Work Text:
Jon spotted the invitation immediately, a colorful contrast to the manila envelopes and library photocopies stacked in his company mailbox. He'd treated himself to a rare lunch out and swung by on the way back to his desk.
He examined the flyer, knowing he wouldn't go but pleased to have been invited. The name was familiar--Martin Blackwood. He was in Jon's department, but sat across the room and spent much of his time in the field, so they hadn't yet spoken beyond introductions. When Jon reached to discard the invitation, he saw dozens of identical copies lining the bottom of the recycle bin. He quickly estimated there must be nearly as many as there were employee mailboxes. Jon wavered, still holding the flyer. He'd thought Martin was more popular than this. It seemed a shame that he'd gone through the trouble of producing nice invitations for a party no one would attend. Jon hoped it wasn't his birthday.
He began to read the invitation more closely, only to have it snatched from his hand. Tim, his new cubicle neighbor, twirled a couple times with the invitation above his head, then opened his hand and let it waft into the bin.
"Tim, I was re--"
"You're very welcome," he said. "It looks like a party, but it's not a party. Don't go unless you want to sit around his dumpy little flat all afternoon with a bunch of saddos while he tries to sell you manicure supplies."
"Manicure supplies?" Jon was mystified.
Tim circled around him, grabbing the few remaining flyers from the other employee mailboxes. "I should have known better, but he got to me my first week. Well, he didn't get me get me. His guilt trip didn't work because I'd brought a much nicer bottle of wine than he had, but it was still one of the more agonizing Sundays of my life." He dropped them in the bin and dusted off his hands, satisfied.
"He's soliciting at work?!" Jon followed Tim up the stairs. "Really? How's he getting away with that?"
"Some places look the other way. The Lifestyles Editor at my old office was shilling coffee pills." Tim gestured dismissively. "I don't know whether it's allowed here or whether no one wants to enforce the rules, but someone should do something. He's been annoying the living piss out of everyone. You don't go to the canteen for lunch, do you?"
Jon shook his head.
"Well, he's snared a bunch of people from other departments, and they monopolize half the room talking about sales strategies and pumping each other up with insipid business mottoes. It's embarrassing."
On his way out that evening, Jon snagged one of the fliers from the bin. On second glance, it was obviously a sales thing. He noticed a product logo embedded in the decorative border, and managed to identify it and find the company's website on the train home. It wasn't one he'd heard of before. All Hands seemed to be offering no less than world peace, with family, self-esteem, and romping through flower-strewn fields in delirious glee featuring as well. No prices were listed on the products page, but there was a field to enter his contact information to schedule a consultation with an ambassador in his area. Ambassador! If he could assure he'd match with someone from the office, it'd be tempting. He'd heard of MLM--always complaints--but no one ever had tried to pitch him personally before.
It was the end of the week before Jon managed to catch one of the lunchtime business meetings Tim had complained about. He'd been paying more attention than usual to Martin's comings and goings in an attempt to catch him at it. Jon realized Martin spent extraordinarily little time at his desk--so little, in fact, Jon began to wonder how much work he could actually be doing--and never at regular hours. It made it difficult to figure out when he took lunch.
It was early enough Martin's group was the only one in the canteen. Jon stood at the serving line, waiting for an employee to emerge from kitchen and notice him. He had counted seven others besides Martin, including Rosie, who he'd thought would have had more sense than to get caught up in this kind of business. Aside from Kenny from Artefact storage, he didn't know the others. Jon felt a flash of partisan pride that the other researchers had been too savvy to join.
As he pushed his tray toward the register, cheers erupted from the meeting table. Jon watched as Kenny was buffeted from one teammate to the next, back-slapped, hugged, and applauded, before being sat back down looking overwhelmed by the outpouring of fellowship.
Jon wondered how close he could sit without attracting their notice. He slid into a seat at the neighboring table, but with his back to the group, so he could shield his small notebook from their sight.
By this time, Kenny was haltingly addressing the table, "--the problem is, I don't have any confidence I can make a second sale. I do appreciate all the work you've put into trying to develop my skills, but--"
Oh, thought Jon as he listened, sounds like he's trying to quit. That's going to be difficult after they made such a production over him.
"Well, you know, not everyone's cut out to be a salesperson." Martin cut in evenly. "Not everyone wants to be! What's great about All Hands is that you can lean more on the mentorship and still be successful. My mentor's more into the sales side. I split my time pretty evenly. Rosie, though...Rosie, would you say you're closer to 80/20 mentorship?"
Jon heard Rosie laugh. "I wish! I need to make the time to sell more, but I haven't sold a single item in...six weeks? Maybe two months! My mentees have been keeping me busy."
"And how've your earnings been?"
"Surprisingly stable! I've managed to put together a very talented team."
"See, Kenny? That's just as legitimate a way to work your business."
Trading Standards would have something to say about that, Jon thought, smiling grimly.
"B-but...I mean, there's the same challenge of figuring out how to connect with people, isn't there? Which is where I really, um..."
"Well, you do have to genuinely want to connect," Martin said patronizingly, "If you enter a conversation with a connection mindset instead of a money mindset, it...well...it becomes clear pretty quickly how you can help people."
Rosie chipped in, "Try and keep that in mind when you approach a prospect--you've got something valuable to offer."
Jon detected a desperate edge to Kenny's laugh. "Right. Okay. Be nice if anyone else in my life felt that way." Murmurs of sympathy nearly drowned out Kenny's muttered, "Ever."
One of the women spoke up in a mellow tenor. "My family was really negative as well. Even my husband. When you finally start making positive changes, people who feel stuck in their own lives take their resentment out on you. The same thing happened when I quit drinking. You have to distance yourself from those negative influences. It must be wonderful to have people who actually support you and want to help you grow, but if you can't have that, well..."
One of the men supplied a catchphrase, "You can fly solo, but you can't fly dragging dead weight."
Oh culty, Jon thought, very culty, and added that to his notes. The warning signs were stacking up remarkably quickly. He thought about throwing Kenny a rope somehow, but couldn't quite imagine how he'd do it.
"No one needs to fly solo," Martin offered, "That's why I'm here at lunch every day. I remember how hard it is to go it alone."
There was such an over-the-top showing of gratitude for Martin, Jon became queasy. He poked at his curry listlessly, as they went around the table summarizing the week's successes and setbacks.
"So has anyone ever managed to actually sell their Diamond Tips Perfect Shine?" one of the new recruits asked tentatively.
"They sell like mad if you can make the right connections, I've heard, but making those connections..."
"I still have my original bottle. No one's been interested, but I'm not going to crack the seal on a seventy pound product just to do demos."
"You can't sell the product without developing the product knowledge," Martin said, "Jen's got mine right now, but you can borrow it for demos when she's done."
"Does it...does it actually sell, though?"
"I wasn't selling any until I opened that first bottle and made it part of my demo rotation." It wasn't lost on Jon what a careful answer that was, though no one pressed Martin on it.
"Do you stock it, or just send people to your sales portal?"
"Well, you have to stock the product if you want to move it." Just load up on Diamond whatevers at seventy pounds apiece with no promise they'll sell, thought Jon. Never mind that I'll be making a percentage on every one you buy. "Unless you're at a party, and can get the card in the reader while they're still in front of you."
