The Artisans

by J G Alva

  His voice was as cold and hostile as she had ever heard it.

  He spoke directly to Alan, and had done so throughout the meeting. At no time had he acknowledged Anna. He would not even look at her. It was like she did not exist.

  “I’m afraid not, Mike,” Anna said. “We do have two other criteria in which-“

  “Alan. Why is she even here?” Mike asked, with an unconcealed sneer.

  “Because she’s the Chief Human Resources Officer,” Alan said.

  “Yeah. For about ten minutes.”

  Three months, you asshole.

  “Can we try to keep this pleasant please, Mike,” Alan said.

  “Pleasant,” Mike scoffed. “What’s pleasant about discussing my dismissal?”

  “Alright. Then can we keep it civilized?” Mike did not reply. “Please continue, Anna.”

  “As I was saying,” Anna continued, “we do have two other criteria, in which you do not excel. Would you like me to go into this in more detail?”

  Mike stared at Alan. He did not even turn his head. It was almost comical.

  “Very well,” Anna said, referring to the file folder in front of her. “As regards attendance, your Bradford factor is incredibly high. Three hundred and forty eight points. You are well aware of how the Bradford factor works. We calculate a figure from the number of incidents of absenteeism, against the amount of days you are absent. Anything over a score of a hundred automatically dictates a warning.”

  Mike’s tone turned to pleading then, but still he would look only at Alan.

  “Alan, you know why that is,” Mike said. “It’s my son. My stupid bitch of an ex-wife-“

  “Mike,” Alan said, shifting uncomfortably over the female derogative and looking apologetically at Anna. She shook her head: it didn’t matter.

  “She wants to scale back my visits to once a month,” Mike continued, with hardly a pause. “I’ve been in and out of court trying to fight her. You know that.”

  Anna paused before replying, “you’ve made us fully aware of your personal situation.”

  Even to her own ears, she sounded cold. But she could not feel bad about it. Previous to her CHRO role, she had worked in Inside Sales under Mike. It had not been pleasant.

  “This is revenge,” Mike said acidly, perhaps picking up on her thoughts; now he was looking at her. The full weight of his hate had been levelled at her, much like an accusatory finger…or laser sights from a sniper rifle. “For perceived slights, when you worked for me. Wrongly perceived slights, I might add.”

  “Mike, you know we are making cutbacks from every department,” she said, meeting his heat with an equal coolness. “This is not personal. This is because we have identified certain aspects of your behaviour where you are not meeting your contractual obligations-“

  “I made that department!” He shouted suddenly. He was coming unravelled. “There wasn’t even a department there when I started. You don’t like me. Alan, she doesn’t like me. She’s afraid of me. Because of what I know of Crown Bonding, because of how long I’ve worked there.” He did level an accusatory finger at her then. “You’re threatened by me-“

  It was an embarrassing rhetoric, and now Anna did feel bad for him; he sounded like a child.

  “This is not helping yourself,” Alan said, looking distinctly unhappy.

  “It’s true, Alan,” Mike continued. “It’s all true. She bided her time. I’ve got to hand it to her. She’s like a python. Waiting. Insidious. Slimy.”

  Anna raised her eyebrows; that was a bit much.

  “Mike, please,” Alan said, again looking uncomfortable.

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how she’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”

  Alan put a hand over his eyes.

  “I bet it was even her suggestion to get rid of me,” Mike said, spit flicking out over the table between them, in his impatience to vent his vitriolic frustration. “I’ve seen you talking with Sally and Liz. I bet you cooked it up between you. A fucking dyke coup de grace-“

  “That is enough,” Alan said, slamming his hand down on the table.

  Mike twitched, and Anna jumped. At least Mike stopped talking.

  Alan looked mad. Anna didn’t think she had ever seen him so mad.

  “This meeting has devolved into…” Alan paused. “I don’t know what the hell it’s devolved into, but it’s completely unproductive. As such, I’m going to suggest that we end it. And you, Mike, are going to agree. Is that understood?”

  Alan stared at Mike until he acquiesced with a nod.

  “In which case, we will speak to you again in a week,” Alan continued. “I suggest you spend that time considering constructive arguments as opposed to unconstructive ones…like name calling. This is not a school playground, and you are far from being a child. Pull yourself together. I’ll expect more at our next meeting.”

  Mike stared belligerently at Alan, cast one last fishing line of hate at Anna, and then jack knifed out of his seat, leaving the Conference Room in a stiff, harried run.

  Anna stared after him.

  “God,” she said eventually, releasing a sigh.

  “He’s gotten worse,” Alan said, looking, of all things, sad. “At least we were conversing last time.”

  “Should we allow him to continue working?” She asked.

  Alan sighed.

  “He’s unhinged,” she continued.

  “Unfortunately, we have to. Legally, I mean.”

  “Not if we put him on garden leave.”

  Alan looked at her.

  “Do you think that’s necessary?”

  Anna made a face.

  “Alan,” Anna said. “You saw what he was like. He’s losing it.”

  “Can you blame him? His life is coming apart at the seams.”

  There was silence a moment between them.

  “I remember what he was like when he first started here,” he said. “That’s all.”

