never felt that equalizing wages was a real objective, for it seemed impractical, and probably impracticable, and, like your beloved plebiscites, belike to spark invidious division, too.”

  Lea. “That’s what happens under different wages!”

  Matheson. “Your disagreement rather proves my point. The question’s still contentious, as I knew it would be then. But I permitted its inclusion—”

  Lea. “You permitted!”

  Matheson. “I advocated its inclusion for that very reason. Its exorbitance precisely was its pricelessness as chip for bargaining: a thing ostensibly held sacred which, surrendered, might exact some valuable concessions. You’ll admit, we never really dreamed that Sid would grant us wage equality! When haggling, start by always asking double what you want.”

  Lea. “You’re rewriting history. You never wanted equal wages? Why insist we push it through without a vote, then?”

  Matheson. “That’s proof I never thought it popular. Perhaps enthusiastic victory beguiled my judgement. When resistance of a sudden disappears, you sometimes lurch a farther forward step than your intent. We were condemned by unforeseen success to occupy each fortress we’d besieged, or risk appearing insincere. The air then crackled with excitement of reform, remember; many were electrified, and surely would have been dissatisfied with any less than too much. Were it not for wage equality, they might’ve asked for five-day weekends, or to retrofit the factory to manufacture doggie treats instead.”

  Daize. “Stunning. You open your mouth saying one thing, and close it concluding the opposite.”

  Matheson. “I’ll clarify. That moment, I thought wage equality was likely popular enough to pass if voted on. Although I’d reservations, I could see no way to squelch it while still saving face. I thought it better then to force it through without the factious, fractious ructions votes foment.”

  Lea. “But you didn’t say that at the time, then.”

  Matheson. “Not sharing your besotted love of ballots, I may have primped and pruned my words to please you better. Trying as I was to make you seize the very thing you most desired, I felt no guilt at using rhetoric. I would have shared if I had aired my doubts to you. Your tragic flaw—and virtue too—is balance, Lea. It keeps you upright—and immobile, for to walk one has to fall a little forward, intermittently. Excessive open-mindedness will make the mind a clangorous bazaar; and too much evenhandedness makes maladroit, undextrous hands. To spare you anguish and deliberation, I presented you the coin’s most shiny side alone. I do the same thing with the union, and they thank me for it. More than for alternatives or choices, people yearn for certainty, for passion—for direction. Man’s a horse who’s skittish out of blinkers. Face it, Lea. If we’d’ve voted on the equal wage, the first thing you’d’ve done is candidly enumerate the disadvantages!”

  Lea. “All this rationalizing tortuously’s needless. All your ‘rhetoric,’ which I’d call disingenuous manipulation, is explained more well by greed than kindness. Your supporters’ wages then were mostly underneath the mean. They wanted money then, they want more money now. You promise it.”

  Matheson. “And what’s so wrong with wanting money? Shame, with equal justice, plants for wanting soil, or fish for wanting ocean, birds for worms or cats for milk or cows for hay, as shame a person wanting money, which is food to them and drink, and air to breathe, and clothes to wear, and bath and bed and home. Money’s earth on which to stand; and it’s the fulcrum and the lever we uproot the mountains with. Yes, money’s freedom, possibility, potential. Money is the harnessed fire of sunlight, which bestirs our dust. It is the effervescing creativity of dreams, the fructifying kernel sown in richest chaos. Breaking hackneyed chains of habit, it’s the smeared uncertainty emancipating quantum particles, the coil of flurried energy asleep in hidebound atoms. It’s the sultry wind of agitation howling through the caves of frigid matter. Money is the will ascendant, soul triumphant, spirit regnant. The universe without it is a void, a barren clockwork prison winding down deterministically to entropy. The lack of money is paralysis, disease, decay, and death.”

  Lea. “Who now lacks? We’ve all a living income.”

  Matheson. “We less want more than chance for more. A pay unchanged, unchangeable, is like a dole or pension granted, and for granted taken—by very regularity unfelt. To seem reward, a wage must fluctuate, or threaten to at least, contingent on performance. Opportunity for more implies its opposite: the same will seem like less, and everyone will toe the line more sprightfully. A floor for wages does more damage to morale, in honesty, than even ceiling, since it gua
rantees the slacker equal recompense to all, and saps the motivation either through complacence or resentful bitterness.”

  Daize. “Who is a slacker? We turn out more product than ever before; we’re not selling it fast enough.”

  Matheson. “That revolutionary fervor wanes, or will before too long. Our victories, like constant temperature, or sight or noise unvaried, also fade from consciousness. Each little bonus will to whom receives it seem a little revolution won.”

  Lea. “Tell me, by and large these revolutions all will go to union members, won’t they?”

  Matheson. “They’ll go to those by union members deemed the most deserving: those who hardest work, whose work is hardest, who most earn respect assisting and inspiring colleagues, and whose efforts seem essentialest to all.”

  Lea. “How perniciously unequal wages lead us back to classism and status hierarchies! Who here’s inessential?”

  Matheson. “We all have roles to play, of course; but can a factory spare manufacturers and be a factory? And is it fair a worker on the shop floor, toiling hunched above a noisy, sweltry, greasy belt conveyor should be paid the same as one who sits, legs crossed, in comfy offices, and answers phones, or taps with polished nails a calculator’s buttons all day long?”

  Lea. “Do you glorify or denigrate our sedentary paperwork? If we’re so lucky, cozy, spoiled, then why don’t shop-floor workers volunteer for more rotation?”

  Matheson. “Because we’d feel uneasy in such ease; because we’d lose our coworkers’ respect.”

  Lea. “If you think our work is so distasteful and ignoble, then it’s we who surely should receive the greater pay for putting up with it. And idly tapping buttons!—that’s your understanding, is it, of the work performed by Daize and I? You ninny! When’s the last time you were on the shop floor? What exactly is it that you do here, Colleague Matheson? Collectives don’t need unions! Why don’t you get back to real work!”