“The Holiday Market has special rules,” Brenda cooed, inventing a lie so perfectly crafted to sabotage my most important sales day that every ounce of patience I had evaporated into pure, cold rage.
No such email existed.
My son’s tuition deposit rested on the sales I’d make in the next hour, a fact this woman was gleefully ignoring. Her little acts of sabotage had been a fixture of my Saturday mornings for months—a “missing” key here, a “reserved” cart there. She got a visible thrill from it, a pathetic jolt of power from her tiny kingdom of concrete floors and rolling carts.
But this lie was different. This was a direct assault on my business, and I was done being her victim.
She thought her power came from the keys on her belt, but this petty tyrant had no idea her reign was about to be systematically dismantled by a suggestion memo, leaving me to write the very rules that would become her undoing.
The Gatekeeper’s Gambit: The Cold Concrete Welcome
The air in the back hallway of the Harrison Arts Center always smelled the same: a mix of industrial cleaner, damp concrete, and the faint, sweet perfume of popcorn drifting from the main lobby. It was a smell I associated with stress, a Pavlovian trigger that tightened the muscles in my shoulders. Every other Saturday, this beige corridor was the first hurdle in an eight-hour steeplechase of selling my art.
My husband, Mark, kissed my cheek before he pulled the minivan away from the loading dock. “Go get ‘em, tiger,” he’d said, the same line he used before every fair. I smiled, but the sentiment evaporated the moment I faced the service elevator.
And her.
Brenda stood sentinel by the steel cage where the hand trucks were kept, a volunteer lanyard swaying from her neck like a military medal. She was probably my age, fifty-three, but carried herself with the rigid authority of a high school vice principal who genuinely enjoys handing out detention slips. Her thin lips were a permanent, disapproving line.
“Morning, Brenda,” I said, my voice deliberately cheerful. I pointed toward the cage. “Just need to grab a flatbed cart.”
She jangled the cluster of keys clipped to her belt loop, a sound like a jailer making his rounds. “Oh, dear. They’re all signed out,” she said, her voice a syrupy, insincere apology. “You’ll have to wait.”
I glanced through the diamond-shaped holes in the steel mesh. I could see at least three flatbeds and two upright dollies sitting right there, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The knot in my stomach cinched tighter. This was the third fair in a row.
“I can see them in there,” I said, keeping my tone level. “Looks like there are a few left.”
Brenda gave a theatrical sigh, a puff of air that ruffled her stiff, salt-and-pepper bangs. “Those are reserved. For the main stage performers. You know the rules, Noor. Vendors wait.”
The “rules” were a document as mythical as the Minotaur. No one had ever seen them, but Brenda invoked them with religious fervor. The main stage performers, a children’s ballet troupe this week, wouldn’t arrive for another two hours. My prints, carefully packed in heavy-duty portfolios, sat on the concrete floor, silent and heavy. The first wave of serious buyers—the collectors and interior designers—would be sweeping the main hall in forty-five minutes. Without a cart, I’d be making four separate, back-breaking trips, eating up at least half an hour. I’d miss them. Again.
A Symphony of Excuses
Two weeks prior, the excuse had been different. “The key’s gone missing,” Brenda had chirped, patting her pockets with performative distress. “Someone must have forgotten to return it. So irresponsible.” I ended up borrowing a rickety, squealing dolly from Maria, the potter in the booth next to mine, after she’d finished her own setup. By the time I was ready, the early rush was over, replaced by families with strollers and sticky-fingered kids. My sales were down by thirty percent.
The time before that, the cage was wide open, but Brenda had physically blocked my path. “Maintenance needs to do an inventory count,” she’d declared, arms crossed over her chest. “No carts can be moved for the next hour.” I watched as a young man, a musician with a guitar case and an amp, walked right past her, grabbed a cart, and left. When I pointed this out, she’d smiled sweetly. “He’s talent, dear. Not a vendor.”
