Got feelers, wheelers, couriers, letters and faxes, together with the phone calls and of course, Mr Man Friday himself on every other day knocking our working doors to say there was a request from the ‘boss’ for a ‘sit-down’ - sounded more like a threat than an invitation.
No. There wasn’t anything I’d done to warrant such a ‘sit-down’ with the ‘boss’. All I’d done was send a message (a couple of my own feelers, wheelers, couriers, letters, faxes and phone calls” to the ‘top-bosses’ expressing my heartfelt discontent at being excluded from ‘wetting my beak a little’ from the ‘pool of plenty’.
One of those feelers went to the wrong boss. He got back to me as promptly. And I apologized as quick (you don’t wanna lose a thumb over a typo now, do ya?). The boss was gracious, bless him, and he’s a little sick (and I hope he recovers well).
But the other bosses never caved in (way I figured, I was a little fish and they’d rather have grilled barracudas). But something had happened, must have happened, because like I said, short of the mailmen at Bhutan Post, they send everything at us. They wanted the ‘meet’. Thing about small fishes is that they are hard to catch. So I played slippery when wet and when required (a little cock & bull story to keep the postmen going, “return to sender.”)
And then the day for the meet arrived. It couldn’t have been postponed any longer. Thing about these meeting with these bosses is that they go so bloody traditional on your arses you gotta do the whole shebang – the gho, the kera, the kabney and the rest of the accessory. You can’t walk once you are bound like that and all your sound just disappears. It’s a bother, frankly, and its one reason why they don’t invite me as often and why I never show up at one. It’s a bloody ritual where nobody gets sacrificed and you walk out wondering “what happened?’
But we did the whole gay thing – dressed in skirts (with the long hair transgendering the look), dainty little black shoes, and the pretentious stockings and walked the long ramp to the loin’s den. There was the boss and his educated muscle by his side. We sat down. We talked business. I made my case. He made his. I made mine bolder and bolder, always polite. We finished the tax-payers coffee. And there was nothing the boss had to throw at me. I had never encroached at or in his territory but he had mine. I said that was an ‘intifada’. That was honor-less. And that I wanted my honor back, reinstated with whatever finesses they could muster so that they wouldn’t lose ‘face’.
The muscle spoke. For a bulldog, he was exceedingly polite. He thought it was his duty to save the boss’s face in there. So he declared “now what to do?”
I gave the polite punch. Do this. Do that. But do something.
He reasserted when he saw his boss was speechless. “So, what to do?”
I have a feeling the muscle spends a lot of time solving problems going “what to do?”
Well, do whatever you can was the most I could muster. You don’t beat down a guy who’s already flat on his face facing the floor.
We were given promises and assurances. Did we talk about the weather? I’m kind of blurry there. Perhaps not but you get the point. When you are in a meet with the bosses and the subject turns to the elements than I tell you – you’re winning the fight.
The meeting done, we did the polite thing. Said courteous goodbyes and left the building with a feeling of bewilderment and non-accomplishment.
This is how meetings go with bosses. Hold your ground. Don’t do nothing stupid. Keep your spot of the street and be a good earner. Be a good fella. Than even Jesus himself couldn’t touch ya if he wanted to. He’d have to send in, feelers, wheelers, couriers, letters and faxes, together with the phone calls and of course, Mr Man Friday himself, on every other day.
In case you were wondering, this is also how the Post Office works.