The Plant (24 page)
I went up to six, where the ladies’ is almost
always
deserted (it has crossed my mind that perhaps there are currently no female employees on that floor of 490 Park Avenue South), went into the stall at the end, and removed certain garments. Then I waited, not sure what might happen next. And I mean that. Whatever telepathy there may be in the fifth-floor offices of Zenith House, its effective range is even shorter than that of a college FM radio station.
Five minutes went by, then seven. I’d made up my mind that he wasn’t coming, and then the door squeaked open and a very cautious, very un-Porterly voice whispered, “Sandra?”
“Trot down here to the end,” said I, “and make it quick.”
He came down and opened the stall door. To say he looked excited would be an understatement. And he no longer looked as if he had a socket-wrench stuffed down the front of his pants. By then it looked more like a good-sized Craftsman hammer.
179
“Gee,” said I, reaching out to touch him, “I guess maybe the effect of that bicycle seat finally wore off.”
He started fumbling at his belt. It kept sliding through his fingers. It was sort of funny, but also very sweet. I pushed his hands away and did it myself.
“Quick,” he panted. “Oh, quick. Before it goes away.”
“This guy isn’t going anywhere,” said I, although I did actually have a certain short-term storage site in mind. “Relax.”
“It was the plant,” he said. “The smell . . . oh my God, the smell . . . musky and
dark
, somehow . . . the way I’d always imagined the fields would smell in that county Faulkner wrote about, the one with the name no one can pro-nounce . . . oh Sandra, good Christ, I feel like I could
pole-vault
on this thing!”
“Shut up and change places with me,” I said. “You sit down and then I’ll—”
“To the devil with that,” he said, and lifted me up. He’s strong—a lot stronger than I ever would have guessed—and almost before I knew what was happening, we were off to the races.
As races of this sort go, it was neither the longest nor the fastest in which I have ever run, but it wasn’t bad, especially considering that Herb Porter was last laid around the time Nixon resigned, if he was telling me the truth. When he finally set me down, there were tears on his cheeks. Plus there’s this: before leaving he a. thanked me and b. kissed me. I don’t subscribe to many of the romantic ideals, I’m more of a Dorothy Parker type (“good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere”), but sweet is nice. The man who left ahead of me (pausing at the door and checking both ways before going out) seemed a lot different from the man who came stalking into my office with a load in his balls and a chip on his shoulder. That’s the kind of judgement only time can confirm, and I know very well that men after sex usually turn into exactly the same men they were before sex, but I have hopes for Herb. And I never wanted to change his life; all I wanted was to clear away as much of the crap between us as I could, so we can work as a team. I never knew how much I wanted this job until this week. How much I wanted to make a
success
of this job. If blowing all four of those guys in Times Square at high noon would help that happen, I’d run out to Game Day on 53rd and buy myself a pair of knee-pads.
Spent the rest of the day working on the joke book. How foul in concept, how scabrous in execution…and what a success it is going to be in an 180
America that still longs for the death penalty and secretly believes (not everyone, but a goodly number of citizens, I’d bet) that Hitler had the right idea about eugenics. There is no shortage of these nasty, mean-spirited boogers, but the weird thing is how many I’m making up on my own.
What’s red and white and has trouble turning corners? A baby with a javelin through its head.
What’s small, brown, and spits? A baby in a frypan.
Little girl wakes up in the hospital and says, “Doctor! I can’t feel my legs!”
Doctor replies, “That’s normal in cases where we have to amputate the arms.”
I am grossed out by my own inventiveness. Question is,
is
it mine? Or am I getting these ideas from the same place Herb Porter got his new lease on sexual life?
Never mind. Weekend’s almost here. Supposed to be warm, and if so I’m going to Cony Island with my favorite niece, our yearly rite of spring. A couple of days away from this place may help to put all questions in perspective.
And Riddley’s due back next week. I’ll be hoping to comfort him in his time of sorrow as much as possible.
Keeping a journal reminds me of what old Doc Henries used to say after he gave me a tetanus shot when I was ten: “There, Sandra, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Not at all. Not at all.
