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Bureaucratic Bloat

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by George Opacic

Eve and Sam were sitting in a cafeteria at the local mall. Eve gazed around at the colourful displays of food outlets taking up the perimeter of an area that was a quarter hectare of tables and chairs. Throughout the middle of the area, couples sat interspersed, lost among the maze of yellow plastic tables, sitting on hard blue plastic seats that were cleverly designed to be more-or-less comfortable for a maximum of fifteen minutes.

Smells were not overwhelming. There were the usual whiffs of salty sweet semi-edible food items.

Elevated levels of sound originating from high speakers issued whining muzak, reverberating off concrete and terrazzo and steel.

Eve shook her head. “The perfect vision of civilization.”

“Huh?” Sam was used to her firm views on everything. He politely mumbled, “What do you mean, dear?” Then went back to munching on his donut.

Encouraged, Eve carried on. “Well, here we are in a building that could easily hold three or four hundred people and there’s, what, twenty couples and a few singles sitting at all these seats. Why did they make this place so friggen big?”

The spicy language woke Sam up. “You know, you’re absolutely right. They should just crunch it all back to the coffee shop it used to be. I remember going to that old place with you when…”

Distracted, she gazed at Sam’s wrinkled face and smiled sweetly. “You still remember that?”

He nodded strongly. “Clearly. Anything after that, however, has become a grey blur.”

Eve tried to slap his arm but he was too quick. Grinning, he leaned over to kiss her cheek. “I do remember some of the good parts.”

“No, seriously, Sam. This place has grown way too big and there’s no reason for it!”

Sam leaned back, not really wanting to engage in a complex topic; but, “Blame it on bloat.”

“Bloat? What are you…”

“Bureaucratic bloat. It’s inevitable. It’s like a ratchet. Turn it a little and it won’t come back down. Each click takes it further along, inevitably more and more.”

Eve shrugged. “What are you blathering on about now?” She knew he’d get to some complicated point.

“Ok. My proposal is that when humans get together into an organization, they can do great things. But then, bureaucratic bloat takes them to extremes. Ratcheting up whatever they were doing, higher with every success. Until it finally grows so large it either collapses or begins to eat itself. It’s like…”

Eve pretended to snore.

“Well, you brought this up. So let me finish my thought.”

Eve nodded. “Sorry, dear. Carry on.”

“Ok. So, we want to build something impressive… like a pyramid…”

Eve pretends to be surprised. “Are we in need of a pyramid? We’ve hardly got room in our backyard for a pool.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Listen. If we were going to build anything as complicated as a pyramid, we have to put a team together. And then get all them sorted and resources organized and all that stuff. Right?”

“For the sake of argument I’ll just say yes.”

“Right. And then we build it. Then along comes someone else who wants to build another pyramid. Ok? So what’s he going to do? He’s not going to just build one the same size. He’s going to build it bigger!”

Eve smiled prettily. “Of course, dear. Anyone would do that.”

…………………………..

Is Bloat a Bureaucracy Problem?

The question of why bureaucracies get bigger over time has been looked into, but bureaucratic bloat still keeps happening and it is taking more resources to pay for itself

What’s the problem?

Financial and other resources that are being expended on organizations’ administrative staff could be better directed to original corporate objectives

As an example, before the 1980s, colleges and universities in North America used to direct their financial resources toward academics, which sounds reasonable

75 to 85% of their income went to the learning side of organizations’ budgets

Now, that has fully reversed: administrative expenses take 80 to 90%, with academic requirements getting the residue

This is a general tendency seen across many types of bureaucracies, private and public

However, the answer is not to say, “Get rid of bureaucracies!”

Bureaucratic Bloat

Bureaucracies are good

Bureaucracies are bad

They are good when they enable a larger group of people to address the need to plan and organize for moderately to highly complex tasks

They are bad when the process of organizing and doing the tasks becomes subservient to the needs of the planners

Inventing processes that helps those planning tasks to the detriment of those doing them – such as filling out forms and following procedures that do nothing to help along the completion of tasks, but rather collect unimportant data which only the planners feel is needed, this produces useless work

Then, when more staff are hired to accomplish the useless data collection, that becomes bloat

Bureaucracies

The concept of bureaucracies has been around for a very long time – that’s how the pyramids, ziggurats and Toltec temples were built

It allows:

  • Effective organization of labour
  • Clarity of roles
  • Structure and stability
  • Efficient use of resources
  • Employing people such that each person’s skills and capabilities are appropriately applied toward the organization’s objectives

But, yes, things can go off-kilter

Nevertheless, that is no reason to entirely throw out the concept – it can be corrected

Why Does the Budget Bloat?

