familiar sound. Henry leaned over and asked Ed, ‘Will you tell me why you were declared officially dead?’
Ed pretended not to hear, and gazed steadily at the boss, who moved now on ponderous tiptoes to Art’s desk. ‘Give yourself a pink slip,’ he sighed, and ran away to his office. The little old man nodded eagerly and began filling out a pink slip at once.
The next day was payday, and all watched Art closely as he passed out the envelopes. Smirking as usual, he sat down to open his own. The money he’d sealed into it and the pink slip he’d signed slid out together, and Art’s face seemed to fold in thirds, like a business letter.
Clark Markey, always the barometer of another’s mood, began to weep for him. Art himself merely sat there, staring at the slip lying flat on his desk.
‘Noo,’ he said in a small voice. ‘They can’t do this to me. Not to old Art.’ He said it like a speech of condolence.
‘It isn’t fair,’ said Clark with feeling. ‘They can’t make a man fire himself.’
Art walked slowly to the office, pounded on the placard, waited. The sound of darts within ceased.
‘Let me in,’ he cried. ‘You’ve got to talk to me, Mr. Masterson.’
‘Go away, Dad,’ said a muffled voice. Art trudged to the coat rack, slipped on his old, worn coat, and left.
A moment or two later, the dart game resumed.
PART THREE: THE DISMANTLING
M EMO :
My childhood.
My father was a large cheque drawn on First National City Bank, and my mother was very tired.
– Masterson
Section I: Improvements
Things were looking up. Business seemed much improved, for everyone took enormous pay cuts. Karl was promoted to Art’s old job. In addition to precision stapling, he now made out pink slips and took charge of office supplies. He began to detect and eliminate sources of waste.
Bob and Rod were promoted to informers. They blamed Masterson’s father for everything, so their pay was not cut.
Clark Markey had begun to study law. Too many questions of justice now tormented him. How could a dead man be rehired? How could a man be forced to fire himself? At lunch hour he sat hunched over a large volume of labour laws, dropping crumbs (larger than whole words of the fine print) from his cream cheese sandwich. He was not a lawyer, and many of the long paragraphs were unintelligible to him. He began to suspect that in these lay the very answers he was seeking.
Masterson began looking fresh and fit. His death-colour skin took on a pink tinge, as if he daily gorged on blood. He bulged less, and began to walk around the office on new ripple-soled shoes, smacking his fist in his palm and saying, ‘Now that the dead wood is cleared away, we can really
move
.’ He made a progress chart.
Karl moved to eliminate the shocking waste of forms around the office. ‘Look,’ he explained to the group. ‘We always have old, used forms around. Why don’t we just eradicate the ink from them and re-use them?’
Section II: A Fast
After Christmas, Harold Kelmscott began a fast. It was, he said, in protest of his not being repaid the ten dollars the boss had borrowed; it was a form of sitting in dharna. Karl, who handled the pay envelopes, knew better. Masterson had garnisheed all of Harold’s wages against the twenty he claimed Harold owed him.
‘You can have your pay,’ Karl explained, ‘when the boss gets his twenty back.’
‘Twenty! But I only borrowed ten, and that he had already borrowedfrom me.’
‘If he borrowed it from you, how come you had to borrow it back? Come on, Harold, don’t be a welsher. You’re too nice a guy. Pay him his twenty, will you?’
‘How can I, as long as I’m not getting paid myself? This is worse than debtor’s prison, isn’t it, Clark?’ Harold looked to the non-lawyer for sympathy.
‘What? Who knows? I’d have to check with English Civil Law,’ said Clark testily, not looking up from his perusal of the New York Code.
Karl wagged his close-cropped
Ed pretended not to hear, and gazed steadily at the boss, who moved now on ponderous tiptoes to Art’s desk. ‘Give yourself a pink slip,’ he sighed, and ran away to his office. The little old man nodded eagerly and began filling out a pink slip at once.
The next day was payday, and all watched Art closely as he passed out the envelopes. Smirking as usual, he sat down to open his own. The money he’d sealed into it and the pink slip he’d signed slid out together, and Art’s face seemed to fold in thirds, like a business letter.
Clark Markey, always the barometer of another’s mood, began to weep for him. Art himself merely sat there, staring at the slip lying flat on his desk.
‘Noo,’ he said in a small voice. ‘They can’t do this to me. Not to old Art.’ He said it like a speech of condolence.
‘It isn’t fair,’ said Clark with feeling. ‘They can’t make a man fire himself.’
Art walked slowly to the office, pounded on the placard, waited. The sound of darts within ceased.
‘Let me in,’ he cried. ‘You’ve got to talk to me, Mr. Masterson.’
‘Go away, Dad,’ said a muffled voice. Art trudged to the coat rack, slipped on his old, worn coat, and left.
A moment or two later, the dart game resumed.
PART THREE: THE DISMANTLING
M EMO :
My childhood.
My father was a large cheque drawn on First National City Bank, and my mother was very tired.
– Masterson
Section I: Improvements
Things were looking up. Business seemed much improved, for everyone took enormous pay cuts. Karl was promoted to Art’s old job. In addition to precision stapling, he now made out pink slips and took charge of office supplies. He began to detect and eliminate sources of waste.
Bob and Rod were promoted to informers. They blamed Masterson’s father for everything, so their pay was not cut.
Clark Markey had begun to study law. Too many questions of justice now tormented him. How could a dead man be rehired? How could a man be forced to fire himself? At lunch hour he sat hunched over a large volume of labour laws, dropping crumbs (larger than whole words of the fine print) from his cream cheese sandwich. He was not a lawyer, and many of the long paragraphs were unintelligible to him. He began to suspect that in these lay the very answers he was seeking.
Masterson began looking fresh and fit. His death-colour skin took on a pink tinge, as if he daily gorged on blood. He bulged less, and began to walk around the office on new ripple-soled shoes, smacking his fist in his palm and saying, ‘Now that the dead wood is cleared away, we can really
move
.’ He made a progress chart.
Karl moved to eliminate the shocking waste of forms around the office. ‘Look,’ he explained to the group. ‘We always have old, used forms around. Why don’t we just eradicate the ink from them and re-use them?’
Section II: A Fast
After Christmas, Harold Kelmscott began a fast. It was, he said, in protest of his not being repaid the ten dollars the boss had borrowed; it was a form of sitting in dharna. Karl, who handled the pay envelopes, knew better. Masterson had garnisheed all of Harold’s wages against the twenty he claimed Harold owed him.
‘You can have your pay,’ Karl explained, ‘when the boss gets his twenty back.’
‘Twenty! But I only borrowed ten, and that he had already borrowedfrom me.’
‘If he borrowed it from you, how come you had to borrow it back? Come on, Harold, don’t be a welsher. You’re too nice a guy. Pay him his twenty, will you?’
‘How can I, as long as I’m not getting paid myself? This is worse than debtor’s prison, isn’t it, Clark?’ Harold looked to the non-lawyer for sympathy.
‘What? Who knows? I’d have to check with English Civil Law,’ said Clark testily, not looking up from his perusal of the New York Code.
Karl wagged his close-cropped
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