  “Has he really changed that much?”

  “You wouldn’t know him. When he started, he was courteous, respectful, soft spoken, almost achingly polite. I suppose a divorce and the fact that he is losing what little custody he has of his son has eroded the better parts of him.” Alan held up his hands: who would have guessed it?

  “A divorce didn’t do that to you,” Anna pointed out.

  “Ah,” Alan said, with a ghost of humour, “but that’s because I’m stubborn. And incapable of change.”

  Anna smiled.

  “Well.”

  Alan looked thoughtful when he said, “Anna, some people…some people, they just go sour. Do you know what I mean? I’ve seen it before. I think…I think they have an idea in their mind, a vision of what their life is going to be like, and when it doesn’t quite turn out like they expect, they feel they’ve been cheated somehow. Am I making any sense?”

  Anna nodded solemnly. She was aware of the phenomenon.

  “Don’t ever let me catch you turning out like that,” he warned sagely.

  “I’ll do my best not to,” Anna promised.

  Alan smiled.

  “Well. I’ve got to get back. Crown Bonding doesn’t run itself. Contrary to popular belief.” He paused. “Let’s hope things run more smoothly at the next meeting.”

  “Garden leave?” She asked again, to be sure.

  Reluctantly, he gave her his consent, patted her on the arm, rose, and then left the room.

  ◆◆◆

  In the seventh floor bathroom, she stared at her face in the mirror.

  She had done this many times over the years, trying to see beyond familiar lines to the unfamiliar, from the face that greeted her every morning to the one that strangers and intermittent acquaintances saw in the street or at the restaurant. As a young woman she had been whippet thin and had looked hunted; the face that stared back at her now was so much different, was that of a married woman in her thirties, happy, if a little uncertain of her place in the world, and with herself. But definitely hap
py. And, she dared to hope, wiser.

  She had been called beautiful before, but she did not consider herself to be beautiful. Beautiful was softness, beautiful was perfection…and her features were too defined, too hard, to be really beautiful. But she had her good points: her hair and eyes were very dark, almost black. As a young woman she had worn her hair long, almost to the middle of her back, but over the years practicality had won out over aesthetics: now she wore it cut back to her jaw line. Her mouth was nice, thick lipped and wide, and her teeth weren’t half bad, in good condition and naturally even (except for an incisor in her bottom jaw that was slightly askew). Her nose she had given up on: it was a large hooked thing in the middle of her face she could do nothing about. A family heirloom. A reminder of her father.

  Stepping back, she inspected the rest of herself in the mirror. Nice shoulders, good boobs she had always been proud of, all of which were constrained under the tight grey of her suit jacket, white blouse and sports bra. Her stomach and thighs were another matter altogether, and needed constant care and attention; she went to the gym four times a week for that very purpose.

  All in all, she was passable, she thought. Handsome more than beautiful. At one time she had cursed her attractiveness, but now she accepted it for what it was: her…but not her. At least not all of her anyway.

  The door banged shut, making her jump.

  She turned.

  It was Mike.

  Before she could do anything he rushed her. He put a hand over her mouth and pushed her back against the sink; it felt like she was in danger of having her spine severed. She felt paralysed: her arms hung uselessly at her sides. She could smell Mike, smell his sweat; she thought she might be sick.

  She felt his erection then, felt it digging into her stomach. Panic crawled up her neck. She knew this feeling, this paralysing sensation when events too large or too traumatic overwhelmed her senses. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

  Mike whispered, “isn’t it always the way: the biggest cunt has the biggest mouth. Almost like you were made to be fucked. I could fill up all your holes. Maybe I will. Be careful walking home at night. You never know who might be watching you.”

  He pressed into her again, his erection pushing into her, and then with a final shove that sent her reeling and sliding to land on the floor, he turned and left the bathroom.

  It was some moments before she could breathe again, and still more time before she got to her feet. Oh God. She hadn’t been prepared. That was the problem. If she’d been prepared, she could have handled it.

  Now, she felt ragged, spent, depleted, used, shitty, and slightly ashamed.

  She leant on one of the sinks, breathing hard, covered in a light patina of sweat, her heart pounding furiously. Her arms were trembling, and she regarded them curiously, almost as if they were separate from her.

  She was a woman in control of herself. She had to remember that.

  She looked up into the mirror and what she found looking back was a shock to her: it was a rigid, blotchy mask of anger; red, strained, ugly. Not her.

  She pushed herself back from the sink and kicked it, the heel connecting with the ceramic. They were Camille Stripe Court work shoes, hardly designed for kicking, and the only damage the sink sustained was a small black smudge. This seemed to enrage her more, and she kicked it again, and again, and again, fully in the grip of her rage, refusing or unable to suppress it any longer.

  What finally stopped her was the three and a half inch heel snapping off.

  It went wide, passing a foot from her face and skittering across the tiled floor, and hitting the base of the wall on the opposite side of the bathroom.

  She was gulping air like she had run a marathon. Her hair was a mess, and she could feel sweat pooling at the base of her throat and her armpits. She didn’t want to look in the mirror, couldn’t, afraid of what she might see reflected back there. The Other Anna.

