The Children's War

by C. P. Boyko

  Lea. “Not upset, only thinking.”

  Daize. “Thinking of what?”

  Lea. “That you’re right.”

  Daize. “Right? What about?”

  Lea. “That abodes can be returned to, vases be repaired—and generals retired. —I’ll be director, I’ve decided.”

  Daize. “Oh. I’m surprised.”

  Lea begins rummaging in the filing cabinet. “If there’s seventy percent of staff that needs to permanently be laid off—but lied to first, manipulated, used, then flicked aside like dirt—I’d rather it was me than you, an epigone of Sid’s, who did it to ’em. But if we achieve, by miracle, that ten point five by end of year, I stay director—calling when I please for votes or meetings; maybe hiring back the union members who defect. The grudges that a rift will sow, emotions it’ll rouse, will better serve to crumble and to bury Colleague Church’s tainted congregation than a noble, proud, and unified defeat. I’ll take whoever’s desperate, broken, and repentant back—which they will have to be, to take scabs’ wages. But we’ve little choice; that’s what we’ll have to pay ’em. For we’ll be in even direr trouble next year: having sold the windows out the walls, we’re due a shivery winter; also, after getting ten point five, the owners might as well demand eleven. But we’ll weed those thistles when they’ve sprouted. First comes first, and second second. Here’s the form I’m looking for.” She withdraws a paper from the filing cabinet. “Your name was on it all along. I thought I knew each file, what every drawer contained. This job begins to overrun one person’s shallow brim. We might in January—fate allowing—contemplate the hiring, or the training, of an aide. Sign here, and here, and here too.”

  Daize. “Do you believe it is possible really to reach ten point five?”

  Lea. “Almost definitely not. The risk, though, should be mine. We can’t afford to lose your expertise, now can we? And the blame is mine as well, and shall adhere to me and me alone for every, each dismissal.”

  Daize signs. “Don’t be too hard on us. This will need witnesses. What could we otherwise do, after all, colleague?”

  Lea. “Nothing.” She puts the form in her pocket. “I will have it witnessed later. Now, my first decision as director—almost our collective’s first: You’re fired.”

  Daize. “That’s the directorly spirit. You’re serious?”

  Lea. “As a gravestone. I can offer two weeks’ severance pay, but not two weeks’, two days’, two hours’ work. I don’t intend offense, but I would rather have you not around. Your influence is bad for me, I reckon.”

  Daize. “If I repudiate, challenge you, fight this thing?”

  Lea. “That would hardly be what’s best, now would it, for the company? By splitting us, you’re splitting our minority supporters, guaranteeing full ascendancy to Matheson, and making certain that we fail to satisfy the ultimatum, therefore burdening the factory with some unknown and callow new director.”

  Daize. “So, I’m to choose between tyrants familiar and strange; one a plebeian, one a patrician; the one wants to fire me, the other might possibly not. A decision I shouldn’t find difficult.”

  Lea. “That’s not quite how I perceive it. If you want to fight, I’ll get the union on my side by telling them your schemes. If somehow you survive the next three months, the owners will replace you anyway. There isn’t any future for you here, no more for you than Sid. You’re out of allies, Daize. Your only choice is whether I’m allowed to implement your plan in peace. And if you quietly resign, perhaps I’ll write a reference that you can show employers.”

  Daize. “Maybe I’ll make the identical threat to you.”

  Lea. “Keep in mind this paper in my pocket, which at my discretion can be copied or destroyed. That means that I decide whose neck lies at year-end beneath the saber.”

  Daize. “What if I take from your pocket that paper?”

  Lea. “Try. We’ll learn who’s stronger.”

  A pause.

  The laughing coworkers enter. “Hey, good news! We’re going on strike!”

  “Smash the system! Fuck the owners!”

  They exit.

  Daize takes a step towards Lea, and holds out her hand. Lea shakes it.

  Daize. “I have decided I’m sick of this place. There’s no need for a duplicate autocrat, anyway.”

  Lea. “Or, I hope, for even one much longer.”

  Daize. “Maybe I’ll come to the shareholders’ meeting to see how you’ve done at year-end. I’ll be curious.” Daize exits.

  Lea withdraws the form from her pocket, and buries it deep in the filing cabinet. Then she too exits.

  Buzzing of the intercom, followed by knocking at the door. The female janitor enters with a vacuum cleaner, which she puts to use.

  The office has reverted to its former tidiness. The desk is back in use, and the poster is gone.

  Knocking at the door. The male janitor enters. The female janitor turns off the vacuum cleaner.

  Female janitor. “Look who crosses the picket line!”

  Male janitor. “Aw, don’t start. —She around?”

  Female janitor. “Ain’t seen her. You got something to say to her?”

  Male janitor. “Think she’ll be around?”

  Female janitor. “There’s some meeting starting soon. Might as well pull yourself a chair up and wait.” She resumes vacuuming.

  Male janitor, sitting briefly. “Do you think she’ll . . .”

  Female janitor, turning off the vacuum cleaner. “What?”