For any administration, there is a strong impetus to get bigger

Particularly if the administration is successful

The main reason is a simple progression:

If goals are successfully achieved, managers are rewarded with further responsibilities

In order to approach new goals, more resources are requested

With each success, the process repeats:

     Success increases responsibility which requires further resources

With administrative success, the budget automatically bloats

Other Reasons

It may be:

  • Honestly feeling that one’s control needs to be extended
  • Micromanagement attitude, extending to a need to control
  • Inflation of the budget resulting from success/mergers/etc.
  • Aggrandizement of an organization’s authority figures

Honestly

If a manager does well in achieving assigned goals, that can legitimately become a feeling that others are not able to accomplish, or even fully understand, the goals, the organizational need for them, or the process needed to fulfill the goals

This feeling becomes hardened with ongoing “successes”

On hardening, it becomes a goal in itself:

“Since others are not competent enough, I am the only one who should be in charge of this process”

Micromanagement

The inability to allow others to make their own decisions regarding how procedures should be done

This is a trait which is very difficult to overcome by micromanagers themselves:

  • “If this is to be done right, I have to be sure they do it just as I tell them to”

The result is that staff will soon take zero initiative, simply waiting for the boss to tell them what to do

Inflation of the Budget

Without strict oversight by a board of directors or enlightened CEO, budgets tend to increase in areas where the process goals have been successfully achieved

This is primarily seen in goals that are central to the organization such as those with metrics that are easy-to-collect or to-understand

For instance, profit, or in the number of products or services provided

Where budget inflation occurs, it can often be traced back to inappropriate organizational objectives:

  • Focus on the number of products/services or organizational profit, rather than long-term organization viability, customer satisfaction or to the client base or community

Aggrandizement of Authority

Diligent supervision is good; micromanagement is not good

A manager who has an inflated sense of self-worth will automatically try to grab more areas of responsibility to bring them under their own control

This is the super-extension of micromanagement – a need to CONTROL

It may go beyond control of procedures, to be a desire for control of as many processes and people as possible

Burnout or psychosis is too often the final outcome for such a manager

And bankruptcy can be the company outcome

Strategic Objectives

Strategy

In business, strategy can be defined as being about “shaping the future” and is the human attempt to get to “desirable ends with available means“: Max McKeown (2011)

Strategic objectives define the path to be taken in general, and explain why that path ought to be taken

Critical Thinking

The process of analyzing available facts, evidence, observations, and arguments to make sound conclusions or informed choices: Wikipedia

Metrics

As an assistance to strategic thinking, metrics are the numbers that management calculates from on-going processes, which are then used in their analysis to make objective decisions

Objective decisions

Making operational or strategic decisions based on facts, first, rather than on opinions or past practice

Strategic objectives

Describe the outcomes to be achieved by the end of the planning horizon and set the benchmarks for success

Measuring With Metrics

If a company determines that its strategy is to “make a profit of 30%”, as an objective, they do not give themselves a path to do that, nor a way of knowing why they are doing that

“Money” is not a strategy; it is only a supporting metric that may show the pace of approaching a goal

Metrics measure actions rather than explain them – they only show the pace at which the organization is moving, not the direction or purpose

It is corporate Strategy that defines a path toward an objective, answering why, and therefore giving a long term trajectory or purpose to the actions

Curves and Control

Institutions of higher learning have been changing

The changes have been incremental, just like a virus that infects one person, who then coughs the infection to 1.2 people, and the increases multiply…

And there’s the comparison to a “contained situation”, where the curve rises only moderately, if at all

The situation where we see a logarithmic rise is good if it is our income, but bad if it is a viral infection

You know that movie

In Colleges or universities, control of the academic side has been usurped by administrators who “specialize” in areas like curriculum development and no longer trust the educators – who are expert teachers – to do such development

Control has been flipped from academic professionals to administrative technocrats

How Bloat Happens

Incrementally:

  • A program coordinator becomes too busy with administration, so an assistant is needed
  • The assistant needs more resources
  • With more administratively effective outcomes, more tasks and duties are assigned
  • Busy departments are cloned…

Subversively:

  • An administrator, to increase their power/authority/income, continually pushes the envelope of the Budget by hiring more staff and accumulating more resources

Criticism of the Bloat Concept

An insulting analysis of the past twenty years of data was posted 18 February 2020, on the website called Higher Education Strategy Associates, http://higheredstrategy.com/administrative-bloat-2020-edition/:

…the typical story we hear about administrative bloat concerns the huge numbers of administrative and support staff (henceforth, “A&S Staff”) hired, in contrast to the ranks of the professoriate, which are constantly decimated by predatory managers and… (yadda yadda…)

Aside from dismissing the concerns so rudely, the author, Usher, uses the cute trick of presenting data from exactly after the change started to become so pronounced

Academic Bloat

Surprisingly, Usher attempts to hide the numbers in plain sight

And yet, there they are – the data for “Instruction” and “Academic” are just above “Library” (these 3 being the learning side of a university), while the administrative cost categories sit increasingly higher above

So What

By shuffling limited fiscal resources from the organizational Budget’s academic side, to the administration side:

Direction of the institution’s academic offerings shifts to:

Courses that are determined to be supportive of the Budget’s objectives rather than academic objectives

Academic advice and direction of the institution becomes progressively subservient to technocratic control

Academic input to administration is progressively determined to be without value; then it is,

Classed in negative terms such as “conflict of interest” and “counter to the long-term interests of the students”

All of which marginalizes those whose work has been the very reason for the institution to exist

Thus creating a Certificate Factory mentality,

Which opens the door to commercial funding, putting the institution into the fiscal pockets of special interests

Knuckling Under

Why would an academic succumb to the incremental eating away of an institution’s academic principles?

