The café’s door opened onto a blustery October evening, bringing in a blast of dark prairie wind and the board’s last two members. Dumping their jackets onto the chairs that had been reserved for them, David Phong and Caitlin Wolverine headed to the front counter to place their orders. The remaining board members continued discussing the burlesque show in which two of them had performed the previous evening. Scatters of gold glitter still sparkled on Ted Thone’s face.

“We had good numbers. And enthusiastic,” he exulted. Thirty-eight and easy-going, he was well into his third year on the board. “We’re working dance routines into our performances now. Cha cha cha!”

“I like the way you include all body types,” commented Minnie Sidgwick. More of a seat warmer than a tap dancer when it came to the burlesque, she liked to define her age as mythical and mystical. “It’s great to see a heavier woman who knows how to take off her clothes.”

“We’re always looking for new troupe members,” Ted cooed, waggling his eyebrows.

“Ahhh,” Minnie murmured. “I’d definitely fit the heavy label, wouldn’t I?”

“Everyone’s a goddess,” Caitlin interjected as she and David joined the table, setting down their lattes and draping their jackets over the backs of their chairs. Minnie straightened with a bright smile.

“Everyone present and accounted for!” she sang out, bringing down an imaginary gavel onto the table. “As chair, I hereby call this meeting to order. How are we all tonight?”

As per tradition, the group went around the table, individuals giving a brief rundown on their personal situation. With one position on the board currently vacant, this left four members and two employees filling seats – Administrator Jan Honeycutt, into her third year on the job, and Mo Khatun, now in his second year as Program Coordinator. Stocky and assertive, at twenty-seven Jan worked several part-time jobs, including her role in the burlesque troupe. A large pentagram proclaimed itself on the back of her left hand, and a second tattoo of myriad tiny green leaves peeked out of her hairline, inviting comparisons to a fey Green Man. Mo sported no visible tattoos on his thirty-year-old olive skin. Congenial and visibly comfortable in any crowd, he worked as a Youth Counsellor at the Open Door Society and was active in stand-up.

All told, the board and its employees were as diverse as the spoken-word community that they served – a mix of straight, queer and trans, Indigenous, racialized and Euro-Canadian. For years, they had been regulars at Word Out – a weekly open-mike event held at a local restaurant.

“Okay!” beamed Minnie. “It looks like we’re all as well as can reasonably be expected. First thing on the agenda is the Administrative Coordinator’s report.”

Jan glanced at her iPad, then around the table. “Canadian Festival of Spoken Word is in a couple weeks,” she said. “I’ve gotten a price quote on the Air B&B reserved for our team, and there should be enough in our account to cover it. The third-person financial review is complete, and I’ll be sending it off to the arts board, along with the December report I have to file with them.”

“Excuse me,” said David, leaning to one side as a server set a blueberry muffin down in front of him. “This is just my second year on the board, and I’m not clear on this third-person review. Could you explain it?”

Jan paused, her gaze on her iPad. When she spoke, her voice grated as if scraping against reluctance. She did not look up. “It’s a requirement for our non-profit status, and for the arts board,” she explained. “We hire an accountant to go through our accounts, and then send his report to the arts board. It’s done after our year end, which falls on June 30th – usually in September. As I was saying, once we pay off CFSW costs, we’ll be about even. Which means Mo and I will have to wait to be paid for November and December until January, when our next cheque comes in from the arts board. Take-in at the door should cover our monthly feature poet’s fee, but we’ll be running a deficit come January.”

“And how much will that deficit be?’ asked David. He took a sip of his latte.

Again, Jan paused. “Just under two thousand,” she said gruffly.

“Two thousand is entirely reasonable,” Minnie interjected. “There’s always some debt carryover – entirely to be expected.” Her gaze darted between Jan and David. In her fifties, she had been a member of the spoken word community since the nineties, and she was as generous emotionally as she was in stature. At open-mike events, she sat front row, cheering on performers with explosive applause. When her turn came at the mike, she pushed every possible boundary, caressing her thighs as well as the sexual content in her poetry. At board meetings, however, the slightest sign of conflict shifted her into appeaser mode. “Good work, Jan,” she added now. “I’m sure you’re keeping a careful eye on all the decimal points.”

Jan cut her eyes at Minnie, but her expression softened. “Our numbers at the door are falling,” she said. “It’s happening across the country – spoken word’s heyday is over – but the arts board has expressed concern. Because we’re taking in less at the door, it’s hard to keep in the black. We need to come up with some fundraising ideas.”

