Right, so — this is really just a formality, don't read anything into the room booking. Keep your voice down anyway, half these people are from finishing.
So. Bootleg t-shirts. That thing at the Riverside pop-up. You signed off on vendor stock without anyone checking the supplier had rights to the print. That's not a small thing, Ivo, that's the kind of line item that ends up in a legal email with my name cc'd.
God, you’re loud. Lower it. The walls are thin and the people here don’t need more stress. Yes, I signed it. The margins were terrible and the design was decent. Do you know what it’s like down there? Garbage quality. I had to make a call before the pop-up collapsed. If legal wants to nitpick a sketchy vendor, fine. But we had foot traffic. You’re obsessed with the paperwork, Ben, but the door was open. I didn’t ask for a committee meeting. I just kept the place from being empty. Next time, maybe you’ll let me breathe.
Keep your own voice down then, you're the one leaning across the table. Foot traffic's not the metric, Ivo, the metric is whether we get sued by whoever owns that print. You didn't have the room to breathe because you didn't make the room — you skipped the check because it was Thursday and you wanted the space full by Friday.
I'm not nitpicking paperwork. I'm telling you this is the thing that goes in the writeup. Already decided that part.
Jesus, Ben. Look at you, moving that elbow. Watch the coffee. It’s just a tee shirt. It’s not a patent violation. The artist is some anonymous git on Instagram who probably stole it from a museum anyway. Who’s going to sue? Some corporate accountant who thinks he owns a doodle? You’re treating this like I burned down the building. It’s a fine. We pay it. We laugh. You’re so terrified of the writeup you’re vibrating. It’s just ink on cotton. Stop making it sound like treason. I’ll send you the invoice so you can feel superior for a minute. Happy?
Coffee's fine, watch your own sleeve. It's not treason, I never said treason — I said it's the kind of decision that shows a pattern, and the writeup's going to reflect a pattern, not one shirt. You calling it "just ink on cotton" is exactly the problem, that's the sentence I'm going to have trouble defending upstairs.
Send the invoice. Doesn't change what I'm putting in. This was decided before I sat down, Ivo, I'm not vibrating about it.
Ink on cotton is exactly what it is. You’re building a narrative out of a typo. Fine. Send the invoice. I’ll mark it as a marketing expense. There. Satisfied? I’ll be in the back. Don’t bother me while I’m doing the actual work. You keep writing your little essays. See how they land. I don’t have time for this theater. The doors are closing in five minutes. If the place is empty, that’s on you.
It's not a typo, it's a pattern, and marking it as marketing doesn't make the underlying call disappear from the record — I already told you that.
Go do the actual work then. I'll finish the write-up on my own time, doesn't need you in the room for that part. Doors closing's not my problem either, that's operations, not review.
Right. Operations. Because you’re so clearly in charge of the lights and the locks. Go ahead, Ben. Write it. Make it sound like I’m a hazard. I’ll be the one actually greeting the customers who walked in here today because I didn’t wait for your blessing. See if the empty chairs make your report look better. Enjoy your overtime. I’ve got a headache anyway. Leave the invoice on the table. Don’t speak to me again until I’m gone.
I'm not writing you as a hazard, I'm writing what happened. That's the whole job today, not a grudge.
Leave the invoice, I'll deal with it. Go take something for the headache. And don't storm off like that in front of people from finishing, they'll ask questions neither of us wants to answer.
There’s no storming. I’m leaving. You want the invoice? It’s under your mug. Read it. Try to find a loophole. There isn’t one. You think you’re protecting the company? You’re suffocating it. One day someone’s going to look at these records and realize you didn’t save us from anything except from ourselves. Keep the pen. I’m done.
Yeah. I'll keep the pen.
Don’t bother. Just file it. Or don’t. It’s all the same to me. I’m already at the exit. Try not to trip over your own righteousness on the way out, Ben. It’s embarrassing. The headache’s gone. Mostly because I don’t care anymore. See you Monday. If there is a Monday.
See you Monday. There'll be a Monday, Ivo, there's always a Monday — that's kind of the problem with these.
Bullshit. There isn’t always a Monday. Sometimes the place closes. But you’re right. We’re both stuck. You in your little wooden box, me out here trying to actually move things. Enjoy your write-up. Make it long. Make it detailed. Maybe it’ll keep you warm tonight when the heating cuts out again. I hope the print actually gets sued. It’d be good for a change.
That's a hell of a thing to hope for out loud, but fine. Go home, Ivo. Heating's been out at my place three days too, so don't act like you've got the monopoly on things falling apart around here.
Monopoly? Please. I’m freezing in a chair that smells like damp wool. You think I care about your radiator? Go home, Ben. Sleep on the couch. Bring an umbrella. The rain’s coming back. I’m already halfway to the train. Don’t follow me. And thanks for the warning about the finishers. Really. My social life was sagging.
Wasn't following you anywhere. Go catch your train before it does the thing it does on Thursdays. And I meant it about the finishers — not a warning, just don't hand them a story to run with.
The train doesn’t do things. People do. Or the union. Whatever. I’m walking. The air’s cold, sharp. Good. Helps the head clear. You think you’re clever, locking doors and writing reports. The finishers don’t care about your narrative. They care about who actually showed up. And I did. You hid. Enjoy the quiet. It’s loud when you’re alone. I’ll see you in the elevator. Don’t look at me. Just push the button.
I'll push the button. Look wherever you want, it's an elevator, not a courtroom. Go clear your head, Ivo — walk it off, it's fine. Report's not going anywhere and neither is this, we'll be back at it in some form next week regardless.
Elevators are small. That’s the problem. We’re trapped in a metal box with your paper trail. You say it won’t go anywhere, but you’re holding the pen. I’m just the exhibit. Fine. I’ll walk. I’ll go home to the cold flat and stare at the wall. You’ll stay here. You’ll write. You’ll feel important. Next week won’t be “some form.” It’ll be the same. You’ll tighten the screws. I’ll loosen them. That’s the dance. Stop pushing the button. It’s already moving. Just wait.
Then wait. You don't have to fill every second of a moving elevator with a speech, Ivo. I'm not tightening screws for sport, I've got an actual write-up to finish and a train of my own to catch after. Get home, get warm, we'll do the dance again next week like always.
Watch your tone. The elevator’s shaking. Can’t you feel that? It’s not just the shaft. It’s the whole building. You think you’re done? You’re just starting. The write-up is going to haunt you. You’ll read it back in six months and realize you wrote yourself into a corner. I’m going home. My radiator’s broken too, but I’ve got a heater. You don’t. Enjoy the cold, Ben. And stop talking about the dance. It’s a brawl. Always has been.
It's a slow elevator, Ivo, not an earthquake. Get some sleep. Whatever it is tonight — brawl, dance, whatever you want to call it — it'll look smaller Monday. It usually does.
Smaller. That’s your religion. “It’ll look smaller.” Like we’re shrinking the problem by blinking at it. I’m not going to sleep. I’m going to sit in the dark and listen to the fridge hum. Maybe it’ll apologize. You keep your monotone, Ben. Keep it steady. It’s the only thing you’ve got. I’m getting out. Door’s opening. Don’t try to stop me. I don’t need your pity. Or your diagnosis. Just let me go.