Those with tenure may be:

  • Short sighted as to the implications of handing over administrative functions
  • Not capable of administrative functions nor sufficiently trained in the tasks or the implications for not doing them
  • Mislead by promises of simple technocratic assistance

Those without tenure may be:

  • Fiscally in need of the position, so not willing to be seen as disruptive
  • Not trained in academic duties, so are easy to manipulate
  • Believing that cooperation will lead to advancement

Other Industries

Of course there is a wide variation among the various industries with respect to the way that bureaucratic bloat may happen

It depends on factors such as:

  • Professionalism of the organization’s leadership
  • How focused the leadership is on objectives
  • Initial business acumen of the founder(s)
  • Regulatory environment
  • Pressure by shareholders for continuing dividend increases

An Airline As a Corporation

Advancement in any field is so often a combination of diligent technical and scientific detective work combined with cross-functional seeding of ideas, along with outright luck

The airline industry has been evolving and, regrettably, that evolution has been driven by more than simply technological improvement

With every incident or tragic crash, new procedures were instituted (see, for instance, the ongoing story in Aviation Herald – https://avherald.com/)

This has worked for the betterment of commercial piloting, which is now a two-person job: one pilot doing the flying with the other doing communications and switch flipping, etc.

In practice, there is no major domo “boss” – they alternate periods of hands-on-stick control and each can propose actions that may be needed in cases of an unusual situation (but certainly, there is a Captain)

If that has been found to be the best course of action for airliners, why not for corporations?

Can Bloat Be Corrected?

Yes

Unfortunately, the further along that bureaucratic bloat has occurred in an institution, the harder it is to undo the damage

It calcifies processes

Breaking free takes supreme, diligent effort and an enlightened staff

The breaking-free process must be done by the CEO’s direct approval and by HR’s active engagement

Without creating even more bureaucratic bloat.

Commentary

Scams Galore

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Ben Nuttall-Smith

  1. The Bank will never call you – be it VISA  MASTERCARD  BANK CARD.
  2. The kindly voice said “This call is from the Bank Fraud Squad. You will receive instructions in your messages. Do not share the number provided with anyone else. Just follow the instructions.”
  3. At this point, remembering The Bank will never call you, I hang up and dial the number at the back of my card. The same voice answers immediately.  (He did not hang up – thus he was still on the line.) Fooled by this deception, I answer all questions, including card numbers, etc.
  4. After a few more questions, I begin to suspect. … I hang up. Wait a few minutes and once again dial the number listed on the back of my card. This time there’s music and a waiting period.
  5. YES.  I’VE BEEN SCAMMED.
  1. I receive an email to update my address on the government Income Tax website.
  2. To reach my account, I’m required to enter via my choice of bank.
  3. I select my bank and this time, I’m required to answer a number of seemingly irrelevant questions: 
  4. What is your favourite colour?  What was your mother’s middle name? What was the name of your first childhood pet? ……….
  5. “Congratulations!  You’ve qualified for the following charge cards”      …….  SCAMMED AGAIN.
Commentary

Only Yesterday

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Only yesterday, I was young and newly married. I blinked and two children arrived without instructions. Of all the university courses, no one offered a course on parenting. Time flew by and I found myself three times a grandfather. Grandchildren are magical creatures and so much smarter than I ever was. How did it all happen?

I remember older people through those years and thinking how behind the times they were and how little they knew. Of course, they were years away from me and winter was so far off I had no idea what it would be like to be old myself.

Suddenly, tomorrow has arrived and, at last, I realize how valuable every moment is and has been. I meet people I once knew and they’re all retired and getting gray. Some are in better and some worse shape than I.  We are now those older folks we used to see and never thought we’d be. 

I have regrets.  There are things I wish I hadn’t done. Mostly there are things I wish I had done. Then again, there are many things I’m happy to have accomplished.  

I have entered into this new season of my life unprepared for the aches and pains and the loss of energy and the ability to do the things I wish I’d done but didn’t.  At least I know, that though the winter has come, and I’m not sure how long it will last, I’m not afraid of death. 

I’d like to say to those of you still waiting for tomorrow: don’t hold back. Whatever it is, do it now. Foreswear all those reasons “why not”. Don’t wait to say, “I love you”. Say it today and prove it while you still have the energy. Don’t wait for others to appreciate and love you for the things you did for them in the past. You want to write a book, paint, travel, explore new hobbies? Start today.  

The way you live this part of your life is your gift to those who will want to be like you.  Make it amazing and relish every moment you have left.          

Ben Nuttall-Smith

Commentary

Fish and Chips

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a postcard story by Ben Nuttall-Smith

         Mr. Alfred Pickford-Jones approaches the park table, looking to right and left, to make sure no one else has the same spot in mind. Under his left arm he carries a folded newspaper and a long black umbrella. In his right hand he carries a package, neatly wrapped in newspaper.

         Mr. Jones is a tall, thin man in his late seventies or early eighties. He wears a bowler hat, a dark blue raincoat extending to his knees, and thick, horn rim spectacles that contrast strikingly with his snow white goatee and moustache.

         Fastidiously, he circles the table to find a spot that suits him, before he places his package, umbrella, and newspaper on the wooden bench. He draws a large blue handkerchief from his right coat pocket and flicks crumbs from the table. Observing a spot resistant to his efforts, he picks up a twig, scrapes at the table surface, and blows the residue off the table at the far end. The flicking, scraping, and blowing take three minutes at least.