"What's the demo rotation?" the same new recruit asked.
"If you watch the facebook group, they have all sorts of ideas. You have to tailor yours to the types of people you usually meet," Martin advised. "I meet a lot of older people and a lot of stressed-out people, so reflexology goes over well. There are videos on youtube that'll teach you how to do it to hands. I'll show you next time."
"It's how he got me." A chorus of familiar laughter.
"You don't mind if we steal it, though?" the new recruit said.
"I don't think therapeutic practices are something you can really steal? But please do. You'd be surprised how many strangers are willing to try it. And those that are open to it are so much easier to sell to I hardly bother otherwise. Definitely don't present yourself as a reflexologist, though, if you're not planning to become certified--"
"Huh!" Jon's skeptical laugh was loud enough this time to silence the neighboring table. A prickle ran up his spine at the sudden quiet--he had become so caught up in the conversation he'd forgotten he could be heard.
"Something you'd like to share with us, Jon?" Jon felt a shock at his own name in Martin's mouth. He hadn't thought Martin knew him. Jon braced himself for confrontation and turned in his chair to face the group. Martin's cherubic face was screwed into a superior expression. Jon decided to let him have it.
"Why not declare yourself reflexology certified? Draw yourself a diploma on the back of a placemat. It'll carry the same official weight. You can display it next to your Masters of Marketing in your offices at the Manicure Embassy." The group seemed confused by the embassy bit, looking awkwardly between Jon and Martin. Jon rolled on. "And it's fortunate reflexology is bunk, because if you were administering genuine medical treatment with all the expertise derived from a three minute youtube tutorial, you'd be endangering your customers." Jon had a moment to notice Martin's dimples deepened when he frowned, as well. "Not that it'd concern you in the slightest."
Martin exhaled and got to his feet, showing his full-- surprising--height. "So Jon," Martin said tautly, "Are you a doctor? Some sort of scientist or medical researcher? If you were a doctor, I'm sure we'd have heard about it."
"I don't--"
"Then I think I'll trust the expertise of my mentor, who is a medical professional. But thanks for your input."
"Reflexology was the wrong angle," Jon muttered, "It's not as though he made any specific claims I could--and 'Manicure Embassy...'"
Tim was leaning on Jon's cubicle wall finishing off an apple. "D'you need someone to provide the other half of this conversation, or...?"
"He's sure he'd have heard if I was a doctor--what's that supposed to mean? It's not as though we've spoken."
Tim raised his eyebrows eloquently.
Jon felt himself go red. "So I'm supposed to be ashamed of my qualifications, is that it?"
Tim laughed. "I just can't believe you got Martin to be mean. Nearly mean."
"I've met his kind before. Mean doesn't being to describe it." Jon shook his notepad in Tim's direction. "He's an absolute mercenary."
"Ah yes. Once they get a taste, they start killing for sport." Tim pitched the core into the waste bin by Jon's elbow, making him jump. "So what'd you say back?"
"W-well, I said he was very welcome and finished my lunch."
Tim frowned and gave him a thumbs down.
"L'espirit d'escalier didn't catch up to me until I was nearly back to the office."
The thumbs down turned into a wanking motion.
"Stop it, Tim. We both know you know that much French."
Jon didn't know how he'd missed before how irritating everything about Martin was. His big, unwieldy body stuffed into permanently wrinkled short sleeved button up shirts--always paired with a skinny gray tie twisted around backwards half the time. His scurrying as if constantly five minutes late, arms dangling half-bent in front of him like a Tyrannosaurus. Probably poised to grab for wallets.
For all his sweaty bustling, though, Jon never seemed to catch Martin doing any real work. Chatting with coworkers in every corner of the Institute, yes. Having furtive, hushed cell phone conversations. Standing over his desk, bent in half to jot some quick note before rushing off again. But he never sat. Seemed never to have opened his laptop.
Martin did have time to make sure the Institute's mailboxes were regularly stuffed with "party" invites, though, Jon included.
Even if it hadn't been for these missives of challenge, Jon would have known Martin felt the same about him. He made a point of smiling at Jon whenever their eyes met--Jon alternated glares and sneers depending on his mood--but his sales group looked the other way when he'd pass them in the halls. Even Rosie's smile seemed false when he greeted her in the mornings.
As it had in every other milieu, having enemies made Jon finally feel at home at the Institute. He attacked his research with greater energy, imagining his work showing up Martin's. Things would have continued in that happy way if he hadn't met the subject.
Jon recognized what he was there for immediately--they all had the same tense, unblinking energy. The man started toward Jon, and Jon retracted the ID card he'd been about to scan for admittance at the reader. Carol had hammered in the importance of employees not allowing unauthorized visitors to follow them through the doors.
"Do you have an appointment, sir?" Jon snapped before the man could speak. Honestly, how unapproachable did Jon need to try to be before people would actually stop approaching him?
"N-no, but--"
Jon waved him toward a camera-connected intercom set into the wall. "If you push the red button and let the receptionist know you're here to give a statement, she'll advise you further."
"I...well, I already gave one. Or they came to me, rather. It's why I didn't want to..." The man wavered. "Look, Martin Blackwood! Do you know him? Can you let me know what time he gets here? His phone's going straight to voicemail." He composed himself, tucking flyaway gray hair behind his ear.
For the first time, Jon noticed the card the man was holding in his hand was printed with a familiar floral design. He seized it and examined both sides. Incredible! Just incredible.
"Where did you get this?"
"Mar--Mr. Blackwood left it with me so I can call him if I see the invisible dog again." Before Jon could reply, he continued, "But it's not about that. I really shouldn't waste your time any further--"
"Let me guess," Jon said, trying to bite back anger this man didn't deserve. "Manicure emergency?" He flipped the card--a double-sided business card with Martin's Magnus Institute contact information on one side and his All Hands information on the other--so that the pertinent side faced the man.
The man reddened. "Well, rents are going up and I've never given much thought to sales before, but--"
"I'm keeping this," Jon interrupted, waving the card.
"You're what?"
"In return, here's a tip--look up 'pyramid scheme.'"
"I've heard of bloody pyramid schemes! This is direct sa--" The glass doors of the Institute cut off the rest of his sentence.
Jon strode across the lobby, noting Rosie wasn't at her desk. Oh, right. He was quite early. He took the stairs two at a time to the third floor, and stormed into Research, disappointed to find he'd beat Carol to the office as well. The whole room was dim gray, the neighboring building blocking the most direct morning light. He hit the lights, hearing a squawk of surprise from the direction of his own cubicle.
"Tim? Are you here already?"
A warding hand appeared over the cubicle walls. "Give me a moment! Christ, what are you doing here?"
"I'm all of twenty minutes early," Jon protested, making his way toward his cubicle. "I ran into one of Martin's recruits on the steps."
"Stay there!"
Jon obeyed, but continued his rant, "He's recruiting our subjects into his pyramid scheme, Tim! Our interviewees! It's why he's so keen on field work. Martin is out there...harvesting the deluded and mentally ill. And he's doing it on Institute time. Under Institute auspices!" Too wound up to stay still any longer, Jon charged toward Tim's cubicle, ignoring the frantic scuffling coming from behind its walls.
