The men of the tight suits and the narrow ties gathered within their conference room perched atop the tallest of the city’s glass spires to conduct their monthly session. As usual, the subject of the day held little real substance. They would hold no debates regarding investment and infrastructure. They would listen to no presentations about fresh products or supplements to already existing revenue streams. Those men gathered in that high place would hear no petitions for patents, nor would they discuss the potential of any crop. Those in the tight suits and narrow ties didn’t care for publication or advertising profits. Just as they did during every monthly meeting, those men would focus their attention upon the projection of their wealth. They would donate their full effort to the preservation of their towers’ gleam and sparkle. Gleam and sparkle composed the bedrock of their towers’ foundations, and those in the tight suits and narrow ties regarded shimmer and mirage as their most precious commodity.
Mr. Whitaker leaned forward in his leather chair, placed as always at the head of the polished, conference table. “We seem to have weathered the recent dust storms well. Kudos, Mr. Meredith, for having such a strong response protocol prepared before these disturbances rolled in upon our towers.”
Tears gathered in the corners of Mr. Meredith’s eyes. “Those kind words mean the world to me, Mr. Whitaker. These recent storms have been a very trying time for my family.”
Though Mr. Meredith had never paid a shiner to the lift man, though he had never once lifted a polisher’s brush nor worn a polisher’s slick coat, and though he had never scrubbed a fleck of grime from any of those towers’ glass, all of those men in the tight suits and narrow ties smiled upon Mr. Meredith as if he alone was responsible for defeating the recent dust.
“Wonderful indeed, Mr. Meredith,” Mr. Forsyth agreed. “The sun has blessed us with its return today, and all that sunlight sparkles so majestically upon the entire height of our spires. A factory somewhere in the Shri Apur province has this morning already inquired concerning a loan for some start-up capital.”
Mr. Undertow grinned. “What are they planning to produce?”
Many at the table swallowed a laugh. Mr. Forsyth shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“No. I suppose it never does,” and Mr. Undertow chuckled softly at his own silly question. “I suppose I let curiosity get the better of my judgment. All that matters is that somewhere in a province named Shri Apur there is an enterprise with ultimate faith in our towers. No matter the dust. We all have Mr. Meredith to thank for it.”
The room joined together to give Mr. Meredith a thundering round of applause. Not all of the monthly gatherings conducted atop the glass towers progressed so smoothly, but rarely did they ever turn bitter or sour. For the city of those glass towers had been built by the effort of generations that remained as lost as it remained venerated. For generations, that city had offered nothing new to the world’s coffers – nothing new except those tall towers sheathed in glass that glistened in the sun. But all of those men of the tight suits and the narrow tires believed the towers were enough. For as long as the rest of the globe believed that those towers brimmed with silver and gold, then the hungry and the enterprising would always bow to their gleaming glass.
Mr. Whitaker held up a hand, and his colleagues turned quiet and still.
“I’ve no reason to doubt that our towers will continue to attract faith. But just as I do each month, I open the floor to anyone who feels the need to voice any concern to the contrary.”
Mr. Stewart swallowed to gather his courage before slowly raising his hand. His peers frowned. They regarded Mr. Stewart to be born from good stock, and so they had reserved a place at their table for him. Yet Mr. Stewart remained very young, and the young sometimes failed to adequately appreciate the tradition upon which every one of those glass towers was built.
Mr. Whitaker nodded. “Go ahead, son, but be brief and succinct.”
“We lost another polisher yesterday,” Mr. Stewart flinched, for he feared his words fled too quickly from his tongue.
The men in the tight suits and narrow ties looked perplexed.
“And what does that have to do with anything?” Mr. Meredith asked.
Mr. Stewart hesitated a breath before answering. “I worry we might be failing to see a trend working behind our recent losses of polishers. We’ve lost twenty-three of them this month alone.”
Mr. Meredith scowled. “Are you suggesting that I’ve cut any corners concerning the scaffolding or safety equipment? I guarantee to everyone at this table that I have not. I guarantee that I hold the life of any polisher in its just regard. And I resent any implication that I do not.”