The group fell silent, staring off into a collective middle distance. Fundraising was no one’s favourite topic. Caitlin placed both hands on the table, a sign that she was about to speak. One year into her MFA in Creative Writing, she also had connections with a burgeoning provincial Indigenous poetry scene. “What about an event featuring Indigenous poets?” she asked. “I know several I could ask.”

Mo nodded. “We’d pay them our regular fee,” he said. “Maybe up our cover to twenty for the night.”

David leaned back in his chair, frowning. “How are we going to make a profit if we don’t have enough in the bank to cover up-front costs?” he asked.

“Nothing risked, nothing gained,” Mo said mildly.

“It’s okay to carry some debt,” added Jan, her gaze flicking past David. “It just has to be manageable.”

“But we already can’t pay for you and Mo for the next two months,” David reminded her.

“How do you define manageable debt?”

A flush crept up Jan’s cheeks. Meeting David’s gaze square on, she stared at him without speaking. Fifteen seconds strolled into thirty, and a ripple of movement travelled around the table – an uncrossing and recrossing of legs, eyes seeking out invisible landscapes. Although David could boast of no MFA, he was the only writer present with published books to his credit, none of them self-published. Recently, he had been awarded a writing grant from the same provincial arts board that funded Word Out, to write a novel that fictionalized his experiences as a transman. Now, as Jan continued to stare him down, he raised his eyebrows and repeated his question.

“Well,” said Jan, refocusing on a patch of air to one side of his face, “it all depends on what we take in at the door. We still have the odd good night. It’s difficult to predict, really.”

David took a slow steadying breath. “I’ve been covering door, twice a month, for the past six months,” he said. “I have to say, I think we’re pretty sloppy in how we take in cash. Yes, we fill out a Take-In Sheet and two board members sign off on it. But after that, the money and the Take-In Sheet just get shoved into a large manilla envelope with the take from the last few weeks, all of it mixed together. Sometimes that goes on for over a month. Anyone could just reach in there and grab fifty bucks and walk off with it, and we wouldn’t know until everything was tallied for the bank deposit.”

Jan looked startled. Briefly, she made eye contact. “Yeah,” she conceded.

“Well, shouldn’t we be more organized?” asked David. “Especially if we’re in debt?” He lifted his knapsack from its position between his feet and set it on his lap. Pulling out a package of letter-size envelopes, he slid them across the table toward Jan. “A donation,” he said. “How about from now on we put all the money we take in at an event, plus the Take-In Sheet, into one of these envelopes, then seal it and write the date on the outside. Then we put the sealed, dated envelope into the large manilla envelope. That’d make things easier for bookkeeping and add another layer of security.” Expectantly, he glanced around the group.

Expressions had gone blank. Eyes gazed at the ceiling, out the café window, into empty coffee cups. Neither rejection nor acceptance could be read on anyone’s face; for a moment, David felt as if he had speaking to dead air. Then Caitlin nodded. “I’ve only covered door once,” she said. “But I did find it awkward – just dropping all that money in like that.”

Ted pulled in his gaze from the window, his nose a shimmer of gold glitter as he turned to David. “But people come in with a twenty and want to pay the five dollar cover with it,” he demurred. “We need that extra money to make change.”

“There’s a seventy-dollar float in there,” David replied. “If we have a big night and that gets used up, they’ll just have to go to the restaurant bar and get change there. We’re operating on a government funds. The provincial auditor could decide to audit us. We have to make sure our paper trail is very clear.”

Expressions around the table grew blanker. David found himself leaning forward as if trying to force himself through an invisible barrier. “I’m on a writing grant,” he explained – not for the first time, and he realized the inadvisability of it as the words had swaggered out of his mouth. “I hold onto every receipt. I account for every dime.”

Minnie jerked convulsively, wobbling the table and setting coffee cups skittering. “This is the arts!” she blurted, her normally friendly features convulsing. “It’s not business! That’s the way you do things in the arts community – easy-shmeasy! Nobody cares about exact figures – you make it up!”

David’s jaw dropped. Beside him, Caitlin observed Minnie with narrowed eyes. While the two of them were not close, David and Caitlin shared a bond formed by their lack of participation in the burlesque troupe’s events, either as performers or as audience members. People who performed together regularly in the nude or paid to watch their friends do so, David mused, weren’t likely to question each other over something as … prudish … as what could be considered loose change.

“Look,” said David, fumbling against his inner politeness police, “the government considers every writer and spoken word artist who earns income to be a professional. They pay taxes. If they get a grant, they’re taxed on that, and they’re required to meet certain standards for record-keeping.”