Tim was sitting cross-legged in his rolling chair hurriedly doing up the last of his shirt buttons. "Jon, what part of 'stay there...?'" He flung his arms in the air in exasperation. "Alright, repeat all of that."
Jon did, then showed Tim the double-sided business card.
"What an idiot," Tim said, considering the card, "I've never seen anything like this. He should be sacked."
"We're in agreement on that, but I don't think there's a drop of idiocy in it. He must know what he's doing."
"Hardly matters, when it's a breach of professionalism of this scale."
The Department Head, however, disagreed. She laughed so heartily when Jon described Martin as a cynical predator, most of what he'd planned to say next dried up in his throat.
"I don't understand how you could be so badly mistaken," Carol said at last, wiping moisture from the corner of her eye. "They don't make them sweeter than Martin. We regularly get calls from subjects wanting to send him thank you notes. He's received Christmas presents. It's extraordinary."
Was that really all it took to build rapport with people? A soft voice and pasted-on smile? "Nice as I'm sure he is, surely outside business activities must be against company policy?"
"You're concerned about the theft of Institute time?"
"That's the least of it, but--"
"Martin's been with us several years now, and he's always been a fine researcher. I've been satisfied with the volume and quality of his work, and I've seen no slippage since he started his business."
"Well, what about the fact," Jon continued, taking up the business card and flipping between the two sides, showing them off to her, "that he's creating confusion about our mission in the community. He's degrading our reputation by associating us with these cuticle lotion people!"
Her mouth flattened and she gave a shallow shrug at the word "reputation."
"We really have no policy against this type of...misassociation? No--no communications policy concerning--" he braced himself to say the phrase, "brand integrity?"
"Look for yourself." Carol pulled down a slim and age-brittle copy of the employee handbook from the shelf behind her desk and handed it over.
"When was this last updated?"
"Looong before my time," she replied. "I think our mimeograph was decommissioned in 1983, so before that."
"That's appalling. What does our HR department do all day?"
"Extensive applicant screening, for one," she replied with a chill. "When you hire the right people, it can be left to their discretion how they comport themselves. Martin's proven time and again he's one of the right people." Unspoken was you, I'm unsure about.
"May I hold onto this?"
"Please do. But if you're going to pick through it for fuel for your silly vendetta, please do it on your own time."
Jon was dismissed with the book, dizzy with thwarted confusion. He must have picked a fight with one of the Department Head's pets. It was the only reasonable explanation.
...how shiny had her nails been?
Jon was skimming the employee handbook later, in search of anything having to do with soliciting or fundraising, when Tim returned from break and leaned on Jon's wall.
"So how'd it go with Carol?"
"Her position seems to be if Martin's not breaking any rules, no intervention's necessary. And we don't seem to have any rules!" Jon flapped the handbook in his direction. "Christ, Tim, I thought she had a laid-back managerial style, not...this. I'll have to go above her head."
"I got you something that could be helpful," Tim offered.
"What? A tiger pit?"
"It's Jen-in-the-Library's facebook login. That means we can read the mani-club minutes whenever we like. See what Martin's posting. We shouldn't post anything, though, unless it's funny enough to lose access over."
"Won't she realize someone else is logging on under her name?"
"No worries. She gave me her password herself."
"What'd you tell her?"
"Oh, nothing really," he shrugged, "It's more how you ask."
Fortunately, Tim didn't elaborate on his technique. "Do they really call themselves the mani-club?" Jon's lip had curled without his meaning to.
"It's far worse, actually. I can't bring myself to say it aloud."
"Let me have a look at it." Jon stood, elbowing his way into Tim's personal bubble.
Tim held the phone above his head. "Jennifer trusted me, not us. Tell me what to look for." Bullshit, Jon thought, he just doesn't want to be cut out of the office drama.
"They discuss sales techniques. I'm looking for hard proof he's been recruiting our subjects or selling on company--"
"You know, it's doubtful he's selling anything," Tim said, "I think the statistic was 90% of direct sellers lose money. That may be lowballing it."
"Attempting to sell, then. Or advising his employees--"
"No 'employees' in direct sales."
"I misspoke," Jon waved his hand dismissively, "In any case, telling his...minions to do the same. We need something HR can't ignore."
"HR, huh?" Tim sucked air in through his teeth, "You said you've been here a year, yeah? Did Nicholas hire you?"
"...that was probably his name. Little man with a mustache?"
"You know he's one of them, right?"
He was, it turned out--Mr. Cut-the-Dead-Weight from that day in the canteen. In the end, Jon emailed his complaint and the zipped file of supporting evidence he and Tim collected over the next couple weeks to the Institute Head. He pressed send at the end of the day on Friday, skin jumping with nerves, then dashed out the door, determined not to worry about it over the weekend. He didn't expect a reply until midweek at the earliest. Given Carol's brush-off, he'd have been unsurprised to be ignored completely.
The email alert on his phone chimed before he'd even boarded the train.
Jon had met Mr. Bouchard once before, briefly, his first week on the job. They'd exchanged one firm, dry handshake as he'd welcomed Jon aboard. Jon was pleasantly surprised he'd apparently meant what he'd said about his "open door policy."
There was no seating outside Mr. Bouchard's office. No reception. Just a door like every other, set with a misty piece of glass halfway up. It was closed. Jon had been pacing, occasionally glancing at his phone, for several minutes, trying to make himself knock, when Mr. Bouchard called out to him from within.
Jon apologized for arriving early as they shook hands. He didn't catch exactly what Mr. Bouchard said in response, as he was too busy taking in the office. It was surprisingly close--taller than it was wide--and windowless. There were rows of display cabinets behind Mr. Bouchard's desk Jon yearned to wander closer to and examine their contents. He could barely make out the labeled relics within, as the cabinets' protective glass was reflecting the light of the monitors that lined the opposite wall.
Those, too, were something Jon longed for a closer look at, but the chair he was expected to sit in would put his back to them. He had time only to notice that they were old-fashioned CRT models, and that they all appeared to be showing security footage of various beige corridors and offices. The Institute's corridors and offices? Couldn't be genuine live security footage, he decided. Some sort of odd art piece?
"So, Jon. Carol tells me you enjoy minding others' business."
It was a sentiment Jon had heard expressed in ruder terms in the past--usually right before being shoved into a wall or stomped away from--but Mr. Bouchard wore an expression of friendly invitation.
"I'm not surprised to hear she put it that way. Though I suppose it comes of being a researcher."
"And what a researcher. Your complaint was...comprehensive." Jon noticed he didn't say persuasive.
Jon and Tim hadn't managed to find any comments from Martin that were damning on their own, but had found a couple of his previous subjects who'd signed up as All Hands representatives. It was strongly suggestive of his mining them for leads. Jon had padded the complaint with research about All Hands' shady business practices--half-buried by some reputation management company, but not that hard to find. The final document had run close to twenty pages, not counting appendices.
"I should hope so. I was surprised you replied so quickly."
"And am I to understand you wrote it on your own time?"
Jon nodded. "I...erm, I borrowed the office scanner for a couple pieces of evidence, but used my lunch hour."
"May I see the card?"
Jon handed it over. There'd been a scan of each side included in the appendix. Had Mr. Bouchard really read the whole thing? He peered at both sides through a pair of bifocals he grabbed from his desk drawer. After a moment's consideration, he leaned over and struck a few buttons on his desk phone. "Carol? It's Elias. Is Martin Blackwood free?"
