Margaret Atwood - Hag-Seed

This was a lie. They both knew it. Lonnie Gordon, the Chair, would never have dreamed up a putsch like this, and the rest of the Board members were ciphers. Picked men, picked by Tony. And picked women, there were two of those. Tony’s recommendations, every single one.

“My edge?” Felix said. “My fucking edge ?” Who had ever been edgier than him?

“Well, your contact with reality,” said Tony. “They think you have mental health issues. It’s understandable, I told them, in view of your…But they couldn’t see it. The animalskin cape was a bridge too far. They saw the sketches. They say you’d have the animal rights activists down on us like a swarm of hornets.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Felix. “Those aren’t real animals, they’re children’s toys !”

“As you must realize,” said Tony with condescending patience, “that isn’t the point. They look like animals. And the cape isn’t the only objection. They really draw the line at Caliban as a paraplegic, they say it’s way beyond bad taste. People would think you’re making fun of disability. Some of them would walk out. Or get wheeled out: we do have a substantial number of…Our demographic is not the under-thirties.”

“Oh for cripes’ sake!” said Felix. “This is political correctness gone way out of control! It’s in the text, he’s misshapen! If anything, in this day and age Caliban is the favorite, everyone cheers for him, I’m just—”

“I understand, but the thing is,” said Tony, “we need to fill enough seats to justify the grants. The reviews of late have been…mixed. Especially last season.”

“Mixed?” said Felix. “The reviews last season were sensational!”

“I kept the bad ones away from you,” said Tony. “They were numerous. I have them here in my briefcase, if you’d care to take a look.”

“Why in hell did you do that?” said Felix. “Keep them away? I’m not an infant.”

“Bad reviews make you irritable,” said Tony. “Then you take it out on the staff. It’s bad for morale.”

“I am never irritable!” Felix shouted. Tony ignored this.

“Here’s the termination letter,” he said, drawing an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. “The Board has voted you a retirement package, with thanks for your many years of service. I tried to make it larger.” There was a definite smirk.

Felix took the envelope. His first impulse was to rip it into shreds, but he was in some sense paralyzed. He’d had rows during his career, but he’d never been terminated before. Ejected! Tumbled out! Discarded! He felt numb all over. “But my Tempest, ” he said. “That goes forward?” Already he was begging. “At least?” His best creation, his wondrous treasure, crushed. Trampled on the floor. Erased.

“I’m afraid not,” said Tony. “We — they felt a clean break would be best. The production will be canceled. You’ll find the personal effects from your office out by your car. I’ll need your security pass, by the way. When you’re ready.”

“I’m taking this to the Heritage Minister,” Felix said weakly. He knew this was a non-starter. He’d gone to school with Sal O’Nally, they’d been rivals at the time. There had been a clash over a pencil-stealing incident that Felix had won and Sal had evidently not forgotten. He’d given it as his opinion — in several TV interviews aimed straight at Felix’s crotch — that the Makeshiweg Festival should be doing more Noël Coward comedies and Andrew Lloyd Webber, and other musicals. Not that Felix had anything against musicals, he’d started his theatrical career in a student production of Guys and Dolls , but a whole diet of musicals…

The Sound of Music , said Sal . Cats. Crazy for You . Tap dancing. Things the ordinary person could understand. But the ordinary person could understand Felix’s approach perfectly well! What was so difficult about Macbeth done with chainsaws? Topical. Direct.

“In point of fact, the Heritage Minister is in full agreement,” said Tony. “Naturally we ran our decision by Sal — by Minister O’Nally — before the final vote, to confirm that we were taking the right path. Sorry about this, Felix,” he added insincerely. “I know it’s a shock to you. And very difficult for all of us.”

“You’ll have a replacement in mind, I suppose,” said Felix, forcing his voice down to a reasonable level. Sal. First-name basis, then. So that’s how things stood. He would not lose his cool. He would salvage the rags of his dignity.

“Actually, yes,” said Tony. “Sal…The Board has asked, ah, me to take over. In the interim, of course. Until a candidate of suitable caliber can be found.”

Interim, my ass, Felix thought. It was clear to him now. The secrecy, the sabotage. The snake-like subterfuge. The stupendous betrayal. Tony had been the instigator, he’d been the implementer start to finish. He’d waited until Felix had been at his most vulnerable and then he’d struck.

“You devious, twisted bastard,” he shouted, which was some satisfaction to him. Though a small one, considering everything.

Two men from Security came into the room then. They must have been waiting outside the door listening for their cue, which most likely was Felix shouting. He kicks himself now for having been so predictable.

Tony must’ve rehearsed the Security guys beforehand: he was nothing if not efficient. They stood to either side of Felix, one black, one brown, their muscled arms crossed, their expressions impenetrable. They were new hires: Felix didn’t know them. More to the point, they didn’t know Felix and would therefore have no loyalty. More of Tony’s handiwork.

“This is unnecessary,” Felix said, but by that time Tony was well beyond feeling the need to reply. He gave a small shrug, a nod — the shrug of power, the nod of power — and Felix was escorted, politely but firmly, out to the parking lot, a hand of iron hovering beside each of his elbows.

There was a stack of cardboard boxes beside his car. His red car, a Mustang convertible he’d bought second-hand in a fit of mid-life defiance, back when he’d still been feeling sporty. Back before Miranda and then no Miranda. It had been rusting even then, and had since rusted more. He’d been planning to trade it in, get another car, a more somber car. So much for that plan: he hadn’t opened the severance envelope, but he already knew it would contain the bare minimum. Not enough for splurges, such as semi-new cars.

It was drizzling. The Security men helped Felix load the cardboard boxes into his rusting Mustang. They didn’t say anything and neither did Felix, because what was there to say?

The boxes were sodden. What was in them? Papers, memorabilia, who knew? At that moment Felix didn’t give a rat’s ass. He contemplated a grand gesture, such as dumping everything out onto the parking lot and setting fire to it, but with what? Gasoline would be needed, or some kind of explosive, neither of which he had, and anyway why give Tony any more ammunition? (Fire department called, police summoned, Felix hauled off in chains gibbering and screaming, then charged with arson and creating a disturbance. Psychiatric expert brought in, paid by Tony. Diagnosis given. See? Tony would say to the Board. Paranoid. Psychotic. Thank heavens we were able to divest ourselves of him in time, before he went postal right at the theatre.)

As the three of them were stuffing the last of the soggy boxes into Felix’s car, a lone, plump figure came trundling across the parking lot. It was Lonnie Gordon, Chairman of the Festival Board, holding an umbrella over his sparsely tufted, wattled head and carrying a plastic bag, some kind of stick, and what looked like an armful of skunks topped by a dead white cat.