         Mr. Jones shakes out his handkerchief with both hands, until a crumb falls, before he deigns to return it to his coat pocket. After that, he opens his newspaper and spreads it on the table. A picture offends his eye. He shakes his head, turns over the paper, and smooths it with both hands in an outward, sweeping motion.

         He places the umbrella on the far side of the newspaper, adjusts it until it’s perfectly centred, and positions the package precisely opposite the umbrella.

         Before he sits down, there is just one more thing he must do. He extracts his handkerchief, dusts the bench, shakes the cloth with both hands as before, and returns it to his pocket.

         Gazing in satisfaction at the arrangement before him, he at last sits down, looking to right and left to ensure he’s alone. He removes his bowler with both hands, places it carefully above the umbrella, and adjusts it. Just so.

         Still far from done, he reaches into another coat pocket and extracts a small biretta cap, patterned in tartan. This he places on his nearly bald head.

         At last, Mr. A.P-J. carefully begins to open the package, folding back each sheet of newspaper at a time.

         The meal exposed before him at last, he rises to shoo away the gathering pigeons, first to one side, then to the other. Again, he sits down. His handkerchief will serve another purpose now. He tucks it behind his collar and spreads it out as much as he can.

         For just a moment, he bows his head in thanksgiving. Then he pulls his sleeves up a notch and commences his meal. With customary precision, he chews each mouthful twenty times. Occasionally, he breaks off a part of a chip and tosses it to the pigeons, now reassembled nearby, scolding one or two for apparent greed as he does so.

         At the close of his meal, Mr. Alfred Pickford-Jones removes his “bib”, shakes it out, and returns it to his pocket. Carefully, he folds up the newspaper within the one he used for a table cloth, removes the cap from his head, and replaces it with his bowler hat.

         Only then does he pull out his harmonica from his vest pocket and turn away from the table. To serenade the birds.

Ben Nuttall-Smith

bennuttallsmith@me.com

Commentary

A Fire Burns

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A fire rages across the fields. It pours forth from angry mouths. It consumes everyone in its path… Then, like all fires, there soon comes a time when everything is thoroughly blackened. All is chaos and deprivation.

The heat dies down. Angry faces look for more victims but there is nothing further to consume.

Life pauses.

There remain hot spots underground. These are forgotten as the sky clears and seeds sprout through the ashes, pushing up green stems and leaves that search for sunlight.

The same people who were victims now grow back to full life as the diminishing hot spots simmer deeply under rocks.

Those who are inclined, clean up the mess.

The rest try to forget. And they do.

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Lost

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A man in a hot air balloon realized he was lost. He reduced altitude and spotted a woman below. He descended a bit more and shouted,

“Excuse me, can you help me? I promised a friend I would meet him an hour ago, but I don’t know where I am.”

The woman below replied, “You are in a hot air balloon hovering approximately 30 feet above the ground. You are between 40 and 41 degrees north latitude and between 59 and 60 degrees west longitude.”

“You must be an engineer,” said the balloonist.

“I am,” replied the woman, “how did you know?”

“Well,” answered the balloonist, “everything you told me is technically correct, but I have no idea what to make of your information, and the fact is I am still lost. Frankly, you’ve not been much help so far.”

The woman below responded, “You must be in Management.”

“I am,” replied the balloonist, “but how did you know?”

“Well,” said the woman, “you don’t know where you are or where you are going.  You have risen to where you are due to a large quantity of hot air.  You made a promise which you have no idea how to keep, and you expect people beneath you to solve your problems. The fact is you are in exactly the same position you were in before we met, but now, somehow, it’s my fault.”

Shorts

The Soft Shoe

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The Soft Shoe and the Whole Damn Thing

:by George Opacic

Twenty-six union business managers are squeezed together on one side of a row of doubled tables with white linen covers. Business owners are on the other side.

Since there is the width of two tables separating both sides, the echoey room has to be large. Expansive windows run across the back. Unlike other windows in the smaller meetings rooms, these are covered with adjustable blinds that come up from the bottom.

They are set at half-way up, strategically allowing the sun to shine directly onto the business people occupying the far side of the tables. The faces of those near the windows, union representatives from across the province, are obscured by the bright light behind them.

The central union figure, Sandy, is a large-faced, large-bodied man dressed in his severe

dark blue “negotiations suit”, with a red patterned tie included. It is loosely handing below his chin. Sandy is finishing his presentation; he is working himself up to a rousing crescendo. Angry words are hurled, along with occasional theatrical spit, toward Clay, the smaller man opposite. Clay absently dodges them as if they are ping pong balls. Even as Sandy’s face is darkened by shadow with sun behind him, his redden features can be seen to be bulging with emotion.

The recipient of the barrage, Clay, is wearing his neutral sober face, though his tightly shaved mustache twitches occasionally. His mostly bald head almost sinks into the collar of a herringbone suit. The suit manages to carry the appearance of both a newly-stiff collar and incongruous worn elbow-pads. Under the verbal onslaught, Clay sinks lower into his suit in an attempt to use the collar as earmuffs.

Sandy’s body rises with his crescendo and he suddenly pulls off a shoe and bangs it on the table, Khrushchev-like. “And we WON’T BE PUSHED AROUND ANYMORE!”