Jon stood, making toward the door, but Mr. Bouchard waved him back into his seat.
"Send him up, please."
Mr. Bouchard hung up the phone. He looked at Jon quietly across the desk with a pleasant half-smile. Or was it a smile? Mr. Bouchard's mouth was flat, but the air around him held a hint of amusement. Jon's heart kicked painfully at his ribs. Was he going to be in the splatter seats for a sacking? The possibility should have occurred to him. While he disliked Martin, he wasn't sure he wanted to see him cry. Jon made himself smile back to hide his unease.
"Otherwise, how've you been settling in, Jon?"
"Very well. I enjoy the work."
"Making any friends?" Jon didn't think he was imagining how loaded the question was.
Good Lord, was Mr. Bouchard irritated with him? Was he planning to make Jon explain the complaint to Martin in his own words as some sort of revenge for wasting his time? Well, if so, Jon would manage it. He'd made a comprehensive study of all the dimensions in which Martin was in the wrong, after all.
Oh. He had a question to answer. "Of course not."
The office door opened and Martin Blackwood entered. Jon found he was standing. It was the right move, as Mr. Bouchard had stood as well and was introducing them to each other.
"Oh yes, I know about Jon," Martin said, after having shaken hands and taken his seat. "We haven't had a chance to talk much yet, unfortunately." He gave Jon a stupid little wave and a smile, "Hi, Jon."
"Martin, Jon brought me this," Mr. Bouchard handed the card to Martin. "This is yours, isn't it?"
The smile dropped from Martin's face, "Yes. Something wrong, Elias?"
"As far as I know, you're the only researcher who's taken it upon himself to have business cards made. Can you explain why you decided that was necessary?"
"Sure. I recently started a home business. My business mentor recommended we print cards so potential clients can contact us more easily. I saw when I was getting these printed I could add a second side for only a couple pounds more, so I did." He shrugged. "I often leave my work number with our interviews so they can get in touch if they think of additional details, and it feels a bit unprofessional to scrounge for a pen every time."
"That's an excellent idea." Mr. Bouchard said. An excellent idea!? "In the past, we've only printed business cards for department heads, but anyone who spends significant time in the field should have one as well."
"A couple of the Artefact Storage people--the ones who do pickup--have already made their own as well."
"Well, we should standardize the design for the sake of--how did you put it, Jon?" Jon jumped. Mr. Bouchard continued before he could respond. "Brand integrity. Martin, this design's well made. Mind if we use it for the new cards?"
Martin's back straightened. "Sure! O-of course. I can send you the files."
"Send them to Rosie. Give some thought to what'd be a fair designer's fee."
Martin nodded, dazed smile spreading over his face. There was no other shoe, after all. Martin darted a quick look at Jon, who hoped he was controlling his expression. "Should I--"
"You can get back to work. And Martin," Mr. Bouchard continued, making him pause in the doorway, "Throw the rest of this batch out. You should have a separate card for your personal business."
"I understand. Of course. I was nearly out anyway."
The door closed. Mr. Bouchard waited a moment, then called, "Martin, did you need anything else?" The wikwikwik of trouser legs hurrying off down the hall followed.
Mr. Bouchard turned back to Jon, who was trying to work his voice around the shock wedged in his windpipe. The man pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and shook his head in a way that wordlessly expressed, 'Idiot.' "I think it best we get an anti-solicitation policy on the books. Can I count on your help, Jon?"
Mr. Bouchard spent the next fifteen minutes explaining what he wanted from Jon, while Jon scribbled notes. Afterward, he floated back down to Research, the blush of acknowledgment and the promise of still more important work to do having completely blotted out his earlier disappointment.
Tim screwed up his face in confusion. "You're happy."
Jon immediately locked his expression back into a scowl.
Tim rubbed his temple. "No, Jon, that's not what I--well, it is, but...how are you both happy? That was the meeting with the big boss, right?"
"Yes. Elias explained--"
"Elias?"
"Mr. Bouchard," Jon corrected, "explained something important to me. Our campaign--my campaign--against Martin has been thoroughly wrongheaded. Martin's not important in himself. Martin's a symptom. Elias said--and this is something that's occurred to me as well--human behavior is much more determined by the structure of the systems we find ourselves in than individual moral choice. When no system asserts itself, we get everyone acting according to their own idiosyncratic preference. We get Martins."
"Worse than bedbugs."
"So we add structure to the system. Look here." Jon flipped to the relevant section in the handbook. "The reimbursement procedure's forty years out of date. Look at all the paper waste this would create! Small wonder no one follows it, but every department does it differently now. There are references to forms, technologies--whole departments that no longer exist. We don't even have a sexual harassment policy! We're utterly at sea."
"Slow down, Jon. Are you saying he's asked you to rewrite this?"
"Yes."
"You alone?"
"Well, I'll have to consult with Legal on a few things, but yes."
Tim frowned. "Honestly, it sounds like a job for HR."
"It's a job for me!" Jon snapped. "I'm the one Mr. Bouchard trusted with this, and for good reason!"
Tim's eyes widened. Then he broke. He clapped Jon on his shoulder. "You know what? Good for you, buddy! He must have seen something really special in you. I'd offer my help, but it sounds like you've got it locked down."
I have got it locked down, actually, thanks Tim, thought Jon that night as he continued hammering away at the handbook revisions at the little Ikea table in his kitchenette. Tim's mocking smile kept floating back into his mind and he kept trying to chase it away.
Look, Jon knew he was being managed just as neatly as Martin had been. He accepted the possibility Elias considered this assignment meaningless busywork to keep an irritating underling out of his hair. But it still meant something to Jon.
The section on outside business activities was the first Jon had written. The second was on professional conduct when representing the Institute. By the time Jon got to the section on the Institute's mission--to steal territory from ignorance, squelch superstition, and protect the public from the predation of charlatans--he'd been writing in lines of fire.
While Tim was on his mind, though, Jon took a detour to the sexual harassment section and inserted "Stop having sex at work, Tim. You aren't as sneaky as you think you are."
He then returned to the section on the importance of taking mandated breaks and not working on uncompensated time.
"Elias! Hello!"
Elias was fiddling with a projector set at a precarious angle atop a stack of books on a table near the front of the pub. He looked up at Jon, a bit harried, tie loosened and sleeves rolled up.
"I was wondering whether you and Iolanthe have had the time to look over the new handbook."
"I've skimmed it. Iolanthe plans to make her notes in the next few weeks, and I'll take a deeper dive at that point."
"So you saw the mission statement, at least?" It was the first section.
"Yes. I remember it. Were you aware we already have an institutional mission, Jon?"
"Oh! You mean vigilo opperior audio?"
"Nice pronunciation. Yes. We'll be sticking to that."
"Nihil innovetur nisi quod traditum est," Jon replied with a good-natured shrug.
"Why don't you get yourself a drink? Open bar, you know."
"Oh. I-I have one. See?" Jon waggled his gin and tonic.
"So you have!" Someone across the crowd caught Elias's eye and he darted away. "Enjoy yourself, Jon."
Embarrassed, Jon headed toward the darkest corner, giving friendly nods to no one in particular along the way, and sat at a tall, brushed aluminum table surrounded by empty stools. He'd barely had time to relax and take out his phone--maybe text Tim to see if he'd arrived--before he was interrupted.