The distinction was her favorite weapon. We, the people who filled the grand hall with life and color and paid a hefty fee for the privilege, were a lower caste. We were the scullery maids of the art world, while she was the keeper of its back-hallway keys.
Today, I tried a different tactic. “Okay. Who do I talk to about getting one of the reserved carts cleared for use? Since the performers aren’t here yet, maybe I could just use it for twenty minutes and have it back before they even arrive.”
Brenda’s eyes, small and dark, glittered with something that looked like pleasure. She enjoyed this. “That’s not how it works. The reservation is for the full block of time. It’s a liability issue.”
Maria wheeled past me then, her own cart loaded with boxes of glazed mugs. She gave me a sympathetic glance and a slight shake of her head, a silent warning: don’t bother, you won’t win. She was in her seventies, had been doing this circuit for thirty years, and had the weary resignation of a soldier who knows which battles to fight. I, apparently, was still learning.
Frustration burned in my throat, hot and acidic. I could feel the seconds ticking away, each one representing a potential customer I wouldn’t meet, a sale I wouldn’t make. This wasn’t a hobby. This was how I was helping my son, Liam, get through his final year of college without taking on crippling loans. Every lost dollar mattered.
The Kitchen Table Debrief
That night, I sat at our kitchen table, pushing a cold piece of lasagna around my plate. Mark watched me, his brow furrowed with concern. He’d already heard the sales numbers—or lack thereof.
“It’s that woman again, isn’t it?” he asked gently.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The rage I’d suppressed all day was bubbling up, and if I started talking, I was afraid I would start screaming. I’d spent the day forcing smiles for customers, talking about the archival quality of my paper and the inspiration behind my black-and-white cityscapes, all while a low-grade fury simmered just beneath the surface.
“Noor, you have to report her,” Mark said, his voice taking on the practical, problem-solving tone he used when fixing a leaky faucet. “Go to the event manager. This is ridiculous. It’s targeted.”
“I know it’s targeted,” I snapped, then immediately regretted my tone. “I’m sorry. It’s just… who do I report her to? Her boss is probably some other volunteer. And what do I say? ‘The lady in the back won’t give me a cart?’ I’ll sound like a whiny child.”
“You sound like a business owner whose logistics are being deliberately obstructed,” he countered. He reached across the table and covered my hand with his. “It’s not just you, right? You said Maria has issues with her too.”
“Maria just works around her. She gets here at the crack of dawn, before Brenda even starts her shift, just to get a cart. I can’t do that, Mark. Liam has his morning class, and I need to be here to make sure he’s actually up and out the door.”
He sighed, a long, weary sound. “So what’s the alternative? Keep losing the best hour of sales every single fair?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? The ethical math was grinding in my head. Was this a personal vendetta worth pursuing, or a professional obstacle I should just find a way to circumvent? Complaining felt petty, like tattling. But letting it go felt like surrendering a piece of my dignity, and my income, to a woman who got her kicks from wielding a tiny sliver of power over people like me.
The lasagna stared up at me, congealed and unappetizing. It felt like a metaphor for my career at the moment: cold, stuck, and deeply unsatisfying.
The Seed of a Plan
I lay in bed that night, long after Mark’s breathing had evened out into a soft snore. My mind was racing, replaying every condescending “dear” and every infuriatingly sweet smile from Brenda. Mark was right; I couldn’t let this go. But he was wrong about the approach. A direct confrontation would devolve into a she-said, she-said argument. Brenda, a long-time volunteer, would likely be seen as more credible than a transient vendor.
I needed evidence. I needed something indisputable.
The problem wasn’t the rules; it was the person enforcing them. Brenda thrived in ambiguity, in the unwritten, unofficial power structure of the back hallway. She was a petty tyrant, and the only way to dethrone a tyrant was to take away their power. Her power was control over the equipment. The keys. The carts.
What if there was a system? A real one, not just the one she invented on the spot. A system with a paper trail.