Most of his own side grunt in support of the outburst. They all mumble various levels of approval as Sandy plops back down, exhausted, satisfied with his performance. Sandy pulls a hanky across his face to wipe the sweat away.

On the other side, all but two of the twenty-seven contractor-representatives are startled.

They quietly exchange worried looks. Clay glances to his left, checking on Henry, his “Co-Chair” and newly appointed Director of Labour Relations.

With the shoe banging, Henry remembers the 1960s story of Khrushchev’s UN shoe-banging incident followed by Harold Macmillan’s dry comment. Henry is thinking, “May wehave a translation of that please?”

Henry is younger than all but one at the table. He is taller, with a thick black moustache and full head of black hair. Henry’s light, striped suit is calculated to blend in to most backgrounds. With this sun shining directly on it, the suit glares in the face of the union  reps who look at him. So they don’t look.

Within, Henry is as concerned as the others in his group. Outwardly, he has learned to strictly control his facial muscles. They remain perfectly relaxed, because he has willed

them so. Allowing the reverberations to die down for a minute, Clay’s head rises fully above his collar. Seeing him out of the corner of his eye, Henry is reminded of a groundhog poking up in a field back on his farm. Thinking, He’s more like the wolverine playfully scratching his back on a tree then suddenly taking off after you with a big mouthful of gleaming teeth.

Clay finally speaks. “Thank you, Sandy, for expressing your views about this clause. And, of course, we will take it under advisement.”

Sandy and Clay exchange neutral nods.

“And now, I would like to suggest that we adjourn talks for this first day. Over the afternoon we have been able to exchange our positions frankly. We have a lot to consider in caucus.

Before we commit to the dates for further talks, are we agreed to reconvene tomorrow at eight?”

The young union rep from a smaller local can’t help getting in with, “That’s a.m., right?”

Sandy’s head snaps angrily toward the newbie, who shrinks back into his seat, away from the glare of the union boss-of-bosses.

Sandy turns his head back to Clay. Ignoring the interruption from the young fellow across the table, Clay looks at Sandy and receives a nod, then both scan up and down their sides of the table. No dissent.

“Fine, then. A productive day.” Clay turns to Henry, “Caucus for half an hour for our side, then freshen up,” a little louder, “and for those who want, we can meet in the bar at seven?” Clay is directing that to his people but glances at Sandy, whose nod comes at the same time as Henry’s.

Entering the bright, noisy hotel bar, Henry stands before the maître d’, who offers, “Would you like a table, sir, or do you prefer the bar?”

Henry is new at this, freshly hired out of university with a degree in labour relations. He did very well in class and as a graduate student. Now in the real world, he fully understands that there are many different things to learn. Henry prides himself on being a sponge for knowledge. His attitude is, I am here to learn.

“Not sure… I’m handling the union negotiations?…”

“Of course, sir. We have a quiet table in the back corner. How many would there be?”

“Make it a table for four, but it is likely to be just two of us. I think the others are going to be at the bar.”

He notices groups of his people and theirs, and a joint group happily and sometimes roughly partaking of libations. Their main concentration appears to be on the hockey game being shown on two televisions above the bar.

As Henry steps to follow the maître d’, Clay arrives. He gets the maître d’s attention with a raised hand, “Hold the table for us, please, but we’ll sit at the bar for a few minutes.”

“Fine, sir.”

Clay heads right for Sandy, who has been alone at the bar for at least one drink so far. His tie is missing and the top two buttons on his shirt are open. Henry can’t help but notice the greying chest hair spilling out.

Seating himself next to Sandy, Clay smiles, “Nice display.”

Sandy grins wryly, “Thanks. Needed that for… you know who.” He nods at Henry, who seats himself beside Clay. “This is new for you?”

Glancing at Clay, “Ah, yes. Very interesting.”

Clay grins.

The bartender arrives, “What can I get you gents?”

“Whiskey. Neat.”

“Ah, a screwdriver, please.”

The bartender quickly serves Clay his whiskey then prepares the screwdriver. Henry takes his tall glass, “Thanks. Ah, please put the whiskey and my drink on my room tab? 401.’

“Of course, sir.”

The hockey game takes their attention for a minute.

After a while, Sandy turns to Clay, patting his arm, “How’s Shirley doing?”

Shaking his head, “As well as can be expected. You know how it is. The chemo is really tough. I try to keep her spirits up, but… you know.”

Sympathetically, “Yeah. Tough. Took my Mary three months of torture… Thank you for coming to the memorial, Clay.” He pats Clay’s arm again.

Henry didn’t know about Clay’s wife. Nor Sandy’s. Much to learn.

Sandy changes the subject. “Have you filled in your new boy?”

A wry grin, “He’s a university student, Sandy. Give him time.”

“Teach him how to dance…” He nods knowingly. “Got to go.” As Sandy rises he leans toward Henry, “That Khrushchev was for my Prince George guy.” He winks. “Claude still thinks he can get another two bucks plus the bump to 15 minutes break. Oh. Clay, keep away, stay away from Popovich from Kamloops. He’s spoiling for a fight.” Sandy half-nods, looking for a positive response.