181
from the office of the editor-in-chief
TO: John
DATE 4/3/81
MESSAGE: I’ve made two calls since reading your Ms. Report. The first was to that astute business lad and all around prince of a guy, Harlow Enders. I lofted a trial balloon concerning a Zenith House hardcover, and despite dredging up a phrase which I thought would appeal to his presumed imagination (if you’re wondering, it was
“Event Publishing”), he shot it down at once. His stated reason is there is no h’cover infrastructure either at Zenith or in the larger world of Apex Corporation, but we both know better. The real issue is lack of confidence. All right, okay, fine.
Second call was to Alan Williams, a senior editor at Viking Press.
Williams is one of the best in the business, and save your nasty (“Then how do
you
know him?”) question. The answer is, from The New York Health Club racquetball tournament, where the gods of chance paired us three years ago. We have played off and on ever since. Alan says that if the Saltworthy is as good as you say it is, that we can probably swing a soft-to-hard deal, with Viking doing the h’cover and Zenith the pb. I know it isn’t precisely what we wanted, John, but think of it this way: did you ever in your life believe there might come a day when
we
would be doing the pb edition of a Viking Press book? Little Zenith? And as for the cynical Mr. Saltworthy, I think you could say his luck has changed with a vengeance. We might have been able to swing $20,000, and that much only if we’d been able to get Enders enthusiastically on board. With Viking as a partner, we may be able to score this guy a $100,000 advance. That’s my salary for almost four years.
Williams wants to see the ms. ASAP. You should take a copy over to their offices on Madison Avenue yourself. Put on a title page 182
that says something like LAST SEASON, by John Oceanby. Sorry about the cloak and dagger, but Williams thinks it’s necessary, and so do I.
Roger
PS: Make me a copy that I can take home and read over the weekend, would you?
i n t e r o f f i c e m e m o
TO: Roger
FROM: John
RE: “LAST SEASON,” by “John Oceanby”
Are you saying you set all this in motion without reading the book? That takes my breath away.
John
183
from the office of the editor-in-chief
TO: John
DATE: 4/3/81
MESSAGE: You’re my guy, John. We may have had our differences from time to time, but I’ve never doubted your editorial judgement for a single moment. If you say this is the one, this is the one. On that score, the ivy makes no difference. You’re my guy. And while I probably don’t need to tell you this, I will: no contact with James Saltworthy until we hear from Alan Williams. Okay?
Roger
i n t e r o f f i c e m e m o
TO: Roger
FROM: John
RE: Vote of confidence
To say I’m touched by your confidence in me doesn’t go far enough, boss.
Especially after the Detweiller fuck-up. Fact is, I’m sitting here at my desk and damned near blubbering on my blotter. All will be as you say. My lips are sealed.
John
PS: You do know, don’t you, that Saltworthy must have already sent the book to Viking?
184
from the office of the editor-in-chief
TO: John
DATE: 4/3/81
MESSAGE: First, no blubbering on the blotter—blotters cost money, and as you know, all expenses must now be forwarded to the parent company on a week by week basis (if we needed another sign that The End Is Near, surely that’s it). Blubber in your wastebasket…or go on down to Riddley’s former quarters and water the plant with your grateful tears.
(Yes, I know perfectly well that no one is paying the slightest attention to my strong recommendation that we all stay clear of the ivy. I could put it in writing, I suppose, but it would just be a waste of ink. Especially since I’ve been down there a time or two myself, breathing deep and drawing inspiration.)
Second, how can you call the Detweiller business a fuck-up, considering how it has turned out? Harlow Enders and Apex may not know we’re ready to turn the corner into a glorious future,
but we do!
Third, Alan Williams checked the files over there.
Last Survivor
was supposedly read (or scanned, or perhaps just shifted from the envelope it came in to the one it went back in) and rejected in November of 1978. The editor who signed off on it was one George Flynn, who left publishing to set up his own job-printing business in Brooklyn about a year ago. According to AW, and I quote, “George Flynn had the editorial antennae of a rutabaga.”