Fierce red surged up Minnie’s neck and face. “We don’t all want to be professionals like you,” she sneered. “What we did was good enough before you came along. The arts board never asked any questions. We’ve never been audited.”

Again, David’s jaw dropped, a void of incomprehension. As he gaped and Minnie glared, the collective silence thickened. Ted cleared his throat. “I can see David’s point,” he hedged.

“Not that I think anyone’s stealing from us.”

“No one’s stealing and no one’s going to audit us!” boomed Minnie. “We only get twenty thousand a year!”

David’s expression tightened. “What is the big deal about sealing money inside an envelope and dating it each week?” he snapped.

“I agree with David,” said Caitlin. She kept her gaze lowered as she spoke, but her firm tone took the threat out of Minnie’s shoulders and set Mo nodding in agreement.

“It’ll mean rewriting the Instructions Sheet for volunteers covering door,” he said. “I’ll go over it and bring in the changes for approval to our next meeting.”

“Okay,” sighed Minnie, her face still a mottled red. “Just keep in mind, David – most of us are volunteers here. None of that twenty thou is going into our pockets. How ‘bout we move on to the Program Coordinator’s report. Mo?”

Mo spoke quickly and easily, describing the feature poets he had scheduled for the next several months, as well as an upcoming anarchy slam and a poetry karaoke event. When he finished, David asked no questions.

“Lady Vanessa in January!” crowed Ted. “And Kai Cheng Thom!”

“Okay,” Minnie said brightly. “That’s it for our scheduled topics. Anything else you want to discuss?” Her gaze travelled around the group, tracing a large halo around David’s head. Under the table, fingers crossed; prayers were silently offered up. David took another steadying breath.

“I called our consultant at the arts board,” he said. Heads snapped up; someone gasped. David kept his expression neutral, his gaze on the tabletop. “We talked about the responsibilities of board members.” He paused, then added significantly, “Their legal responsibilities.” 

“What d’you mean, legal?” demanded Minnie.

“The job description given to board members here doesn’t quite cut it,” said David. “For instance, we were never told that if Word Out goes into debt and can’t pay it off, it’s the board members who are sued by the creditors, not the employees. The board members personally,” he added, making pointed eye contact around the table.

Three stunned board members stared back at him. Jan straightened, her nostrils flaring.

“Two thousand is normal debt carryover!” she snapped.

David studied his hands. “Sure,” he replied, “when we were taking in more at the door. But the main point is that it’s the board members’ personal wallets that are on the line for any debt we incur. It’s also the board members’ job to keep a close eye on finances. We’re supposed to be asking questions, and it’s the Administrative Coordinator’s job to answer them fully.”

“Two thou –” Jan interjected shrilly, but Mo shook his head at her and she slumped noticeably.

“The consultant also said,” David continued, his expression going grim, “that board members are required to sign off on the third person financial review before the Administrative Coordinator submits it to the arts board. But Jan didn’t even show it to us last year, much less ask us to sign off on it. And from what she said earlier tonight, it doesn’t seem to be in her plans to let us see it this year either.”

Again, he sent his gaze around the table. Everyone stared as if he had just peeled off all seven layers of his skin and taken them on a tour of his internal organs. “As board members, we have to start taking more responsibility,” he said. “Jan and Mo seem to be doing a great job – I’d be the first person to say that. But they operate as if they’re autonomous, even self-employed. They’re not. As board members, we’re legally responsible for their financial decisions, but we don’t oversee any of them. They control the files, the website, our Facebook and Twitter accounts, all the finances, and they pay themselves. We take their word for everything, without ever seeing the actual bank record or even the third person financial review. And when I try to ask questions, Jan acts as if I’m insulting her.

“I think this has gone on the way it has because no one knew what I’m telling you now – including the employees. I don’t think any of it has been malicious. But now we do know, and things are going to have to change.”

In the ensuing silence, an odd smile played with Jan’s lips. “You’re sure you don’t think it’s malicious?” she asked.

David met her gaze square on. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ve been covering door twice a month for the last half year. The weeks I didn’t, I checked the Take-In Sheets and wrote down the door totals for those nights. So I’ve compiled a running total for the past six months. You have those Take-In Sheets at home, as well as a record of the bank deposits you’ve made. How ‘bout you bring both of those in to our next meeting, and we’ll compare notes.”

Jan paled, the delicately tattooed leaves around her face leaping into stark relief. Ted went into rapid blinking, Caitlin’s shoulders took on an uneasy hunch, Mo’s gaze hovered between Jan and David. Then Minnie’s large hand smacked flat onto the table.

