Seattle Press on Line - Death Would Be a Welcomed Visitor

Death Would Be a Welcomed Visitor

By Laura Preftes

Feb 11, 1999 -- "Purple is my power color," June, the Executive Director, said. It was my first day of work and I had complimented her on her suit. The suit was black. It was her blouse that was purple. "I always wear a bit of purple. And on days when I need an extra power boost, I wear more." Other people take vitamins, I thought to myself. "You know, Laura, purple has a very important significance to our work here."

"How is that?" I inquired.

"You see, the color purple was originally derived from menstrual blood. And as you know, life is nurtured on menstrual blood. And that's what we do here. We raise money to enable our good doctors and nurses to carry on their important work in the healing arts. Money, you see, is our menstrual blood."

Martha, the assistant director, sauntered over to us and stood next to June. She turned to me, nodding her head, which was topped with short, tight red curls. "It's true," she said. "Purple is my favorite color too."

"Martha, why don't you show Laura around the office? This afternoon I'll show her the mind map."

"Yes," said Martha, "the mind map." Then they hugged for what seemed to be a good five minutes. Martha had tears in her eyes. "I've been searching all my life for a mentor," Martha told me. "And now I've found her."

June held out her arms to me. "Welcome," she said. As she held me against her full, moist body, I caught the eyes of my new co-workers, Sally and Eliza. They smiled sympathetically and mouthed the word "lunch." I knew I had found allies, and it frightened me that I needed them.

Sally was plain, had a dry wit, and called things the way she saw them. Eliza was more flamboyant. Her favorite expression was, "Death would be a welcomed visitor." She wore flowing dresses in floral prints and ate nothing but sweets. I witnessed her emptying thirteen sugar packets into her coffee; she claimed it was only twelve. Eliza went to a psychiatrist in order to keep her valium prescription. She said his specialty was in-patient care, but he took her on as a special case.

Over the next several months the us/them contingents were firmly established. June and Martha made up systems aimed at improving our fundraising ability while cutting costs. The systems were far too complex to be of any use, but we learned not to question or else listen to Martha's hour-long diatribe, the subtext of which asked the question: "Why are you so stupid?" Instead we talked about them and their systems behind their backs.

June spoke openly of her dysfunctional origins and her wild past. She was now born again into some new age religion called the Rainbow Church. She shared with us the most intimate details of her life while we cringed in embarrassment. She attended seminars to open up her inner child and came back to the office filled with ideas on how to work together more harmoniously. She felt her role as director was to empower us, especially Eliza. From time to time June would call Eliza into her office for an inspirational chat, advising her on the power of positive thinking and trust in the universe. After hours behind closed doors, Eliza would emerge pale-faced and shaking. "I desperately need a cigarette," she'd say.

At a rainy Monday morning staff meeting, Eliza and I were talking about an impending storm. Eliza said she wouldn't be at work the next day if there was a blackout. "I can't put on makeup in the dark and I just won't go out without it," she said, opening another sugar packet. "Will you be able to come in tomorrow, Martha?" asked Eliza. "Being that you live on that big hill and all."

"I'll be here," Martha said, leaning back in her chair. She wore a wrinkled, faded green dress with a tear down the seam; the sole was coming off her shoe. "I have higher priorities than makeup."

June took Martha's cue. "Speaking of priorities, why don't you tell our colleagues about the new file system?"

"Information is key in our business," Martha announced. "And even though we live in the age of technology, our paper files are still, at a fundamental level, the tools to our ability to access the information we need. It is important that you understand this concept." Eliza and I smiled our assurance. Sally stared at her stone-faced.

"Good," she said, turning away from Sally's gaze. "June and I are very proud of this system," she bellowed. "We worked on it until after midnight Friday. Fundamentally, the principle behind the system is that colors will help us find the files we are looking for more efficiently when the file color reflects the category the file falls into by playing upon our subconscious symbol system. For example-" She held up a black file folder. "The black files. These are potential donors who are unknown to us, or we are unknown to them. Black is the color of the great unknown. Do you understand?"

Sally raised her hand. "Excuse me," she said, "but aren't those files more expensive than the manila ones?"

"Yeah," said Martha. "Isn't our ability to do our jobs in the most efficient manner worth the extra expense?"

"Death would be a welcomed visitor," Eliza whispered to me.

"What did you say, Eliza?" June asked. With a sudden motion, she reached across the table, taking Eliza's hands between hers. "What's wrong, Eliza?" she asked pleadingly. "Are you having problems at home? Please, please, share your troubles with us. We only have your peace and happiness in mind." Eliza was silent, stiff. "Trust me. We know, we understand. You are so fragile. We know."

Sally and I looked at each other, trying to figure out how to save our friend. Martha rolled her eyes. Eliza snatched back her hand from June's grip and walked out. We knew she was headed in the direction of the butt hut, her place of refuge.

June stood up flustered. For a moment it looked like she would go after Eliza.

"I haven't finished explaining the system," Martha said. June's face was bright red.

"Oh yes. Yes. Go ahead, Martha. Continue."

As Martha's voice droned on like white noise, Sally and I thought of Eliza shivering in the butt hut, smoking cigarette after cigarette, wiping June's sweat off the palm of her hand.

This story is one of many in the new book, "Bad Jobs: My Last Shift At Albert Wong's Pagoda and Other Ugly Tales of the Workplace," edited by Carellin Brooks and available from Arsenal Pulp Press in Vancouver, B. C. and at Seattle area bookstores.

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