"Hi! Hope you don't mind--" a tall, bespectacled woman said cheerfully, throwing herself onto one of the stools. A second woman, braids wrapped into a large bun on top of her head grabbed another seat.
"We like to sit back here so we don't go deaf once the karaoke starts," the second woman explained.
"So sorry, I'll get out of your way," Jon said, standing, "I don't usually come to these--"
"No need for that, love," the second woman said, placing her hand on his arm. He sat back down obediently. "You're in Research, aren't you? I'm Hannah, from the library. This is Sasha."
Sasha waved hello, "Formerly Artefact Storage, but I'm helping out in IT, at least until they replace Suzanne."
The three made stiff conversation for a few minutes. Jon only realized, once Tim's hand hit his shoulder, pulling him into a quick side-hug, that he'd hiked his shoulders up nearly to his ears in tension. Jon noticed the two women perk up at Tim's arrival as well. Thank god, he thought.
"What's that, G&T?" Tim asked looking disgustedly at Jon's drink. "Try this one. I'm not sure what it is, but it's nice."
Jon examined the tall shot glass where three colored liquids of various gravities swirled into each other. He took a sip--orangey--and Tim knocked the rest back.
"You're going to introduce us, aren't you?" Tim prompted. But before Jon could do so, the lights dropped and the party festivities started on the stage at the back of the pub.
Jon watched Elias take the stage alongside Suzanne and give a speech thanking her for forty years' faithful service, while a slideshow of washed out photos from the dawn of her career played on the wall behind them. It was dull, but he made a show of paying attention while Tim, Hannah, and Sasha got to know each other.
A little group holding gifts assembled at the edge of the stage, and Jon tuned back into the conversation as Tim was trying to wheedle Sasha into giving him a tour of Artefact Storage.
"I don't even work there anymore! Talk to Loren or Kenny." she protested.
"Last time I tried to talk to Kenny, he lunged for my hand with the eyes of the hungry damned," Tim replied.
"O-oh no. He's not still doing the..." Sasha trailed off, wincing.
"Actually," Jon cut in, "What is the formal access procedure for Artefact Storage? There are some books from the library of Jurgen Leitner I'd like to have a look at." He'd been brushed off by both Carol and Sonja as he hadn't been assigned any cases that dealt with them yet.
"Those were recently moved to our new Special Collections upstairs," Hannah volunteered, "We have a request procedure so students and researchers can actually see them now. Come talk to me about it Monday, and I'll get you the form."
Jon was about to thank her, when Tim slapped his shoulder and pointed back toward the stage. Suzanne had opened a present from Martin and was showing it off to the crowd. It was a big pink tee shirt with two white handprints on the chest and a motto printed below. 'Let's get handy!' Jon read, 'Ask me how!'
Jon had been wrong. Martin wasn't just a symptom. He was an abjectly offensive and mortifying individual. He was a--
"Tosser. What an absolute tosser. I'm getting another drink. Anyone else want one?" Tim headed toward the bar.
On stage, Suzanne was making a show of being thrilled, wiggling the tee shirt down over her head, and then wrapping Martin in a hug.
"Ugh, it's right across her--" Hannah mimed juggling a pair of breasts. "Did he really just give her some free promotional garbage from his MLM? That's what forty years' service gets you, apparently."
"It's so sad," said Sasha, looking haunted, "You know, I knew him back when he was a person."
Suzanne had grabbed up her microphone again, and was thanking Martin and reminding the crowd to go to him for their All Hands products needs, or just for a free reflexology massage.
"Oh, Suzanne," Hannah lamented, "Why, Suzanne?"
"She says she's signing on with them. Earn a little extra to supplement her pension."
Hannah buried her face in her hands and let out a quiet scream. "She'll be broke within a year."
"They never listen when I try and explain the math of pyramid schemes," Sasha said over her drink, "How it becomes impossible to maintain a customer base a few layers down from the top. Martin was all, 'thanks for looking out, but this isn't a pyramid scheme. It's direct sales.' So I said, you have sales people under you, don't you? And above you? Uplines and downlines? He said no one's 'above' or 'below' anyone. He has a mentor and he is a mentor. They all mentor and they all share and it's all a big, beautiful family."
"You're talking about his little lunch coven?" Tim said, dropping another of those multilayered shots in front of Jon.
"Not so little anymore. They're at a dozen or so, last count."
"Anyway, I pressed him on that. 'So some portion of your sales goes to your upli--sorry, mentor--and your mentees'--'"
"Mentals," Tim muttered.
Sasha bit her lip and continued, "Your mentees' sales go to you. He said of course it does. It incentivizes mentors to invest in their mentees' success."
"There's no reasoning with them," Hannah said, "You can't do anything about it except wait for it to burn itself out."
"And when can we expect that?" Jon huffed.
"When he runs out of money," Hannah replied.
"That's just the problem," Sasha said, "That's part of why I couldn't convince him. It seems he's doing alright."
"He's lying," Hannah said. "Fake it 'til you make it. It's what they told my sister. She maxed out two credit cards trying to look like a lifestyle model to recruits."
"Just what sort of lifestyle is Martin modeling?" Tim sneered, indicating the stage, where Martin seemed to be teaching Suzanne the All Hands cheer, wearing his customary wrinkled short sleeves and badly tied tie.
"Their lotions are nice, at least," Sasha said defensively, "Much nicer than you can get at the drugstore. Easily worth ten pounds."
"Oh, Sash..." Hannah said sadly, as Sasha pulled a tube of lotion out of her purse to show them. "You know it only encourages them."
"Aren't those twenty five pounds? Did he give you a sixty percent discount?" Jon asked.
"I mean, it'd have been nice lotion for ten pounds." Tim laughed at her. "You don't understand!" Sasha flapped her hands helplessly. "His hands are so, so soft. I was in a trance, and when I woke up I was poor. Mind you, this was right after I'd spent ten minutes explaining pyramid schemes to him. He's a natural salesman."
"I can see that, Sasha," Hannah offered. "He does sort of radiate sweetness and honesty."
"Taking advantage of your friendship to hard-sell you overpriced, medically spurious sludge does not sound sweet and honest to me," Jon said with more heat than he'd intended.
"I really do think he means well," Sasha said, "He's just a bit naive."
Jon nearly burst out with what he'd seen and heard of Martin's modus operandi--his manipulation of his mentees, his targeting subjects with the Institute's borrowed authority, the way he'd ingratiated himself with the management of multiple departments to avoid discipline--but thought the better of it. He'd probably appear overinvested. He drained his drink instead.
The stage cleared for karaoke, Suzanne descending to swap hugs and remembrances with other Institute old-timers. Sasha and Hannah shuffled off through the crowd to put their names on the list. Jon sat there a moment enjoying the relief of not having to make conversation, before realizing he was completely alone at the table. Tim had wandered off somewhere, leaving his untouched drink behind. That was its own anxiety.
Don't be clingy, Jon told himself sternly, you prefer to be alone. He took out his phone, and started paging idly through his rss feed trying to look occupied.
When he didn't return after two songs, Jon picked up Tim's drink and decided to wander around. If someone wanted to chat, he could always complain about the music.