“No!” she boomed. “You’re bullying her! You’re bullying all of us!” Table legs scraped the floor as she half-rose from her chair. “You!” she shouted, “with your endless questions, coming in here as if you’re better than us because you’re published, and accusing us of all these things we didn’t even know about! So we didn’t know. That’s not a crime.”

“Not a crime,” David agreed. “But not knowing won’t save us from getting sued if we get into too much debt.”

Minnie’s face twisted. For a moment it looked as if she were about to spit, but then she grunted and sat down. “I’m a volunteer,” she muttered. “I don’t need this. I resign.”

Gasps erupted around the table. “Minnie, no!” Ted protested. “We need you as chair! We need you as you! No one’s blaming you for anything. No one’s blaming anyone.”

“He’s going after Jan,” Minnie growled, narrowing her eyes at David. “He’s always going after her. Now he’s accusing her of theft. I want all that to stop or I’m gone.”

Ted leaned forward, his glittery face flushed with concern. “I’m sure David didn’t mean to upset anyone,” he said. “He’ll apologize, won’t you, David?”

David jerked as if struck. “Apologize?” he sputtered. “For what?”

Ted looked confused. “For upsetting Minnie,” he said. “And Jan.”

Jan’s eyebrows shot up. “I don’t need an apology,” she said. “But I do want the harassment to stop.”

David’s eyebrows mirrored hers. “Asking questions is harassment!” he exclaimed.

Jan’s chin rose. “With your attitude it is,” she shot back.

“I agree,” added Minnie.

Everyone sat motionless, as if afraid the slightest thought would blow the future to smithereens, taking the present tense with it. Then Caitlin’s hands rose from her lap to flatten themselves onto the table.

“I do not,” she said.

“Do not what?” asked Minnie, surprise lifting the sullenness from her expression.

Mo cleared his throat. “I don’t agree either,” he said. “If everything David just said is true, and I think it probably is, we’re actually lucky he brought it to our attention before the provincial auditor did. Tell you what, David – Jan and I will set up a meeting with the consultant to discuss the issues you’ve raised. If changes need to be made, we’ll make them. We’ll report back to you next month.”

David nodded. “Okay by me,” he said.

“Minnie!” asked Mo, one eyebrow raised.

“Whatever you think,” Minnie sighed, slumping back into her chair. “As long as this doesn’t turn into another attack on Jan. She works hard for Word Out, and we’re lucky to have her.”

“Agreed,” said Mo.

“Hear hear,” added Ted.

“Okay,” said Minnie. “Does anyone have any other issues? Because I’m really done for tonight. No? Great – we’ll call it a night. Don’t forget to tip your server.”

The group rose to its feet, collecting scarves, gloves and phones, sliding on jackets and knapsacks. “Minnie,” said Jan. “Would you like a ride home?”

“Thank you, that would be lovely,” Minnie replied, and the two headed out into a door-sized blast of wind. The remaining four stood, feeling out the awkward silence and playing hit and miss with each other’s gaze.

“Don’t take Minnie personally, David,” Caitlin said softly. “It’s in her nature to defend.

To protect.”

“I wasn’t attacking,” David muttered. “I was asking.”

Ted took a deep breath. “All that new info,” he said. “I had no idea about any of it. I work three part-time jobs. I had no idea board members might have to pay back Word Out debt.”

“Which is why we have a right to detailed answers about finances,” said David. “And there’s still the issue I raised about the six-month total on Take-In Sheets. I want to see Jan’s total, to see if it balances with mine.”

Lips pursed, eyes slid away. “Slowly bro, slowly,” Mo murmured. “All of us on this board are low income, some of us – like Ted and Jan – working multiple jobs. Twenty to forty bucks here and there? Let it go. We’re onto it now, things’ll tighten up.”

“She’s been refusing to answer my questions for months!” David exploded. “And you’ve all just sat there and watched her stare me down. I think we need to push her on this.”

“Oh man,” said Ted, taking a step backward. “I am not pushing anyone on anything. Slam night Sunday – see you then.” With a wave, he pivoted out the door, a trail of gold glitter in his wake.

Caitlin placed a hand on David’s arm. “The direction we need to be moving is toward each other,” she said carefully. “Think of this as a poem. You can write the next bit any way you want.”

David travelled into her gaze, his own eyes glimmering as he caught her spark. “You’re right,” he conceded. “I’m writing the poem instead of letting the poem write me.”

They smiled poet’s smiles at each other and headed out into the night.