© 2016 by David Louden

“Hey Doug, could you come to the boardroom?” 

“Sure, what’s this about?” I said.

The line went stunted. He was conferring and I knew I had come  back to see my old friend Trouble once more.  To any nose-presser looking in it had the appearance of me fucking up and letting my mouth get ahead of my brain but it wasn’t like that.  Not this time.  I had allowed my mouth to run rings in the past.  I had gotten caught up in disciplinary matters which were supposed to take six weeks but they had dragged on for years.  They were supposed to take six weeks so as to not cause too much undue distress but they wanted the distress.  They wanted the distress because the distress might help them achieve what they couldn’t with ability alone.  They wanted me gone.  Gone by resignation or at the end of a short rope and a strong light fixture like some friends.  After a little more dead air and conferring, he spoke again:

“It’s just something we  need to talk to you about.”

Vagueness, seemingly, poured from both of his faces.  I let him have it.  I wanted to see this one play out.  This one in particular.  He had turned up at her funeral and cried tragedy without seeing any of the irony or feeling any of the responsibility and I watched.  Watched and wondered beyond wonder how I could use my rage and cruel tongue to hurt them.  Hurt them more than I’d hurt myself.  Hurt them for her and every other poor working stiff I knew by name and considered a friend.

I rode the elevator up. It was only two floors but the building AC wasn’t worth shit and no amount of exercise  was worth having them see you sweat and them thinking they’d  gotten to you.  The number flashed “2”, and the automated lady invited me off as her doors opened. Stepping out into the second floor office space  I marvelled at the cheap carpet. If this was the private sector they’d be embarrassed by the diarrhea brown that looked up at them from under  each stride they took. But it wasn’t.  This was a poorly run building, in a mismanaged city, operated by the council.  This was where bright sparks and dead weights both came to die.
Knock, knock.

I waited for the call. It’s best to give these people their place before you take it away from them.  Three disciplinary witch-hunts in four years had left me short on patience for “man management” techniques. I  pulled up in one of their tired leather chairs across from Tim the  Manager and a realistic looking humanoid from HR.  The HR-bot cleared her throat, then went into her manila folder and proceeded to make it look as though she was searching for something. Like it wasn’t sitting right at  the top of the file. My file. My big fat personnel file.

“Douglas, would you be able to…”

I interrupted, turning her cheeks crimson.

“Sorry. I asked on the phone but I’ll ask again, what’s this about?” 

Tim grinned, looked to his left and took the lead from her head bob.

“We’re investigating some comments you’ve made in a –” 

I interrupted again.

“If this is an official disciplinary investigation then you have to give me five days’ written notice.”

Tim looked at me, then HR and when his glare came back my way he had curled his pencil moustached top lip around his teeth is some sort of passive snarl.

“Well these are exceptional circumstances, Doug.” said HR. 

“The disciplinary process is set up to deal with exceptional circumstances. I’ve a right to have representation with me, and right now it’s Mr. Morgan.” My ball heckles were tightening. Goddamn.  The more things change.

“There have been some very serious allegations levied–” 

“Mr. Morgan is right.” soothed Tim. “Perhaps we should reconvene in five days.”

I leant forward. I was in no mood for games. No mood for waiting, but when I saw the font before them I suddenly realised we were playing my game.  It was earlier than expected.

“Actually, why don’t we just jump into it? I mean, we’re here, it’s a nice day for an execution. Someone hit play and get this party started.” I said.

Tim’s right hand brought the glass of water to his now uncurled lips, moistening them before he cleared his throat as HR pulled the sheet of paper I knew was coming and pushed it across the faux oak no-man’s land to him.

“Can you tell me if you wrote this?” She handed me a photocopy of a poem from a collection I had put out. I nodded pushing it back towards them. “For the record, could you acknowledge…”

“Yup, yup that’s my poem. Is that it? Did you like them?  Can I go?”

Tim looked to HR. She looked at him. The pair were sporting matching sex doll stares, amazed at how easy it had been.  How I had given it all up so matter-of-fact.  I could almost smell the disappointment oozing its way across the table.

“Mr. Morgan, I don’t think you’re aware of the severity this situation brings with it. This poem,” she waved it in my face, wafting the remains of a nervous fart my way. “this poem is a disciplinary matter. It’s libel, it’s filth. It’s absolutely repugnant. How could you think writing something like this was OK?”

“Something like what?” I asked, matching their fake disappointment with my equally fake confusion.

HR looked to Tim.  He gave her a nod that said read it for the record.  She lurched forward to make sure the tape recorder captured her best speaking voice and read:

“Alan Noble is a paedophile
He fucks all of his kids’ friends
You can see it in their haunted smiles
The terror never ends
He buys their love with soda and candy
Then drugs them when they drink
Having his way with Steve and Andy
In ways you could never think
He smiles and tells all…” The HR rep looked to him and asked: “Must I go on?”

“For the record.” he said, and I wondered how much he liked Alan.

“He smiles and tells all they’re mistaken
I’d never do such terrible things
And all the while dreams are breaking
As their nightmares bring the screams
There’s nothing noble about this Noble
He’s a predator on the hunt
Now spread the word until it’s global
This man’s a total cunt.”

They both took a moment.  Letting the final four-letter nail sit half out of my coffin.  Finally Tim spoke:
“A member of the senior HR team passed this to Alan. He’s  considering legal action.”

I sat silent for a moment.  My time with Noble on disciplinary two was particularly nasty.  He made no secret of his intentions.  He wanted me fired and went to great lengths to achieve it, having himself placed on the interview panel for the promotion my union rep was going for which made a mute dummy of my picket line protector.

Eventually I broke the silence:

“He’s not the only one.”

“This is very serious, Doug. There’s going to be a… wait… what?”  

“What do you mean, he’s not the only one?” asked HR.

“He’s not the only one considering legal action.” I repeated, trying desperately to hold my dickhead smile behind my stubbled cheeks. Tim’s confusion was back. HR-bot’s too. Something didn’t compute. 

“Let’s be perfectly clear, Mr. Morgan. You are the one in trouble here. This is a very–”

Reaching across the table I snatched the photocopy from her hand and looked it over. It was right out of my book.

“For the record, Ms. HR. This is the first time anyone from your department has discussed the matter of this poem with me, correct?” I asked. 

“Annabelle, and yes that is correct.” 

“Could you tell me who gave this to you, Annabelle?”

She looked at Tim.

“I have not been consulted on this matter, and I have not given permission for the unlawful duplication of my work. Had you read the whole thing you would have seen at the start. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956, as amended. Any  person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. So I will ask again.  Who gave you this photocopy of my repugnant little poem?”

They both flushed white. White for surrender. White for the ghostly death their careers were to face if I cranked up the back switch on my fire-breathing lawyer, pointed him their direction and told him to bring me back balls and womb.  Public sector employees of an art and entertainment building sued for copyright infringement.  Could you picture it?  They looked at one-another uncertain not just how they got themselves into this position, but why.  Had they paid closer attention to my dirty little rhyme book they would have seen it under the dedication:

For Jill.

Dearly departed Jill who just couldn’t see a way through the tunnel when home and work life were equally dark.  For Jill and the crocodile tears they shed as they continued to make the rest of our working stiff existences nightmarish.  For Jill and for the four years of my life they’d stolen.

In the end I left the boardroom and took the stairs. It was good to see my old friend Trouble again.

David Louden
belfastcitycomics@gmail.com

Image by Jo_Johnston from Pixabay A boardroom table with black padded chairs and a laptop computer and pads and pens with a window and trees in the background.