  She pulled toilet paper from one of the cubicles and patted her forehead with it, her top lip, her chest, the hollow of her throat, and then delved with it under her blouse and bra. She was drenched. How long had she been attacking the sink anyway? She looked at it; there was a crack. She bent down, took off her broken shoe and examined her foot: it looked red and tender. Her leg was aching too. Chalk this one up to self-control, she thought with humour, and laughed. The laugh sounded strange, flat and unreal bouncing around the acoustics of the bathroom.

  She retrieved the heel and with one last look around to make sure she had left no permanent indication of her episodic temper tantrum – other than the crack in the sink – she banged out of the bathroom.

  ◆◆◆

  Mac liked to start every meeting with a reading.

  The Meeting Room was quiet. Anna didn’t think that they were like any other support group in the country; there was no idle talk, no laughing; they were each an isolated unit. Mac’s readings sometimes made members embarrassed. Nobody believed in God here, and Anna wondered why that might be so. Was it because power and control was the one thing they all sought, and to give it up to somebody else was just not possible?

  Anna had been so glad to be told that there was a meeting that evening. She needed it today more than she had needed it in a long time.

  Mac began, “the reading I am going to start with tonight is from the Bible. John, Chapter one, verses seven to nine.” Mac looked at them all with a stern eye before reading: “but if we are living in the light, as God is in the light, then we have fellowship with each other, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, cleanses us from all sin. If we claim we have no sin, we are only fooling ourselves and not living in the truth. But if we confess our sins to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness…”

  Anna looked around at the others as Mac spoke, all of whom seemed intent on Mac, even if their body language betrayed them. Jacob, a thin man in his late twenties, with unkempt, dirty blonde hair, fidgeted the most, but this was more from who he was than any real discomfort or boredom. Jacob suffered through an array of small ticks and other strange body movements that ran in sequences. As she watched, he bumped his shoulders and patted the back of his head. In a moment, there would be another one. Three fingers of his left hand were strapped together with black electrician’s tape, as were three of his toes, she knew. Her heart went out to a man so trapped by his own mind.

  Sitting next to him was Don, a good looking man with big hands, good shoulders, dark thick hair, swarthy skin; his family were obviously Italian. He was a Salesman, and had a line of easy patter that it had taken them some time to break through. He had a wife and son. It seemed evident from listening to him share that it was not his wife that had driven him to seek them out, but his son. He adored him.

  On the other side of the table, next to Mac, was King. He was older, in his fifties. He was a man of consummate meticulousness. No hair was ever out of place, no clothing ever rumpled, no nails were ever left unclipped. His arms and his face were thin, but he was getting fat around the middle. A salt and pepper beard, perfectly sculpted, followed the line of his jaw. He favoured suits and tonight was no exception: he was wearing a tan waistcoat, tan trousers, and a tan jacket. A watch chain hung from the breast pocket of the waistcoat. He examined the pocket watch now, flipping open the lid and checking the face, before replacing it in his waistcoat pocket. He had a London accent, and Anna wondered if he had moved to Bristol to be near the support group.

  They were all regulars, had been for many years. It was not often they entertained new members. The last had been Jacob, three years ago. The only person who had not attended was Jay. Where was he? It was unlike him to miss a meeting.

  The reading done, Mac closed the book, put the book on the table, but remained standing. The ritual now was for him to tell them all the rules of the support group, and that was good, that was right; it was comforting to have this routine, it put Anna at ease. She thought that it comforted the other members too.

  “You, none
of you, are new to these meetings, and I’m sure you are all aware of the rules I impose on this group, but I’m going to say them again anyway. Let me just stress that these are necessary, in order for us to continue. I trust, and hope, that you understand and respect that. As you all know, this group is only as good as the members in it.”

  “The Bristol Savages,” Don said, raising his coffee cup in a salute.

  Anna raised hers too, smiling. Jacob’s smile flicked on and off like a flashlight. King did not seem affected.

  “Yes,” Mac said, smiling too. “I know the pet name you have decided on for yourselves, and I’m not sure I approve…but I don’t think I have any right to stop you. This group is more yours than mine anyway.”

  The real Bristol Savages had existed in the late eighteen hundreds, a group of artists, writers and poets, who used the Native American way of life as a model of behaviour. The joke was that they – all of those in the group – were not in any way in harmony with the world around them. The fact that the original address of the original Bristol Savages was just across the road and a little way down – in the Red Lodge – seemed only to add to their amusement.

  “Okay. Rule number one: nobody can talk about the group. Not to anyone – not to friends, not to family, not to strangers. The reasons for this are self-explanatory. If you have a grievance about the group, either with a member or with myself, then bring the grievance to the group. If the grievance cannot be addressed, and resolved, then you are free to leave at any time. However, if you do leave, you are not to mention its existence to anyone. Remember, even if you do not benefit from the group, there are other members who do. I trust you will keep that in mind, should the temptation to unburden yourself arise.

  “The second rule, which ties directly to the first, is this: that whatever is said in these meetings, whatever revelations come to light, they are to remain confidential also. In order for this group to be effective, people need to be allowed to talk freely, without fear of reprisal.