  Male janitor. “Never mind.”

  Female janitor. “She might.” She resumes vacuuming.

  Male janitor. “Might what?”

  She stops vacuuming. “What?”

  Male janitor. “You said she might.”

  Female janitor. “What’s the question?”

  Male janitor. “Aw, cut the corn. Think she’ll give me my old job back?”

  Female janitor. “If she does, it’ll be at half pay.”

  Male janitor. “That’s all right. I expected that. I just need something coming in, or my sister’s like to toss me out the house. Half’s more anyway than the union’s paying.”

  Female janitor. “I thought the union was out of strike fund.”

  Male janitor. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  Female janitor. “She’ll make you sign a paper.”

  Male janitor. “Shit, I’d about sign a hot turd right now, if’d help.”

  Female janitor. “Making you promise not to join up to any more unions.”

  Male janitor. “And wha’d any union ever do for me but rile me and mix my brains about and lose me a perfect good job?”

  Female janitor. “And get you equalized, and trained, and a little more respect. No, nothing much.” She resumes vacuuming.

  Male janitor. “Sure, before all them latecomers jumped onto the bandwagon and spoiled things for the rest of us. Before Church started making deals with the foremen and managers.”

  She turns off the vacuum cleaner. “What?”

  Male janitor. “Never mind. Just that I wouldn’t be surprised if Matheson Church was in the boss’s pocket after all and all along.”

  Female janitor. “I thought so too for a while. But that’s just the moth calling poison what the caterpillar called cabbage. Matheson’s only stupid and stubborn, and too in love with his own voice. Straight how: you don’t call a strike in the midst a recession.” She resumes vacuuming, while the male janitor paces. She turns off the vacuum cleaner. “Why don’t you take over?”

  Male janitor. “Me?”

  Female janitor. “Maybe she’ll be more inclined favorable if you’re already doing the work.”

  Male janitor. “Bless your whole heart.”

  Female janitor. “Don’t go getting sticky. I could use the help. To me you’re just f
ree labor.”

  He vacuums while she dusts and tidies.

  Lea enters. The male janitor plies the vacuum cleaner with increased gusto.

  Lea picks up the phone, shouting over the noise from the vacuum cleaner. “Sandy? Tell Faraj I’ll call him back at seven his time. Make it seven-thirty . . . Move tomorrow’s lunch to two, and have the taxi meet me at the restaurant at quarter after three . . . If possible, an aisle seat . . . You will have to talk to Palst. Be firm: ‘Decision’s final,’ and the rest. He’s brought it on himself, and half expects it . . . You’ve as much authority as I do, or as anyone. Remember that. You’ve my complete support . . . Let’s leave Renfrento till I’m back; I know how best to handle him . . . Review the lading from last year; it shouldn’t come to more than thirty-seven hundred, I should guess . . . Just sign my name. That’s right . . . She’s here, in person? Send her in. And bring an extra copy—make it three or four—of those financials. Sandy: thank you.”

  Daize enters, holding copies of the financial reports. “Must I congratulate you?”

  Lea. “Check the final page; the summary’s there.”

  Daize puts the reports on the conference table. “Now there’s no need. Invitations so prompt prove a homeowners’ pride. My sincerest of compliments.” They shake hands.

  Lea. “Good to see you.”

  Daize. “Didn’t I promise I’d come to the shareholders’ meeting? —These janitors still have the shock-brigade fervor. But couldn’t they pause for a meeting’s length?”

  Lea. “They’ve their work to do, like you or I have.”

  Female janitor. “That’s okay, Miz Pensilby. We’re finished now. I said, we’re finished now!”

  Male janitor, turning off the vacuum cleaner. “That’s right. All done. Everything slicked and squared, sheveled and ruly.”

  Lea. “Then your own authority discharges you. But first, my thanks.” She shakes the male janitor’s hand. “We’ll speak tomorrow.”

  Male janitor. “It’ll be an honor, Miz Pensilby.”

  Lea. “Don’t forget to take the garbage with you.”

  The janitors take the garbage and exit.

  Daize. “Even ‘an honor, Miz Pensilby’!”

  Lea. “Yes. It’s awful, isn’t it? Some honor! He will beg, and I’ll bestow his job back, but at half his former pay. A teacher, parent, or policeman must have sometime made him grovel for a favor. Now it’s second nature. All society, all upbringing’s our enemy. To think, I used to think it Sid! —But how have you been?”

  Daize. “Though there’s a petty and rancorous part of me still that’d like to declare that you ruined my life, it’d be an untruth. I am excellent.”

  Lea. “Then that cookie factory did hire you?”

  Daize. “No, but another. Your letter was helpful. That ‘supervised over a hundred employees’ was most what impressed them, I think. I now supervise, anyway, over two hundred—and earn more than double what Sid at his highest munificence deemed I was worth. Not that money is everything.”

  Lea. “No, but as the lazy person’s index to importance, income is the closest thing to praise most unimaginative bosses have to give. I’m pleased to hear you’re valued—and that you, where Sid collapsed, have fallen firmly on your feet, and bounced back.”