Intuition drew him toward a small knot of coworkers standing near the right wall. He'd never been out with Tim before, but of course it made sense to look where the people were. As Jon got closer, he saw Tim and Martin--of all people!--sitting across from each other at one of the low square tables with regular chairs. One of those tubes of lotion sat by Martin's elbow. It took Jon another moment to realize Martin was giving him a hand massage.
No one in the surrounding group was staring directly at their table, but everyone was taking a corner-of-the-eye notice of it. Perfect fodder for Monday morning giggles and gossip--two of their more attractive young coworkers locked in some sort of...sensual communion.
Spotlit by the amber-shaded lamp, they did make a captivating picture. The music seemed to recede. Tim was leaning heavily on his free arm, fingers playing at the nape of his neck, eyes half-lidded. Martin, in contrast, was alert and professional, focused completely on Tim's hand in his.
"So you're probably noticing the ends of your fingers tingling about now--"
"Mmhmm."
"That's the increased circulation--"
"Mmmm?"
"Some people think it feels weird, but we want that, if you can bear it--"
What had Sasha said? Martin's hands didn't look soft exactly. Maybe smooth was the better word? Or maybe she'd meant the fluid ease they moved with? Tapered but strong-looking, fingertips pink with the contact, Martin's fingers stepped their way from the base to tip of each of Tim's darker, squared off ones, then moved back to stroke circles into his captive palm.
Just why the hell was watching this so hypnotic, anyway? It was just two people squishing their greasy hands together.
Both Martin's thumbs pressed firmly into the base of Tim's palm, then rolled upward towards his fingers. Inside his shoes, Jon's feet arched in sympathetic paroxysm.
Tim noticed him watching and gave him a slow, filthy smile. Jon shook his head disgustedly. Tim shot his free hand out to grip the table's edge, arching his back and biting his lip.
"Shut up, Tim!"
Every head whipped around to stare at Jon. Tim was suddenly all casual innocence. "Something wrong, Jon?"
Martin looked worried, still holding Tim's hand in both of his, as though Jon was about to start a fight. Jon stood dumbly, feeling his face turn hot under the scrutiny.
"Brought your drink," he eventually managed.
"Well thanks, but you hardly need to yell about it. Why don't you have Martin here do you next? It's really relaxing."
Martin, sensing an opening, shifted into sales mode. "So you do like the Morning Mist! It's going fast. I think we're down to two, and--"
Tim grimaced, patting his pocket, "Sorry, sport. Not tonight. I need to review my budget."
"Well, if you're looking for a way to make a little extra on the side...handsome, outgoing guy like you? You'd be a natural for sales..."
Jon didn't hear the tail end of the conversation. He stalked off toward the bar as soon as his coworkers' eyes were off of him. The horrible picture kept rising up in front of his eyes--Tim's smutty grin contrasted with Martin's obliviously intent expression as he bent over Tim's hand. Jon had wanted to grab each of them by the collar and shake them until they fell to pieces.
He nursed a drink--one more than he'd planned to have--anger circling in search of a place to land. From Tim, who always had to be so public, always making some sort of display, to himself just standing silently staring. How long had he stared? Where the hell had his head gone? He'd had barely anything to drink--definitely wasn't vacant, staring drunk. Then, to Martin where it alighted and made itself a nasty little nest.
Martin teaching an old lady a silly-looking dance while the crowd snickered at them--Martin clutching Tim's hand like some sort of lovelorn knight, ignorant of how it looked--Martin pitching his stupid products with abject clumsiness. The picture of Martin reversed--leering witch to smooth-cheeked ingenue--and it was suddenly impossible to see him any other way.
Martin was an idiot after all.
"Where'd you disappear to Friday?" Tim asked Monday morning.
"Went home early with a headache," Jon muttered, focusing furiously on the screen in front of him.
"I was looking everywhere. Finally got some lotion-cult intel you're going to like!" Tim said.
"I suppose you seduced it out of him?"
"Martin? No. He left early, too. They have some sort of conference call he's expected to be on out of Utah. But before he did--"
Stop being childish, Jon told himself firmly. It's sneaking out around the edges, and he's going to notice.
"--he mentioned he's working on getting his passport. He's been invited to speak at their big conference in Las Vegas."
"Why am I supposed to care about that?"
"He might not come back!" Tim joked. "Some Elvis will marry him to a stripper and get him out of our hair for good."
Jon would normally have made some sharp comment back, or at least laughed, but he still felt empty and deflated, like a paper bag that had been stepped on.
"He is gay, though," said Tim after a few moments of silence.
This was such a non sequitur, Jon turned slowly in his chair to let Tim take in his bemusement. "The absolute rat's nest of your mind, Tim..."
"And single."
"Small wonder."
"He has non-sales interests as well."
"Oh yes, well, everyone should. Get out of my cubicle."
Too distracted to do any weighty reading or make any follow-up calls, Jon spent the morning plotting the backlog of addresses and encounter descriptions into the Research Department's incident map. A plan began to coalesce in the back of his simmering mind. After checking the contents of his wallet, then hurrying down to the canteen to have them make change, he buttonholed Martin coming down the stairs.
"Martin, hello!" Jon exclaimed. If he couldn't sound happy to see the man, he could at least be loud. Martin jumped back a step, reaching for the handrail.
"H-hello, Jon." He smiled tentatively. "Good time Friday, wasn't it? Nice to see you out."
"Yes," Jon agreed, "Wish we'd been able to...chat." God, the insincerity in his voice was practically visible in the air. "Martin, I've been wanting to apologize."
"What for?"
"I'm sorry I've given you a hard time about your business."
"Have you, Jon?" Martin said lightly, "Really, it's nothing to worry about."
"I was mistrustful of the company, but I've taken some time to look into it and realized I was unduly suspicious." Jon smiled innocently, and could feel it didn't sit well on his face. More teeth? Martin visibly twitched at that. Less teeth.
Martin took his offered hand and shook it. "Well, sorry for my part in our getting off on the wrong foot."
Jon reached for his wallet. "I'd like to buy the Morning Mist. The hand lotion. If that's what you were demonstrating the other night?"
"Unfortunately, we're out right now. It's not just me, or I'd send you to Kenny or Suzanne. It's been outselling expectations. I could put you on the waitlist, or--"
"That's fine," Jon said hurriedly. "I'll take whatever you have for twenty five pounds or under."
"The mint cucumber's got a similar feel."
"The cucumber sounds--" Perfect? Splendid? Honestly, it sounded saladish. Who wanted to rub a cucumber on themselves? "That will do nicely. Sorry, were you on your way to lunch?"
"I've got a moment."
That night, after brushing his teeth, Jon broke the seal and rubbed a dollop of the new lotion into his hands. It was completely adequate. It had a bit of a cool tingle, like the toothpaste. He snapped the lid shut, then realized it didn't look used enough. Martin could easily pass it off as new and resell it.
Jon upended the tube and squeezed it into the waste bin, imagining the pound total whirling downward, like a gas pump in reverse. When he'd wasted about eighteen pound's worth, he considered the tube again. Yes, that'd be mostly useless.
He fetched a sharpie from the cup on his bedside table, and wrote "POISON" across the label.
