Last Calls and Lucky Charms

IV

IVMonica Shafer wore a short red dress, red heels and swayed her hips. All the men noticed, especially the ones that answered to her. That’s what she counted on. She was mercenary with her sexuality. She stood five six, but always had four inch heels on, to look down at everyone. With her soft blue eyes and high cheekbones. Contrary to the way she made men squirm, she was in a happy monogamous marriage to the News editor, Pete Shafer. It was about power. She had it.

“Urban,” he looked up from his desk that was as sloppy as the slob he was, forgive the alliteration. He was scared. That’s what the boss counted on. “I can see why you should be writing fiction,” she dropped Monday’s column on the desk. Book’s desk was back to back and he listened without letting on. There was more red ink than black ink on the two pages. s**t.

“I-I wil,” came the sheepish response, “s-someday,”--silly pipedream.

It did not placate the angry boss. “That’s great, but don’t start with your sport’s commentary. “Dan Mattingly has never won an MVP.”

Hal picked up the copy. “Whoops.” Don Mattingly.

“Whoops’ is right. Another thing, I’m sick to death of baseball and it’s only a cold day in April. Find me something new!” He was getting around to something else.

“Of course Mon, no problem,” she wasn’t listening.

“Am I Professor Shafer? Am I your high school English teacher?” Oh she was on a roll. Even Booker had to grin.

The writer swallowed. “Um, no ma’am.”

“Then no more messing around Hal,” the spat order was deafening to the hungover brain. She leaned over his desk which made him more squirmy. He about crapped his pants. “Get this rewritten, flawlessly edited in thirty minutes.” She stood up.

“Absolutely,” but he was speaking to her disappearing hips. Her office was about thirty feet away. Hal pulled the paper out of typewriter and put in a blank sheet.

“Don’t mind the boss,” Book turned around and came close to his friend. He wore a nice silk black suit, black shirt and black tie. Yep, Bertram B. Booker always looked good. “Scuttlebutt is that she and Pete had a fight.”

“Oh?” Hal laughed. “Serpent in Eden?”

“Can you finish all this crap by six?” The writer checked his Star Trek clock.

“Um, I guess, why?” Cause I owe him a round, stupid!

“Come shoot darts with me,” seeing how early it was and as long as Monica didn’t get her panties in a bunch any more it was likely he’d make it.

“Promise not to gamble on it?” Hal never won. His vision was fuzzy after a few.

Book crossed his heart. “I swear I won’t take your money.” They laughed and the smaller man’s demeanor lightened. Book was always good for that.

“Leave me alone so I can work and I’ll be there.” Booker patted his back.

“You’re a peach.” He turned back to his desk.

Another error! “Damn.” He reached for another blank sheet. None. “Damn.” He stood up.

“Get me a ream while you’re in there, good buddy.” Yeah, it was his turn and Book wasn’t stupid. The pasty little sportswriter stood.

“Right.” Hal stretched. “No paper. No words and no paper. No words on no paper. No words!” He got excited.

“What?” Booker asked.

“I think I got a sonnet,” Hal grabbed a pen and small spiral pad and began to write as he walked. “All the words that I had to say have been said,” and he went down the aisle of Monica’s army of sportswriters towards the hall where the copy room was. “All the tales have told...oh that’s good.”

“What’s good?” Another writer, Chuck or Chad asked.

“I think I have a sonnet,” Hal repeated and kept writing while walking, bad idea. The other man disappeared. Coming out of the copy room Justine was reading her pen name’s tenth death threat of the day, ream under her arm, she didn’t look up either.

All the Words have gone away

The Pages are empty

The pen is dry

There is nothing left to say

Rejections have killed the writer

All the Words have gone away

“Oh you are sick,” she laughed. “Liberals.” The letter writer had complimented her by comparing her Margaret Thatcher and her writing to Peggy Noonan’s, Reagan’s speechwriter.

So needless to say, neither Duchane nor Urban were paying attention. She walked right into the scrawny writer. Pad, envelope, ream, pen and letter went flying and they wound up on their butts. The two coworkers looked at each other embarrassed. They finally started to get up. “I’m so sorry,” Hal begged forgiveness. He picked up her letter and the envelope. “Are you alright?” He felt ashamed. So did she.

“I think I should have been looking where I was going, I’m fine. Are you?” The political commentator picked up his pad and pen. “I think this is yours.”

“And this is,”--he stopped when he realized Justine was reading his sonnet.

“Did you write this?” she asked, holding it out. She studied the writer’s exhausted face. The unmade up face almost smiled at him.

“Erm...yes.” They traded and she got her ream. They let some coworkers pass by.

“You wrote this walking from the sports desk to here?” They traded looks and then Hal looked at his drivel, quite ashamed.