An idea began to form, small and sharp, in the darkness of my bedroom. It wasn’t about complaining. It was about proposing a solution. A solution that, on the surface, would seem like a simple, logical improvement for the Arts Center. It would be helpful, efficient, and professional.
But its real purpose would be to build a cage of accountability around Brenda, one she wouldn’t even see until the lock clicked shut. I wouldn’t go to the event manager, who dealt with vendors. I’d go to someone who dealt with assets. Equipment. Logistics.
I’d go to Facilities.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand, the screen flaring to life. I opened a new note and began to type.
“Subject: Proposal for Equipment Management Improvement.”
A small, grim smile touched my lips. If Brenda wanted to play by the rules, I was going to write the rulebook.
The Art of Observation: The Whisper Network
The next fair, two weeks later, I arrived with a new strategy. Phase one was reconnaissance. Instead of making a beeline for the service elevator, I lingered by the coffee station in the vendor break area, a cramped room with mismatched chairs and the lingering smell of burnt bagels.
Maria was there, stirring sugar into a styrofoam cup. “Morning, Noor,” she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ready for battle?”
“More than you know,” I replied, keeping my voice low. “Can I ask you something, Maria? About Brenda.”
She glanced around, then leaned in closer. “What about her?”
“Does she only pull the ‘no carts available’ routine on me, or am I just lucky?”
A wry, humorless smile touched her lips. “Oh, honey. You’re not special. She has her favorites. The young ones, especially the men, they get whatever they want. They flirt a little, call her the ‘queen of the castle,’ and she melts. Women our age?” She took a sip of her coffee. “We’re competition, I think. Or maybe we just remind her of something she doesn’t like. I gave up trying to figure it out years ago.”
A woman I vaguely recognized from the jewelry section, probably in her late forties, overheard us and chimed in. “Last month, she told me my display was a fire hazard and I couldn’t bring my cart in until I rearranged it. I’ve had the same setup for five years. I missed the entire first hour.”
My blood ran cold. It was worse than I thought. It wasn’t just about the carts; it was about any rule she could invent to exert control. We were a silent sorority of the harassed, each of us thinking we were the only one, each of us too busy or too tired to fight back. We’d been isolated, and that’s how she maintained her power.
I spent the next twenty minutes talking to three other vendors, all women over forty. The stories were hauntingly similar: a loading bay door that was suddenly “broken” for a thirty-minute window; a key to the vendor storage closet that was “at the front desk” and required a ten-minute walk; a service elevator that was inexplicably “out of order” until the prime setup time had passed.
The pattern was undeniable. It wasn’t random. It was a targeted campaign of petty sabotage. And knowing that, feeling the shared frustration of these other women, solidified my resolve. This wasn’t just for me anymore.
A Suggestion for Facilities
On Monday morning, I called the Harrison Arts Center, but I didn’t ask for the volunteer coordinator or the events manager. I asked for the Facilities Department. After a brief hold, a man with a gravelly voice answered. “Dave speaking.”
“Hi, Dave. My name is Noor Bishop. I’m one of the vendors at the weekend art fairs.” I launched into the carefully rehearsed speech I’d practiced in the shower. I didn’t mention Brenda. I didn’t mention harassment or delays. I framed the entire conversation around efficiency and asset protection.
“I’ve noticed the hand trucks and flatbeds are a hot commodity during setup,” I began, my tone collaborative and helpful. “And with so many people coming and going—vendors, staff, performers—it seems like it would be easy for one to go missing or get damaged. I was just thinking, it might be helpful to have a simple checkout system in place. You know, just a clipboard with a log sheet. It would help you guys keep track of your equipment and ensure everything is accounted for.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. I held my breath.
“You know,” Dave said finally, his voice thoughtful, “that’s not a bad idea. We lost two dollies last year. Just vanished. A checkout sheet… yeah, that could work.”