Mr. Stewart stammered. “That’s not at all what I meant.”
“Then why bring up the loss of those polishers at all?” pressed Mr. Forsyth.
“Well, the dust storms had to have been hard on the polishers,” Mr. Stewart answered. “None of those polishers we’ve lost this month slipped or fell off of their scaffolds. The wind did not blow them off of their perches, nor did the sunlight blind them into a lethal misstep. Everyone one of those twenty-three polishers simply jumped away from our glass towers to their deaths of their own volition.”
The men seated around the table mumbled. They failed to understand why Mr. Stewart felt the need to invest their valuable time considering suicidal polishers. It was not their fault that some of the polishers suffered mental deficiencies. New polishers would quickly and easily be procured. Even a colleague as proficient and efficient as Mr. Meredith couldn’t be expected to screen every troubled polisher out of the hiring process.
Mr. Forsyth peeked at the ceiling. “You can’t know they jumped from the ledges, Mr. Stewart. Not really. Who’s to say for certain what happened to those men who fell from our towers?”
“Well, the lift men clearly state that the polishers jumped.”
Mr. Whitaker rolled his eyes. “And why should we care, or trust, anything the lift men have to say, Mr. Stewart?”
“Because the lift men can’t keep their mouths shut,” the snarl in his voice surprised Mr. Stewart. “All of us at this table work too hard to keep all this polish and gleam clean and sparkling. Gentlemen, you all mistake me if you think my heart bleeds for the polishers. I’m trying to protect our towers. I’m trying to get you all to think about the blemish that might ooze upon the glass if anyone thinks there’s polisher blood dripping down any of it.”
None of the other men in their tight suits and narrow ties had considered that perspective. They quickly realized that Mr. Stewart was indeed very savvy to keep the towers’ polish in the forefront of everyone’s mind. Mr. Stewart had reminded them that they could never forget about their towers’ frailty, not even when they applauded and celebrated their success in face of the rolling dust. It would be so easy for them to drop their guard, until before they realized it, the world lost its faith in their towers of glass. Those men at that table could never allow that to happen.
“Any ideas, Mr. Meredith?” Mr. Whitaker faced his friend.
Mr. Meredith scribbled his pen across his notebook. “We’ll pressure the union. That’ll help keep the lift men quiet. We’ll clamp down on their toll collections if we must. As for the polishers, I agree the recent string of storms and dust must’ve taken a toll upon them. They’ve worked long hours. I suppose it must tax a polisher’s spirit to work so hard all day to clean the glass, only to wake up the next morning to see it all gathered again. Perhaps we could give the polishers a bit of a holiday. Give them a chance to recharge their batteries.”
Mr. Forsyth slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. What if the dust returns while all our polishers are on vacation? Could we afford it if that happened?”
“Let’s give the polishers a day. Maybe two.” Mr. Whitaker leaned back into his leather chair. “The sky across the river looks bright and clear. I think we will be fine so long as we immediately gift the polishers a brief vacatio
n.”
Mr. Stewart had only one more question. “And should it be a paid vacation like the Workers Holiday?”
Mr. Whitaker grunted. “Could we afford to pay the polishers for it, Mr. Forsyth?”
Mr. Forsyth shook his head. “We don’t possess enough shiners. I fear we cannot.”
Mr. Whitaker nodded. He hoped those in that province named Shri Apur never learned of that weakness. “It’s settled. An unpaid holiday for the polishers while the sky remains clear of the dust.”
The men around the table all agreed. Thus business was concluded for one month more, and the men in the tight suits and narrow ties hurried back to the glass towers each of them possessed. There, they stared out of their high, glass walls for the remainder of their day, their eyes drifting towards that sky that hovered over the wild lands beyond the river’s other shore. Their stomachs refused to sit easily, for they brooded and worried what might happen if the dust should rise to threaten their glass towers when the polishers were not present to immediately swipe away the grime.