“Yeah, I know it’s not very good,”--Justine cut him off.

“No it’s really good.” A halfhearted smile appeared on our heroine’s face. No one ever saw her smile. They straightened up.

“More like the job feeds writer’s block.” He thought of the three, almost four years he’d worked there. It was hell. “Hmmm. Feeds writer’s block...I should save that.” He wrote it down.

Justine almost smirked. “Don’t give up.” Cause I listened to that so well.

Hal shrugged. “I’ll get a story published when you get elected.”

“Touché. Is that the office rumor? I’m so political I need to be elected somewhere?” He was right. She’d like that.

“Nah. Your pal Kelli dated,” that was a strong word for it, “my friend Book for a while. It came up one day at the bar. She called you a future governor.” In my dreams maybe.

“Well, keep writing like that and you’ve got a better shot at being a published writer,” Justine turned and went.

“And...,” she heard behind her.

Justine took the left to her cubicle. Unfortunately, as there were only two political columnists at a really big Oberon Community Newspapers, they sat where there was room--on opposite sides of the building. She barely knew the liberal one, Celine Bohner, who sat on the far side of the other paper published out of that office, the Cannonville News. The building was actually in Cannonville, not Rose. One Rose City daily, one Cannonville town biweekly.

More unfortunately was that when the previous owner, Vladimir Oberon hired her the only space personnel could find was right outside his major office. Though it was annoying under Oberon, when his nephew took over, upon Vlad’s massive coronary, it got worse. Mac was an oversexed overgrown child who wanted her bad and she detested him.

The political columnist grabbed a pen a post it and wrote a note. ‘Friday’s column, Liberal Death Threats.’ That made her laugh. “It’s an idea.”

“I saw a bumper sticker today for Dukakis,” a voice came from the other hall. Damn. “Maybe you should make that a column.” A powerful over scented frame leaned on her desk.

She looked at the man who signed her checks. “Never happen.” He laughed. Behind him was his outer office, one desk on the left where Lenor, the matronly administrative assistant he had inherited with the paper who really did all the work and on the right two smaller desks where the twin ‘secretaries,’ Yvette and Brianna did their makeup and nails respectively. They weren’t there for their typing skills. Mac was a man of passions, like Uncle ‘Bad Vlad’ Oberon. Beyond the ladies was a closed frosted glass door with Mac’s full name on it: Theodore Roosevelt Maguire Jr. He was a powerfully built man who made forty look like thirty.

“Whatever. I don’t want you calling him ‘socialist’ anymore. It’s too harsh.” She cackled. “Why can’t you steer clear of this jingoistic crap?”

“Well, you say not to tell the truth, but every time I’ve done that for five years it has created word of mouth and boosted sales for both of your papers. That’s why your uncle hired me,” Justine snapped back, completely unafraid.

“You leave my uncle out of this!” he recoiled at the phrase. They might have the same passions and same sins but Vladimir Oberon knew how to sell papers, Theodore Roosevelt Maguire did not.

“I will not.” She stood up to her full height. Not his six foot two but she made him feel small. “He hired me. He signed my contract. An iron clad contract to protect me and my one clear voice from your bullshit because my column is honest, factual and sells papers.” Mental note, name tomorrow’s column One Clear Voice.

“One year, three months and seven days I can fire your a*s for insubordination.” Mac rattled off the number like Rain Man. If he ever used his Harvard education that would really be something.

“Keep making reference to my buttocks and I’ll sue your a*s for s****l harassment so fast that those two trollops behind you will have whiplash.

“If she doesn’t, I will.” In a gray pantsuit Lenor stood in the doorway with her short gray haired sixty-year-old head. She had her arms crossed. The older woman stepped aside and gestured for him to retreat to his office.

“b***h,” Mac hissed and too angry to speak he trudged past the older woman and slammed his inner office door. There was the sound of applause from the general direction of the lady’s room.

The columnist’s friend Kelli appeared from there. A bit chunky, blonde and freckled and in a full green dress with matching open toed shoes. Justine sat and put her feet on her desk, leaning back on her hands. “Well said.” She looked at her bubbly friend and nodded.

“A bit, I’ve ripped him better.” Kelli and Lenor laughed.

“Keep wearing that engagement ring and every man in this office will be afraid of you, not just him,” Her friend went on. That ruffled Justine’s feathers but her friend was right. It was better to be ignored than feared.

“He still thinks you’re taken,” Lenor argued. “Most men here do.”

“I need to write,” she opened the ream. “Lots of column.”

“And more ammo,” the blonde picked up a mail bag from in front of the desk. “An entire bag of letters address to your non de pleur.

“Damn.” The older woman went back to work.

Kelli put the bag down. “Price of fame pal.”

Justine ignored her and typed ‘One Clear Voice.’