Jon waited a couple days to approach Martin for a refund, but then couldn't locate him at the end of the week. He wondered, but refused to ask Tim, whether Martin had already left for Las Vegas. Fortunately, he caught him at his cubicle the following Monday.
"So sorry," he said, as Martin turned the tube over in his hands, "I had the most terrible allergic reaction. I've never experienced anything like it. Have any of your other customers...?"
"No. Not that I know of. Where did you put it? You know, it's meant for external use only."
"I know that! Just on my hands."
Martin looked from Jon's face to the mostly-empty tube and back before drawling, "Sure."
Jon refused to justify himself.
"Mind if I take a look at them?"
"What for?"
"If you're having an allergic reaction, I want to let the company know the details. They might need to add a label warning or do some extra research."
Jon offered his hands, very conscious of the fact he had nothing to show. Martin bent down to inspect them closely.
"Was there a rash?"
"Oh, um, yes. It went down. It was two days ago."
"Looks fine now." Martin turned his hands over, peering at his palms. Jon could feel goosebumps rising on his forearms and suppressed a shiver. His hands were rotated back the other way, and then Martin began to actually spread his fingers and check between them. Tension--at being a liar? at being so closely examined?--was building inside him like someone had jammed a tin key between his shoulder blades and started to crank it. Martin's fingertips were smooth and dry and slid lightly over his own, testing the texture of Jon's skin.
"Can you describe your symptoms? Itching or burning or...?" Martin's breath on the back of his hand sent a ticklish thrill up his arm.
"It makes my skin crawl!" Jon snapped.
"Ooookay," Martin said, letting him go. Jon scrubbed his palms on his trousers briskly. "Sorry. So the rash was....red bumps or something?"
"Yes."
"Took two days to go down. Not an itchy sensation, but a crawling? And the rash was on your hands only?"
"That's correct," Jon was glad Martin had assumed a couple details himself.
Again, Martin's eyes flicked back to the mostly-empty tube. "Sure."
"So, how long does it typically take the company to process a refund?"
"I've never had a customer ask for one yet, so...but listen, you don't have to wait. I'll refund you right now." Martin already had his wallet out. Jon saw it was a fluorescent nylon one, like Jon had used to carry his five favorite Magic cards around in back in grade 6.
"Absolutely not," Jon replied, "It's not your fault the product's defective."
"You're sure you'd rather wait?" Martin said tentatively. Jon noticed the wallet was stuffed with cash and that there was a hair tangled in the velcro with equal distaste.
"Yes. I wouldn't be comfortable with taking money out of your pocket."
"Thanks for your patience," Martin said. "And I'll...um...I'll let you know if they have anything to say about your health concerns. Do let me know if you end up seeing a doctor."
They sat in their mutual knowledge of Jon's bullshit for a moment, before Jon excused himself back to his own cubicle.
"What did you tell him? They're swapping horror stories about idiot customers and their mucous membranes now."
Tim was lurking in the facebook group again.
"Just that it gave me a hand rash. Does he have any choice words for me?"
"Not his style, really. But reading between the lines, he thinks you're obnoxious."
"Obnoxious!" Jon exclaimed, then, conscious of his volume continued in a hiss "He's the one inviting people to fake parties and disrupting Susan's retirement!"
"Oh yes. Poor, dear Susan," Tim said wryly, "You should have just accepted the massage, you know. You're a bundle of nerves."
"Who would have guessed you could be had so cheaply. One massage and you're taking his side."
"I'm obligated to. He's my new boss--sorry, mentor."
"Well, I certainly wish you the best in your promising new career as a goo distributor."
"Sorry, a what distributor?"
Jon turned back to his screen and tried to shut Tim out, but he'd taken a seat on Jon's desk a few inches from his arm.
"I said a what distributor? Please say it again. For me? Something about the way you say it goes right through me like an arrow of fire." Tim clutched his chest, waiting for Jon to react. "You know I'm kidding about working for him, don't you?"
"Yes, Tim. I know you're kidding."
"Maybe I should, though," he mused. "Handsome guy like me."
"That's his secret, isn't it?" Jon said, rolling back in his chair to look Tim in the face. "His very mediocrity is the secret to his success as a recruiter. 'If this canned pudding can make a thousand pounds a month, surely someone like me can make five times that.'"
Jon's insight didn't get the smile he'd expected from Tim. Shit, he thought, watching Tim's eyes shift expression to something evaluating and distant. Had he been too vicious? Not compared to the things Tim had said about Martin himself, surely! Cold trickled from Jon's throat to his guts, and he groped for something to say. This was going to turn into Georgie all over again, wasn't it? He looked toward his computer.
"'Obnoxious' wasn't his word," Tim reminded him.
"I know. It doesn't matter. I don't care what he thinks of me."
Tim stopped volunteering dispatches from facebook. Jon was too proud to ask. And annoyed with Tim, honestly. He'd never been one to start conversations, but he retreated completely into his work. As if 'canned pudding' was some unspeakable slur, anyway! Cheap, simple, and cloying were not unfair or inaccurate when it came to Martin. It wasn't even cruel: Everyone liked the occasional canned pudding. No, Jon stood by it.
But Jon was left with no window into Martin's world. Had he applied for the refund yet? Would he bother at all, or had Jon wasted nearly thirty pounds? Jon had a google alert for the company, and was closely following the slow pileup of disgruntled former customers and reps that was getting harder to brush under the rug as multiple lawsuits worked their way through the American courts. He checked odd combinations of search terms, reassured ever time one turned up a bad review or minor scandal. It'd take the barest touch of curiosity to set Martin on the path toward the truth.
Jon was trying to think of how best to apply further pressure--email him or one of his underlings the report he'd sent to Elias, edited and anonymized somehow?--when Martin came to Jon instead.
"I...erm. I don't suppose you took pictures of the rash, did you?"
"They're asking for them?"
"Yes."
"As a condition of the return, to be clear?"
"It...it would be helpful."
Jon drew the printout he'd been saving for weeks out of his jacket pocket. "That's strange, because that doesn't sound like a--" he peered at the paper through his glasses, "a 'No Fuss, No Conditions, No Questions' policy."
"You see, well...it seems that's their exchange policy."
"It's not. See here." Jon pointed to the relevant line. "This is the only return policy I've been able to locate."
"Representatives actually, we--the terms we have access to are somewhat more detailed and....um, conditional. Plus, they've had to make recent updates to all of their policies so bad actors don't take advantage."
"Is that a serious problem they've faced? Bad actors committing lotion crimes?"
The smile fell off Martin's face making him look instantly five years older. Jon noticed slight dark shadows under his eyes.
"Look, Jon. I see your point about the return policy and how it's supposed to be easy. That's why I'm asking you, just let me refund you myself, and I'll deal with the red tape. That's actually how they prefer we handle it."
"I won't take your money."
"Why?" There was a barely-controlled tremor in Martin's voice.
"Because we're coworkers and I care about your well-being."
That seemed to hit him like a slap. Martin stood there long enough for Jon to wonder what he'd said, before rubbing tiredly at the bridge of his nose and exhaling. "Alright. Fine."
After he'd left, Tim rolled his chair back to peer at Jon around the divider.
"You know, your obsession with tearing him down is getting a little....what was your word? Disruptive."
"All I want is a refund. That's certainly not an unreasonable thing to ask of a legitimate business."
"Wasn't it enough for you to rewrite the handbook against him?"