“We’ll see.” Clay flashes a pixy smile on then off. “Might need to shake things up some time… Talk later.”

Sandy puts his face close to Clay’s ear, “Fuck off. Don’t use him, for both our asses. The shit-face’s a time bomb.” Clay nods and pats Sandy’s arm encouragingly as he and Henry drop off their seats as well.

Making their way to the table, Clay lowers his voice to Henry. “The secret to construction negotiations is, it’s a dance.” He winks at Henry as they seat themselves at their table.

“Not the same as the cand-asses in manufacturing. Not even close.”

“A dance.” Henry takes in this next morsel of information.

Clay settles in, then leans toward Henry across the table. “It’s a dance. We all know the moves. The key is not to step on someone’s toes… Even the small fry – they can squeal every bit as loud as the others. The dance moves are already known. Everybody follows the steps. It has to predictable, Henry. If someone screws up, there’s millions of dollars worth of projects at risk. When it comes down to it, who cares a rat’s ass about Billy’s Plumbing in Squamish. But if the big dam is delayed by a week, all hell’s going to break loose.”

Clay relaxes back into his seat. He looks around, satisfied that nobody is within hearing distance. “It’s not just the money on the line. If we put a crimp in the government’s pet projects, or if the public starts yelling at them, the government’ll throw some mediator at us and then cook up some artsy-fartsy legislation to threaten us and, as likely as not, the mediator’ll be clueless about what’s really going on. That would not be good for either the union business managers or our major owners. Nobody wants that… Except for a couple of the old-time rabble-rousers from the bad old days who don’t know any better just ‘cause they got a commy burr up their ass. So Sandy had to make like a commy to feed them their shit… Anyway… You did well. Just follow my lead. Don’t say anything unless I ask for it…

“Hah! Sandy’s still fuming about the idiot kid who opened his trap. NObody speaks at the table but the two friggen speakers. If I ever ask you a question, just tell me exactly what I want to hear and then shut up…” Clay softens his tone, “Sorry. That’s one of the dance no-nos. His new guy’s your age. Still learning… Here, Brian from Richmond gave me his psych notes.” Clay smiles. “Oh. You notice they’re sitting with their backs to the window?”

Henry agrees. “Old trick. It’s like who’s going to grab the bat handle first. If you know how many hands it takes to get to the top… You ever play ball?”

Nodding, “Yeah. Figured that one out fast. If the bat got tossed to me, I’d take a hit on the head to grab it at the right spot.” They both smile.

“So with the sun behind them, we can’t see their faces, their expressions. Brian is sitting off to the side and he’s really good with body language. Read his stuff.”

Clay reaches into his coat pocket to pull out a small pack of sheets folded into three. He hands the papers to Henry. “Look it over. Brian also figures Claude and Poppy are the loose canons. Think about how that can be used if we ever need it. Oh, and give me your

thoughts on Alexander. His company’s in trouble – lost that big pulp mill job two days ago to Fox. Don’t want him screwing us up with some behind-the-scenes shit deal, right? Don’t do anything yet, but give me some options. Ok?”

“Right.” Henry remembers to pull out a scrap of paper to write down his notes. “Do we use electronics – I mean, like, hire surveillance pros?”

Clay shakes his head, “Naw. Leave that shit to the unions.”

The server arrives at their table. “Have you gentlemen decided?”

Clay is amused, “Huh! With what? Didn’t bring us the menus.”

“Oh! I’m very sorry, sir! I’ll be right back…”

Clay waves a hand. “No no. I know the menu by heart. Henry?”

“Well, I have an allergy to onions. Can you recommend something?”

During their wait for the meal and over the meal itself, Clay continues passing tidbits of information about how the real world of bargaining goes, interspersed with gossip about the characters on both sides.

Henry sponges it up. “What about Sandy. You must have crossed swords for a lot of years?”

“We don’t cross swords. We’re the medics. MASH. When anything goes wrong at our table, everyone suffers. You remember four years ago? The whole construction industry went out. Know why?”

Henry had been in third year at university. The topic had been discussed in a poly-sci class. He recites to Clay the prof’s conclusion that the strike had been inevitable because of the provincial political battles at the time and the black-knight attempted takeover of the major engineering firm which was bidding on the huge nuclear power station contract in Ontario. It would have taken away a lot of the skilled trades.

“Naw. It was mosquitoes and hunting.”

Henry is about to let a laugh escape. He turns it into a smile. “Ok. I’ll bite. What happened?”

“Ha ha. Ok, there was that large food plant being built in Coquitlam. And the SOB business manager for the UA, the previous one. And, there was the nice sunny weather that summer. The whole f..” Clay looks around for any raging grannies, “The whole friggen industry – from the managers down – everybody’d booked their two weeks hunting vacation for the open season. So when some kid apprentice goes running to the union about there being too many mosquitoes when he was climbing the building’s outside ladders, the business manager says, Down tools! Even then, Sandy and I could have stopped it, but the boss of the project firm, who wasn’t even in the Lower Mainland, picks up his phone, yells at both the government and the media, and we couldn’t do a damn thing. Hands tied. Two weeks later, everybody hauls back from camp with their empties and a moose or two, and we’re back to work. Millions lost. Government hopping mad. Legislation changed…

‘Course, it was that legislation that got you your job. So, good-news/bad-news, eh?”

