Monday afternoon, Ryan summoned George into his office, where the editor-in-chief was doing bicep curls. To show off his build, Ryan wore clothes a size too small. His quads pressed like cables against his khaki pants. His biceps strained against the sleeves of a lemon yellow polo shirt, gray chest hair snaking above the collar. Next to his desk he kept a mini-stepper with resistance bands that he hopped on during calls with irate or weeping authors, times when a normal editor would have squeezed a stress ball or raked a Zen garden.
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“Hey buddy,” Ryan said, a bad start considering he’d never called George that before. “It’s too distracting having you in the office right now. Several agents have told me they won’t send us submissions as long as you’re here.”
“Which agents? The ones whose books I didn’t acquire?”
“Does it matter?” Ryan said, watching a dumbbell rise.
“It matters to me.”
Ryan lifted a weight above his head. “Anyway, we’re going to have to make today your last day.”
“Very funny.”
“Not joking.”
George grabbed the dumbbells from Ryan’s hands and dropped them with a clank against the nearest wall, ignoring the stand that held the rest of the set. “You’re firing me because an unhappy writer fabricated a story about me?”
Ryan sat at his desk and motioned for George to sit opposite him. “Not just any unhappy writer. One who sent us her novel. A novel that bears some similarity to your novel.”
George sat. He’d barely had time to enjoy his success, to savor the idea of being a published author rather than a poseur who struggled to support his family. His achievement threatened to evaporate as if it had never existed at all, his path a straight line from obscurity to notoriety. “I’ve been here thirteen years.”
“Look, I’m sorry it worked out this way.” Ryan plucked a mechanical pencil from a cup.
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“It will validate what they’re saying, that I stole her book.”
The editor-in-chief looked up. “Did you? I know I signed Saturn’s statement, but you told them we thought there was a glut of #metoo books, when actually we had decided to publish Larkin’s book. Before you unilaterally changed your mind. You never did tell me why you changed your mind.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And you never showed me your novel. But I’m sure you had a good reason.” Ryan touched the tip of the pencil to his finger.
“You want to read it?” George said. “I’m happy to send you a copy.”
“I’d like to, yes. I want to see what kind of book gets a million-dollar advance. And if it’s as different from Larkin’s as you say, I’ll be able to defend you better and to defend the company better.”
“Fine.” On the desk was a perfectly ordered Rubik’s cube that Ryan didn’t allow anyone else in the office to so much as breathe on. “You really want me out of here today?”
“By end of day. Just hand off whatever you’re working on to me. I’ll take care of it. Do it myself or parcel it out to the others. And it’s not what I want,” Ryan said. “It’s what’s best for the company. We’ll just say you decided to write full-time.”
“Is this Sandy’s idea?” The managing editor had never liked him.
“Nope. Sandy thought we ought to wait until it was clear whether the allegation was true. Though I guess I can tell you now that she never wanted me to hire you in the first place. She was pushing for another applicant, a woman with more publishing experience. But you went to my alma mater.”
It was hard to believe so much time had passed since then. The offices looked much the same as they had the day of his interview. Cubicles for everyone except Ryan and Sandy. Peapod had advertised for an assistant editor. Although George had earned an English degree three years before, he’d been working nights as a bartender and writing fiction during the day. All he had to show for his efforts were a few publications in literary journals no one read. He told himself a career in publishing would give him more satisfaction than mixing mint drinks, and would allow him to shepherd good literature into the world, even if it wasn’t his. He wasn’t giving up his dream, but he was hedging his bets. He read a grammar handbook in preparation for the interview. When he arrived at Peapod, Sandy stuck him in a dusty cubicle. He took a copyediting test on a computer, sitting on a chair with a back that collapsed if he put the least bit of pressure on it. He wasn’t sure how he’d done.
When Sandy interviewed him, she asked whether he was aware of any systemic problems in publishing. He managed to stammer something about racial bias. Not having worked in the industry, he’d never given it much thought. She seemed skeptical that his experience in a bar prepared him for a position where no one had time to hold his hand or train him, and where his mistakes would be visible to readers who never hesitated to email and nibble about every spelling and usage error they found. After the interview, she walked him to Ryan’s office, sighing as she introduced him. “He did better than I would have expected on the test, but tests aren’t everything, as I’m sure you would agree, Mr. Dunn,” she said, forcing him to weigh in against himself.
George resigned himself to not getting the job. At least the chair he was offered in Ryan’s office wasn’t broken. He unbuttoned his corduroy sport jacket and squeezed a balled-up tissue in the pocket. He hoped the interview would end quickly.
“Don’t mind Sandy. She can get a bit pissy when she doesn’t get her way,” Ryan said, when the managing editor was gone. He asked George whether Professor Arnos still spiked his Coke with so much gin it was the color of ginger ale, and if Professor Lilly still called male students “Champ” and female ones “Doll,” and whether the cafeteria still served a meatloaf that gave you the runs for a week. The only question related to publishing was what were George’s favorite books. At the end of the interview, Ryan hired him. The dusty cubicle became his, a year passing before there was money in the budget to replace the broken chair.
After Saturn agreed to buy Up the Hill, George had considered quitting. He’d pictured the party they would throw for him on his last day: his book title written on a cake; the required joke about how he would become so famous he’d forget them all; and a present they’d all chipped in on—tickets to a hot Broadway show or a gift certificate to a trendy SoHo restaurant. He imagined Sandy saying, “I’m sorry we never got to know each other better. Ryan was right about you. You’re a great editor.”
He’d decided to hold on to the job because selling one book was no guarantee he’d sell another. He’d never foreseen he’d be let go, a claim of theft all anyone would remember.
George scrubbed his computer of personal information and backed up his contacts on a thumb drive. Pulling up the email he’d sent P.J. Larkin, he reread it, stopping where he’d complimented her for including the point of view of the victimizer, his finger poised to delete the message. In the end he left it, convinced he hadn’t done anything wrong. He secured the manuscripts he’d been working on with rubber bands and carried them to Ryan’s office, dropping them outside the door. The office was empty.
He walked to the desk and picked up the Rubik’s cube. What would he get out of scrambling it? A moment’s revenge? A story he might tell years from now, after the shame of his current situation had worn off? Ryan had once given him a chance, despite George’s lack of experience. He’d promoted George from assistant to associate to senior editor. For years, they’d worked well together. Why burn a bridge he might need? But then he remembered Ryan asking if he’d plagiarized Larkin’s book and he tightened his grip on the puzzle and twisted, one turn for each year of his life he’d given Peapod.
R.L. Maizes’s debut novel, ”Other People’s Pets,” won the 2021 Colorado Book Award in Fiction. She is also the author of the short story collection ”We Love Anderson Cooper.” She lives in Niwot, Colorado, with her husband, Steve, and her muses: Rosie, a dog who spent her first year homeless in South Dakota, and the ghost of Arie the Cat.
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