Fourth, don’t give the ms. to LaShonda. Make the copies yourself,
and remember the false title page
.
Fifth (I’m
ready
for a fifth, believe me), please no more memos until at least afternoon. I know I said “everything in writing” from here on out, but my head is starting to ache. I have one from Bill I haven’t even looked at.
Roger
185
i n t e r o f f i c e m e m o
TO: Roger
FROM: Bill Gelb
RE: Possible Bestseller
You asked for ideas, and I’ve had what might be a doozy, boss. I went over to Smiler’s earlier in the day (warning: that idiotic woman with the guitar is still in front—if she gets picked up and institutionalized, I hope the judge sends her to music school) and checked out their paperback rack. It’s a pretty good one (i.e., lots of Pocket Books, Signets, Avons, Bantams, no Zenith Houses except for one dusty Windhover that was published 2 years ago). I counted five so-called nonfiction books about aliens and/or flying saucers, and
six
on investing in the Reagan Era stock market. My idea is suppose we combined the two?
The core concept is this: a stockbroker is abducted by little gray men who first read his brainwaves, suck blood from his nasal cavities, and probe his anus — standard stuff, in other words, been-there done-that.
But then, to make up for the inconvenience, they give him stock tips based on their certain market knowledge, obtained in faster-than-light trips to the future. Most of it would be zen stuff like “Never fill your bar-row with old bricks” and “Ancient stars offer the best navigation.” This crap would, however, be spiced with more practical advice like “Never sell short in a bull market” and “In the long run, power and light stocks always rise.” We could call it
Alien Investing
. I know that at first blush the idea sounds crazy, but who would have figured a breakout bestseller called
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance?
I even have a writer in mind — Dawson Postlewaite, aka Nick Hardaway, the Macho Man himself. The stock market is Dawson’s hobby (fuck, it’s his mania, what keeps him poor and thus in our stable) and I think he’d almost do it gratis.
What do you think? And feel free to tell me I’m nuts, if that’s what you think.
Bill
186
from the office of the editor-in-chief
TO: Bill Gelb
DATE: 4/3/81
MESSAGE: I don’t think you’re nuts. No more so than the rest of us, anyway. And it’s a great title, almost a guaranteed pick-it-up-and-take-a-look on a rack of paperbacks.
Alien Investing
is hereby green-lit. On the cover I see a photo of the Stock Exchange with a space alien laid in, shooting cosmic rays (green, like the color of money) from his big black eyes. Get Postlewaite on it at once. I know he’s got a deadline on
Fresno Firestorm
, but I’ll see he gets the necessary extension.
R.
WHILE YOU WERE OUT!
Caller
Riddley Walker
For
Roger Wade
Date
April 3rd 1981
Time
12:35 PM
Message
He will be back Wednesday or Thursday of next week. Winding up mother’s affairs taking longer than he thought, There are difficulties with his brother and sister.
Mostly sister. Asks if you will water plant but not mention to J. Kenton that you are doing it. Says “hoodoo ivy make dat boy pow’ful nervous.” Whatever that means.
Message taken by
LaShonda
187
From Roger Wade’s Audio Journal, Cassette 1
This is Friday the third of April. Afternoon. Bill Gelb has come up with an idea. It’s a dandy, too. I’m not surprised. Given what’s happening, brilliance around here is almost a foregone conclusion. When I returned from lunch…with Alan Williams…what a wonderful guy he is, not in the least because he treated at Onde’s, a place that would collapse my meager expense account allowance for a month…anyway, when I got back I spied an amusing thing. Bill Gelb was sitting in his office and rolling dice on his desk. He was too absorbed to notice me noticing him. He’d roll, make a notation on one of those mini legal pads, then roll again, then make another notation. Of course we all know he shoots craps with Riddley every chance he gets, but Riddley’s in Alabama and won’t be back until the middle of next week. So what’s this about? Staying in practice? Just can’t get enough of dem bones? Some new system? All gamblers have systems, don’t they? Who the hell knows. He’s had a great idea…
Alien
Investing
, forsooth…and that earns him a little eccentric-editor time.