“Mosquitoes, huh?”

Clay nods and rubs his hands. “All right. I’m ready for dessert!” He waves for the attention of the server.

Time passes a bit longer than Clay likes. He is not in the happiest mood when the server

finally saunters by.

“What pies you got?”

“Thank you, sir. Here is the dessert menu.”

Clay takes it and quickly settles on, “Pecan. Pecan pie. And not a little sliver, mind!”

It is Henry’s turn. “The apple, please.”

“Excellent choices, gentlemen. I’ll be back shortly.”

Many minutes later, the server returns and, with a flourish, deposits two large plates before them. Each plate has an elegant, almost visible circle of caramel drizzled around the perimeter. A hint of frosting has been introduced over the feature contents, which are each an engineering marvel of the thinnest slices, still standing vertically, of what must have been apple on one plate and pecan on the other.

Clay is not pleased.

“I said pie. Not a tiny sliver of pie. Mine isn’t even thick enough to have half a pecan in it sitting sideways!”

The server starts a chuckle, thinking Clay is joking, but the obvious anger stops him from digging a deeper hole.

“Sir. I am very sorry that our dessert chef has prepared these so, ah, thin. I will be back immediately with more substantial pieces.”

He is about to whisk the plates away when Clay catches his hand. “You didn’t understand me. When I said pie, I meant PIE! The whole damn PIE!”

“Ah…”

Henry jumps in. “The whole pie, please.”

Well, the server does return with two whole pies. They are big ones.

Henry has to ask for a doggy box for the rest of his. Clay finishes his pie off in record  ime.

The whole damn thing.

He also has a number of unkind words with the maître d’ about his server. Henry thinks, Probably fire him tonight.

On his way back to his room, Henry’s stomach is not comfortable. Not at all. Walking into his bathroom, he mumbles, “He may dance the soft shoe but lord help anyone who gets on this guy’s bad side.”

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Titanic Trump

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Titanic Trump

Imagine…

One hour before the inevitable, a very privileged occupant of a first class cabin complains to others around him about the lack of proper amenities afforded to him and his entourage. The food, liquor and service have not been to his liking. The privileged families agree with the insistent, pompous fellow.

A bachelor In the group suggests they should take over the ship to correct the situation. When asked how they could possibly do so with the approximately 900 crew members and almost 2000 other passengers on board? Surely, it is suggested, none of the lower decks would go along with such an audacious scheme. After all, none of them had anything good to say about the few upper crust passengers. “We all know that us upper crusters are sucking them dry, as it is.”

The bachelor replies, “They are easily manipulated. If we promise them better conditions and free food, they will gladly join us.”

A British upper cruster retorts, “They hate us. They see us as the very reason for their being on the bottom rungs of a very tall ladder. And I certainly am not going to give up any of my status nor portion of my food. And in no way on God’s green Earth am I going to allow any of them to take over even the closets of my quarters!”

“You don’t understand me. When I say ‘promise’, that doesn’t mean actually giving them anything.”

“Oh. Well then…” The upper cruster ponders. “But how we are possibly going to turn them to our side?”

“With chaos and deprivation. We pay off part of the crew to reduce the rations of the passengers, cut back on any heat and water they may be getting, make sure the loos are backing up on their levels… Chaos and deprivation. Then we say to them, ‘It is such a shame that the crew are treating you so very poorly. Why don’t you join us and we will make everything right again. Just like It used to be.'”

“Oh. That might work.”

And so, by the time of half an hour before the Inevitable, the rowdiest of the passengers are convinced to lead an insurrection against the crew. The surprised Captain and other officers are led to a lifeboat and told to leave, and do so before the Boss changes his mind and just dumps them overboard. Many of the lower ranks join the Boss, along with most of the crew.

Then a jolt happens that shakes the ship…

Image generated with the assistance of artificial intelligence

Fiction

To Serve Humanity?

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by George Opacic

The walls show an outdoor scene of tall green/brown redwoods with soft moss dripping off their lower branches. Shades of green and brown everywhere. Fallen trees nurse new growth. Ferns search for room to spread out. Through the tall canopy, shafts of sunlight slowly march along the uneven floor. Large woodpeckers tap the deeply gnarled bark of cedars, then dash off to another pockmarked tree. In the distance, crows call to each other. The smell is heavenly.

A knobby outcropping of rock nearby has a multicoloured fossil embedded near its top. Lichen and spots of whitish moss cover most of the surface except for the bit of fossilized tree. This has marks across it, as if it has been raked by a great paw.

An old man sits in a comfortable brown recliner, feet up, drinking in the scene before him. Even though he has only a pair of shorts on, he is fully relaxed.

He scratches absently across his slowing heaving belly, rubs an ear then glances to his right. “Can I have a tissue, please? I’m still leaking.”

A hand stretches from behind him with a hanky. “Will this do?” The voice is soft, very reassuring, perhaps female.

The old man, Sam, nods. “Environmentally friendlier.”

The person behind Sam pauses, then, “Than what?”

Sam smiles. “Than paper. Disposable paper…” He adds, “I usually use mine quite a few times before, you know, disposing of it.”

“Oh.” The disapproving tone is noticeable. She has somehow made him feel chagrined.

