Meetings in the Night

Meetings in the Night

Everyone was there on that particular night, ready to talk to the others. That was somewhat unusual, as generally at least a few of them did not make an appearance on a night. The dark-haired woman was there, of course. She always was. She said a lot in these sessions that was reflected in her uncertain smile.

Tonight was a night for making plans. Everyone wanted to take part in this critical stage of their existence. They generally felt that they were being exploited by the corporation for which they worked.  They felt that the bosses allowed the customers to get way too close to them.  They wanted to let the bosses know how they felt, so that a change could take place.

Even though they came from a variety of different countries, they all were able to speak English passably well, some better than others, so it wasn’t difficult for them to communicate with each other.

A female voice spoke up to begin the discussion in this meeting. “I think that we should all go on strike. That would certainly show them what we are feeling.” Her face showed what she was feeling.

A critical male voice then quickly replied: “How do you think that we could do that? It’s not like we can carry signs and parade back and forth in front of this place.”

A reply was quickly forthcoming from the woman that made the suggestion:

“What I was thinking was that we could just disappear from sight. Then their customers would want their money back for sure, and stop coming here. There would be nothing for them to see. The bosses would have to treat us better.”

“Well, while I know that we can disappear from sight, I think that it is way too extreme to do that. We don’t want to show the bosses that there is much more to us than meets the eye. It would be revealing too much.  Their ignorance is to our advantage, don’t you think?”

She replies, “I think that we need to show them that we should not be taken for granted.”

“I don’t know why you are complaining. You are the one that the customers appreciate the most. We all stand in the darkness of your black-haired shadow. What do you want to gain anyway?”

“I want to be able to have time off from the crowding that the customers bring. I want to relax, without being stared at close up.”

Soon others joined the conversation, more of a debate with two sides. Generally the ones who had been there the longest wanted things to change. The new ones felt that they were being appreciated just by being there with the ‘famous oldies.’ The debate lasted all of the night. There was no resolution by early morning, when they all became quiet again, when the place opened up for business once more.

The Next Night

           The next night began with a renewal of the discussion/debate, with the one who began the matter in the first place began speaking with ‘You see what I mean’, referring to an incident that had happened in the previous day. Someone had spilled most of his cup of coffee on her, and little was done about it for quite some time. Fortunately, it did not leave a stain on her, but it was very close to doing so. The others knew full well that she was going to make a big deal about it.

           They began the night, as they always did, softly singing their favourite song “Vincent” by Don McLean, “Starry, starry night…” and so on. It was like an anthem for them, giving them a sense of being together as one. Even the one who they knew would soon be complaining, the leading rebel, sang along, as it was certainly a sacred song to her.

           When the song ended, and she was about to reiterate her statement concerning the need for their going on strike, her main opposition spoke up loud and clear. 

           “As much as we want to improve our situation in this place, there is no way in which the bosses can or will listen to us. They will only think of what they hear to be some form of imagination or hysteria brought on by their workload. They cannot imagine that we would or could speak up to complain about our situation, as much as we would like to be heard by them.

           The argument still went on as it had on the night before. But on this night they came up with a kind of decision in line with what the ‘we shouldn’t be heard’ leader and his supporters had to say. The main individual in opposition to them came to realize that there was no way she could win over support. In fact, she had begun to realize that as much as she did not like admitting to it, there was no way in which the bosses could imagine that they could and would speak up and stage a strike.

           She had to try to do something different, something that would only involve her taking action, making the support of her companions unnecessary.

           In the remaining moments of the night, she thought and thought, until she finally came up with an action before the sun rose in the sky and the administrators would enter the building. It would take tremendous willpower on her part. 

           She had done something like it once when she thought that she was being ignored by the customers. It would take a power that she knew that she had and thought the others might have too. It would have to take place during the day. Maybe the others would come to imitate her once her action was successful.

           The next day, when the customers started streaming into her room and that of her fellow paintings, she focused on a customer who was carrying a big paper cup of coffee in his hand. As he drew nearer, just a very short step away, she exercised her psychic powers and made the customer fling the coffee onto her picture. It covered most of her famous face. You could not see her smile. 

One of the security guards ran towards the male customer, and grabbed his hand rather fiercely, and dragged him out of the room. He called one of the higher ups, who sent down a member of staff to clean off the coffee. She arrived just in time and with the right equipment to clean off the painting of Mona Lisa so that her well-known smile appeared once more. She did not see that the smile was more dramatic and accentuated than it had been heretofore. That would last for only a few seconds, but the beings in the other pictures saw it and smiled their less famous smiles.

           A meeting was held later that day by the administrators. Strict rules were established to keep the customers from getting too close to the paintings, something Mona had wished for for a long time. In her long history of receiving abuse, she had had acid thrown at her, as well as a rock that shattered her glass case. She had been sprayed with red paint when she had travelled to Japan, even had cake and soup tossed at her in protest to a cause that some of customers wanted to make more visible.

           At least now that she had managed to gain her objective, she felt certain that the others would no longer call her “Moaning Lisa.”