"It's still languishing on Iolanthe's desk and we've seen El--Mr. Bouchard is unwilling to intervene as long as that's the case. I'm the only one who's doing anything about the problem. I'll remind you, Tim," Jon said flatly, "You're the one who said someone should stop him."
"Yeah. Someone. Why does it have to be you?"
"Because I'm the only one who cares."
Tim rolled out of sight, and Jon got back to work. A few minutes later, Jon heard the trundling of Tim's chair wheels returning.
"Did I mention he's gay?"
"You did," said Jon with pointed patience. "Why? I hope you're not a homophobe."
Tim muttered something and left.
When Hannah finally got in touch to let Jon know they'd arranged for someone to show him one of the Leitners he'd requested--a much-handled trade paperback teen slasher--Jon decided it was time to make peace with Tim. He had a couple cases that needed Tim's infernally persuasive telephone technique, and besides that, going days without speaking to anyone besides a nod hello was beginning to make him feel unreal.
Jon stood at the entrance to Tim's cube poised to knock on the metal frame. Tim was looking over some long list of names and numbers on his laptop, but he'd clearly checked out for the moment. Jon saw past Tim's shoulder that his free hand was scrolling facebook on his phone. An image flashed past that was definitely one of the colorful floral macros the All Hands representatives liked to post in their group. Jon snuck back out, feeling triumphant. Still spying on the facebook group? So Tim wasn't as above it as he pretended. Jon decided not to catch him out.
"Tim?" Jon called from his own cube, "Did you ever talk to Kenny about getting into Artefact storage?"
By the time Jon made his way back to Tim, the phone had been hidden away.
"I haven't got to asking him yet," Tim said, "Though I've been having lunch with Sasha quite a bit lately. I don't think she'll give up the door codes, but I've half talked her into coming to Research."
There. With Kenny, Jon had given him a golden opportunity to mention All Hands and he hadn't. "She seemed pleasant enough," Jon continued, "Hannah's come through, by the way."
"Oh, right. She was going to get you in to see those haunted books you're always on about."
Jon held back on correcting him on 'haunted.' "The appointment's this Thursday at one. The description claims the text crawls around the edges of the page and slips under the reader's skin through the fingertips, and then it gets really nasty." Tim looked intrigued. "It's apparently extremely disconcerting to look at, but harmless as long as you don't touch it. Want to come with?"
That was sufficient to put Jon back in Tim's good graces. Jon felt as though he'd unlocked a piece of forbidden wisdom. Was keeping people in your life really as easy as that? He reminded himself not to bring up Martin around Tim again. It was satisfaction enough to know that, for all his pretended superiority, Tim was still wrapped up in it as well.
Looking back later, Jon realized that Martin had carefully chosen the time and venue for his third attempt to return Jon's money. He must have regretted not leaving himself an easy avenue of escape before. Jon was charging down the steps after work on Friday, when Martin called out to him from behind.
"Good news, Jon! I'm glad I caught you." Martin bounced toward him down the sidewalk, clapping his hands together. "They've processed your refund."
"No, they haven't."
Martin froze with his hand halfway into his pocket. He was still smiling, though it looked suddenly weak. "Yes. They have. Why do you..."
"All Hands doesn't give refunds. According to my research, it's one of the more minor complaints in lawsuits pending in several parts of the US, along with false advertising, misrepresentation of probable business returns, and harassment. Are you telling me, Martin, they've made an exception for you?"
"Excuse me, you've...you've done research?" Martin said faintly.
"It's nothing you couldn't have found if you'd cared to look."
"Well then, you know it's hopeless." Martin pulled out the fluorescent wallet, "We're never getting your money back. Please, just let me pay you."
"No." Jon's hand stopped the wallet. He wondered whether it really was skinnier, or if he was just imagining things.
"Why?!" The smile vanished at last. "You've made it very clear you hate me. We both want this behind us."
"I don't hate you," said Jon. "Don't be dramatic."
"Then tell me we're square, at least," Martin pleaded.
"We'll be square when you quit."
Martin took a step back, blinking. "I have, actually. Shortly after we last talked. I-I thought that was...?"
Jon stood, surprised, waiting for Martin to continue.
"I suppose you keep to yourself, don't you? I was kicked out for asking too many uncomfortable questions on facebook. Jen sent me links to some critical sites and I...well...once I started plucking at threads, it all fell to pieces. It's not the company I thought it was."
"So it's finally over? No more parties, no more recruiting, no more--" Jon wiggled his fingers.
Martin looked confused, then realized what Jon meant. "Oh! Not from me, anyway. Rosie's taken over my mentees. Those who decided to stay. You know, it turns out most of them weren't genuinely interested in direct sales at all. They just wanted someone to sit with at lunch."
"You must feel so used."
"I bought out Suzanne and Kenny and a couple of the others. D'you know he bought his way all the way to Lavender status without selling any stock? He was just piling it up."
If Martin expected Jon to praise him for satisfying the bare minimum of decency, he'd be waiting quite a while. Jon raised his eyebrows. "Lavender status?"
"That's right under Sage. When you get to Sage, you become an Ambassador and your commission maxes out. It took me six months of eighty hour weeks before I managed to make Sage because I did it the honest--" Martin had been building up a snit, but stopped himself. "But that's fine. I can definitely move three pallets of product...don't suppose you want to risk another rash?" Martin smiled shakily, then let his face drop when Jon didn't return it. "I never realized it was easier for me than the others, for some reason."
"Could it be because you're out roving the city most of the day, pushing your wares on a vulnerable population?"
"A vulnerable...?"
"Our subjects, Martin. Institute subjects!"
"I didn't set out to--though, I suppose...I mean, I mostly sold on the tube! Or started conversations at bus stops. Really! I thought it was just London. Everyone's wealthy here. Well, relatively. Everyone's trendy."
"And the subjects who became representatives--I suppose they chased you down and begged you for the opportunity."
Martin was too caught up in his self-justification to wonder how Jon knew. "I thought I was helping. The money was--"
Something about the pinkness of his face, the wetness of his eyes, spurred Jon on, "But they weren't making the money you were, were they?"
"A lot of them never admitted it, and those who did, well...it's hard work. I was always up front about that."
"You assumed they were lazy."
"Well, I never would have guessed I'm some sort of direct sales prodigy! It certainly wasn't my first choice of talents."
"Oh more poor, pitiful you! There's a point, Martin, where negligence becomes as blameworthy as malice."
"Christ, you're an asshole!" There was a flash in Martin's eyes of fury or awe that was damped just as quickly as it appeared. "Sorry, sorry--I..." Martin shook his head. "So what I'm hearing is that we're done. Goodbye, Jon."
Jon stood on the sidewalk for a minute, letting his heart regather its rhythm, watching Martin stride away from him. He noted Martin's gait had changed--it wasn't his regular bent-elbow scuttling. Jon wasn't sure what to think. He turned the opposite way eventually and headed toward the station.
Martin made himself easy to ignore after that. By mutual agreement, their eyes never met. Tim knew better than to mention him. Aside from the one invitation that would appear yearly in Jon's mailbox, Jon seldom had to think of Martin at all. He didn't experience the slightest twinge of regret at throwing it away. There was always a pile of them at the bottom of the recycle bin already.