His mind is, as he calls it, woozy. Sam asks, “Is that why you’re here?”

The person behind him pats Sam’s arm as she takes a step forward.

Her face and body have a covering that appears to be skin, or perhaps something clinging tightly. It holds what Sam can only think of as coloured moss dripping in random patterns between her small breasts and hips. Her hair is only a two-finger-wide circle of moss that drips down her back.

Sam thinks, There may be snow on the roof, but…

He shakes his head to clear those thoughts away.

She smiles down at him, bending slightly toward his face. “Thank you. Perhaps after we’ve completed the metamorphosis.”

Sam stiffens. Read my thoughts?…Oh well. I should’ve expected it.

She nods. “Are you ready? The transfusion will pass into your arteries. You won’t feel anything with the process. But first I need to hear your approval.”

Sighing, Sam thinks again. What do I have to lose? The cancer’ll take me in a few months, or I roll the dice with this lovely weird lady from a future I would not see.

“Yes. Let’s get on with it… Tell me again – in simple terms, what can I expect?”

She takes his hand.

He thinks, Warm.

“The infusion will take about ten minutes. In an hour-and-a-half your body will be in need of deep sleep. Over the following eighteen hours your body will undergo major repairs in all systems. During that time you will be… incontinent. This chair will accept the residue. Then, later, you may wish to have a long, cleansing shower. The waterfall at the edge of this forest will give you full refreshment. After that, your future opens up.”

He is confused, waving at the trees. “Yes, you said that, but this is just a picture, isn’t it?”

“Sort of.” She squeezes his hand lightly. “Ready?”

A sigh. “Yes.”

She nods. “Approval given. Now, adjust your arms to fit onto the chair-arms.”

Sam shifts his body back into the soft chair material and places both arms down into it.

She pulls out wide straps from the outside of each chair-arm and puts them over his arms. Sam unconsciously stiffens.

“These are only to hold you firmly during the infusion process. They will release when that is done.”

Sam nods and gives her a weak smile. As he relaxes, the straps slowly tighten on their own.

He thinks, Part of the process. Take it easy old codger. What have I got to lose?

She nods then touches something on the chair-back. Sam begins to feel a very light tingling in his arms. They become warm. His vision slowly blurs into mottled greens. Noticing it, he shrugs mentally. All is right with the world. The hour-and-a-half have already passed. He sleeps.

In his deep sleep he leaks from his eyes, his nose, his open mouth. She gently dabs at the leaks. Sam’s shorts have mostly dissolved away. She cleans up where they were and tucks his penis down to drip into the spongy chair seat, which soaks up that liquid and the more substantial residue from his bum.

Standing back periodically, she nods. “A fine specimen.” Examining his face, “Cannot meld into your thoughts yet. When you wake up…”

………………………………………………

Sam is walking groggily along a narrow path though the forest. He stumbles as he tries to lift a leg over a newly fallen tree. The small log’s root ball sticks up incongruously not far away.

She grabs his arm to steady him. “You’re still weak… Now. This is important. Think not what you could do. Think only what you want to do.”

Sam contemplates the log before him. Then he decides, and jumps over it easily. The glow in his face is infectious.

She claps her hands. “That was delightful to see! I knew it wouldn’t take you long.”

Then she leaps over the log to grab his arm before he can move on. Staring into his eyes she takes on a serious tone. “And this is even more important.” She holds both Sam’s arms to settle him down. “Listen. This is more than important. Yes?…”

He gazes into her eyes, waking out of his old wooz, thinking, She’s the loveliest creature I’ve ever met.

Her thought comes back to his mind. Stop and listen.

Her voice blends in his mind with what he hears. “Your first test was being chosen. You will understand the criteria later. Your second test was surviving the metamorphosis. That part is done. Now, you must survive what is the hardest part. Your mind can wander off into realms of ego and fantasy. You have been judged to have the potential to keep that under control. But it is not a trait in your genes as much a state of being. This you will learn better shortly. For now, please… please, for your sake and for mine, please remember that your new life is not yours. It is humanity’s. You are now living for the future of all humanity.”

Sam has a slowly moving shockwave creeping across his mind. He stumbles into a turn to sit on the log. It creaks and vibrates under his weight.

Ruefully, “You spoke of a quid-pro-quo.” Sam thinks back to their meetings. At first, he thought she was a doctor. A weird doctor with tattoos absolutely everywhere under her lab coat. At their meeting he was quite prepared to walk out of the clinic when he saw her. Now he remembers that her face was about the only surface of her body untattooed.

Her seemingly tattooed face smiles, thinking, Yes. It was uncomfortable for me. But your potential was… worth it.

They smile at each other. He thinks, I love you inside my mind. Then, wondering, Is there a place where I can be private?

She nods, Yes. I will teach you that. For now it’s important that we make it safely to the waterfall.

That’s when Sam is about ask for a towel but he looks down at his body to see it covered, like hers, with that special skin. “Huh.”

On their way along the path, they think to each other.

What’s so special about the waterfall?

It is the destination but it is more the journey. Your mind needs to catch up with your new body. You will find limits and boundaries – few but critical boundaries.

How far?

Another hour.

I could not have made it, yesterday.

The two make it to the waterfall, unharmed, unscratched, untired.

………………………………………………

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