I pressed my advantage. “You could even put inventory tags on them. Simple asset tags with a number. That way, people just sign out ‘Cart #7’ and sign it back in. It makes it clean and simple for everyone.”
“Asset tags,” he repeated, and I could almost hear the gears turning in his head. “I like it. Simple. Low-cost. Solves a problem.” He cleared his throat. “Thanks for the suggestion, Ms. Bishop. I’ll look into getting that set up before the next event.”
I hung up the phone, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was a small step, but it felt like a monumental victory. I had planted a seed of logic and order in Brenda’s chaotic little kingdom. Now, I just had to wait for it to grow.
The Bait is Set
When I arrived for the next fair, I saw it immediately. Taped to the steel mesh of the cart cage was a clear plastic sleeve holding a fresh sign-out sheet. A pen dangled from a grimy piece of string. And on the crossbar of every single cart and dolly inside, a small, laminated tag with a bold black number was attached with a zip tie.
My breath caught in my throat. It was real.
Brenda was standing nearby, watching me with narrowed eyes. She’d clearly noticed the new additions.
“Morning, Brenda,” I said, walking toward the cage.
“They’ve made things very… bureaucratic,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. She gestured toward the sign-out sheet as if it were a piece of modern art she didn’t understand. “More paperwork for me, I suppose.”
“Looks more efficient, if you ask me,” I replied breezily. I scanned the sheet. A few names were already on it. I picked up the pen. “I’ll just take cart number four, please.”
Her lips tightened into a razor-thin line. She couldn’t say they were reserved; the new system didn’t have a column for that. She couldn’t say the key was lost; it was hanging on a new, designated hook right next to the cage. Every excuse she’d ever used had been neutralized.
She unlocked the cage with a short, angry jerk of her wrist. The door swung open with a groan. I wrote my name, the cart number, and the time—8:05 a.m.—in the corresponding columns on the sheet. As I wheeled the cart out, I felt her eyes on my back, hot with resentment.
The bait was set. The trap was armed. All I had to do now was wait for her to try and chew her way through the wires. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist. People like Brenda don’t surrender power gracefully. They just find new ways to abuse it.
A False Dawn
For a moment, I allowed myself to feel a flicker of hope. I got my booth set up in record time, a full fifteen minutes before the doors opened to the public. The early crowd was good to me; I sold two of my largest, most expensive prints before 10 a.m. The day felt different, lighter. The back hallway, for once, had been just a hallway, not a battleground.
But as I was packing up that evening, I saw the first sign of trouble. Brenda was at the cart cage, talking to a young vendor, a painter in his twenties with a man-bun and paint-splattered jeans.
“Just leave it,” Brenda was saying, waving a dismissive hand as he started to wheel his cart back toward the cage. “I’ll sign it in for you. Go on, get on the road.”
The young man, oblivious, thanked her profusely and hurried off. I watched as Brenda picked up the clipboard. She looked at the sheet for a long moment, then deliberately hung it back up without marking his cart as returned.
My stomach dropped. Of course. That was how she would do it. The system was only as good as the person enforcing it. By being “helpful,” she could create chaos. She could leave carts signed out under other people’s names, then claim they were lost or stolen. She could let her favorites bypass the rules while holding others strictly to them.
I wheeled my own cart, #4, back to the cage. “Ready to sign in,” I said, holding the pen.
She gave me a tight, artificial smile. “Just checking the sheet,” she said, her body blocking my view. “Looks like you’re all set.”
“I’d prefer to sign it in myself,” I insisted, stepping around her. I found my name on the list and drew a firm line through it, adding the return time in the final column.
She watched me, her expression unreadable. She hadn’t been caught, not really. She had plausible deniability. But she knew that I had seen. And I knew that this was just the beginning. The next fair was the big one, the annual Holiday Market. It was the most important sales day of the year.
And I had a feeling Brenda was going to make it a masterpiece of petty tyranny.
About the Author