  The intercom buzzes.

  Daize. “Maybe because I’d less distance to fall than him.”

  A knock at the door. Matheson and Sid enter, followed by the receptionist.

  Receptionist. “I’m sorry, Lea. They said you were expecting them.”

  Lea. “Sandy, thank you; that’s all right.” The receptionist exits. “A lie, but all the same, uncanny. I’ve not said nor thought your name but once in ninety days, and that was half a minute prior to your entrance, Sid. Perhaps you were expected—never, though, with Colleague Church beside you.”

  Matheson. “You’re right to quail: your monocratic reign of terror lies upon its bed of death; its final breaths are numbered fewer than the hours in a winter’s afternoon.”

  Lea. “Did I quail?”

  Sid. “Let’s not start, Colleague Matheson, thumping our chests. It’s delightful to see you, Miz Pensilby, and a surprise wholly welcome to find here Miz Glied. You are both looking splendid as ever. I trust the appearance expresses the inner content?”

  Daize. “If it were so, your expression would seem to be that of a snake that has swallowed a cockatoo.”

  Sid. “If you see what I feel, it is gratitude here on my face. If I thought that she’d take it, I’d give Lea my hand and congratulate her. Ten point five by year-end! Now the new year begins with no need for the owners to send a replacement director.”

  Lea. “I begin to sniff your plot’s malodor.”

  Daize. “Lea is director; there’s documents proving it.”

  Sid. “I have seventy-five faithful friends who’ll attest that they’re forgeries; more, that I never resigned.”

  Matheson. “You glower now, but I’m inured to that. Perhaps you should’ve made concessions; showed some willingness to compromise, or yield; negotiated, not neglected all our deadlines and ignored all our demands.”

  Lea. “Just like Sid did—or have you forgotten?”

  Matheson. “He now perceives the proletariat’s might.”

  Sid. “That’s a fact.”

  Matheson. “Besides, a lion’s less repugnant than a lamb that roars. He never was a traitor.”

  The intercom buzzes.

  Sid. “And this lion, moreover, is learning to bleat.”

  A knock at the door. The receptionist enters, followed by Ottavia Farr-Mp.

  Receptionist. “Miz Farr-Mp is here for the meeting, Miz Pensilby.” Exits.

  Ottavia “Good afternoon, all. Why don’t we begin? This shouldn’t take long.” She sits at the head of the conference table.

  Matheson. “We can’t begin until the owners come.”

  Lea. “Miz Farr-Mp’s their delegate. And Mister Church here is, or represents, the union.”

  Sid. “Introductions are needed, I see, all the more since there’s been some confusion of late with regard to our various roles at the factory here . . .”

  Ottavia. “That will not at all be necessary. I’m here today in courtesy only, on behalf of the shareholders—or the former shareholders, I should instead say. As of midnight last night, the factory has been sold to a conglomerate, the name of which will mean nothing to any of you, I’m sure, but suffice it to say they have controlling interests in a score of industries, a thousand companies in every market all around the world. Congratulations. You’re part of a much larger family now, a syndicate of corporations, one whose sales in the aggregate exceed the gross domestic product of many small countries, and whose owners are among the richest and most powerful people anywhere today.”

  Matheson. “You sold the factory?”

  Ottavia withdraws a page from a folder. “Naturally, the new owners have chosen to appoint their own director; I bring a list of what he needs from you Monday.” Ottavia stands.

  Sid. “But we did what you asked! We achieved ten point five!”

  Daize. “You!”

  Sid. “I said ‘we’! It’s an outrage, in any event.”

  Lea. “I suppose you always meant to sell it?—that the boosted profits only meant to make it more attractive for the purchase?”

  Ottavia. “I cannot divine what my clients, the former shareholders of your company, intended or did not intend to do. But they didn’t break any promise: They said they’d replace your director if ten point five wasn’t reached. They never said they’d keep him if it was.”

  Sid. “What a mouthful of cowshit! A warning implies a condition, a chance of escaping its threat, or it ceases to be ultimatum, but harm guaranteed. It’s like saying our laws let us lock away criminals and law-abiders in jail. It’s like shooting a ma
n for not burgling your house. It’s a joke; it’s a punchline. It’s crap.”

  Matheson. “We weren’t consulted, so we won’t comply.”

  Ottavia. “Their actions need no justification; but supposing that they did intend to sell all along, you hardly helped them raise the price with this strike and these picketers thronged outside your gates. Every time I step inside them, this place seems upon the verge of self-combustion. If you can’t control your staff, it’s little wonder you cannot control your profits. I would hardly blame anyone, old or new owners, if they tore this building down and sold it for scrap. But nobody asks me my opinion. Gratuitously I squander it here. My words, I see, fall like rain on desert, so I’ll waste no more. Good day—and good luck making your good luck.”

  Matheson. “Until we come to some agreement, till we’re granted what we’re asking, no one leaves.”

  Ottavia. “But this matter no longer concerns me.” Ottavia exits.