Dada: Chapter Two

When I first came to Lexington to go to college, everyone seemed to tell me that the traffic would be terrible.  Both newcomers and longtime residents told me the same.  I would find it confusing and even impossible at times.  For some reason, I didn't have too much of a problem.  The traffic flows just seemed to come to me.  The patterns of lights and lane changes just came naturally to me, which is strange, considering how little I had driven before then.  Even with multiple changes over the years, nothing seemed to phase me.  I mean, I only checked the traffic info before I left work just to make sure there weren't any accidents.  As is, I had missed most of the evening rush hour and would still make my destination within the usual twelve-or-so minutes.

That is if my car keeps up.  Ever since I got rid of my mother’s hand-me-down and I got this one, I have had problems with it.  The transmission gave out in less than a year.  Batteries barely last more than a few months, and no, I am not the problem.  Power just seems to leak out.  For the last few weeks, there has been a short or something involving the air conditioning and the radio.  I can’t have both of them on at the same time, at least not when I first start the car.  I can start one, but then I must wait to turn on the other one, or the power cuts off to both and I can’t run either for a few more minutes.  Fortunately, I can get by without either for a bit, as my stop is just another street or so away.

That stop would be the Pulse, or rather Pulp Sensations, my favorite comic book and game store in the city.  Sure, it might not be the biggest or oldest, but it just seemed to sing to me when I first got here.  It was a little farther away from campus then I would've liked, but that meant fewer distractions from other students. Besides, it had something going for it that the others just didn't have-- the great game selection.   Specifically, their role-playing games.  Sure, they have the regular collectible card games, and even quite a few board games, but the shear number of books they have, even the older ones, could just not be beat.

  When I first got to Lexington, the Pulse was only one of four comic shops in the city.  Today, there are still four, but only two of them are the same.  In all my years here, at least three others have opened and closed, but the Pulse still remains strong.  A few years ago, they decided to focus more on the pop culture side of things, rather than just their comic book cornerstone.  That's when they started branding under their nickname, rather than their full title.  As I drive by their very full parking lot, the old sign is still there, smaller than the larger neon one above it. 

I knew I was going to be too late to park in front of the store.  I always try to get here early on Wednesdays, when the new comics come out, but because of  Hemphill and Bennie, I was about thirty minutes later than usual.  This means I have to park down the street, at the small strip mall, and walk back up.  At least it's spring.  I would never do this in winter when it would be dark shortly after five.  Too dangerous to walk beside the street and cross at the corner.  At least I will get some exercise in.  Not that I need it.  Well, maybe a little.

     The center has a few local fast food places and a convenience store, as well as a tanning-and- nail salon, but no real shopping.  Still, I park away from the storefronts, so as to give real customers the spots they need.  I should be fine, as long as I buy something when I get back.  I needed to pick up a few things anyway, and this store was only one of three in the city that I have found that carry my chocolate bells, individually.  Sure, I could buy them by the box, but I would eat too many all at once and get sick.  And fat.  I guess I do need to exercise more. 

It's a fairly quick walk down to Pulse.  One spot had opened up in the lot, only to be grabbed a few seconds later as I saunter by.  Free parking is always at a premium  around here.  No one is crowding the door any more either.  Looks like the first crowds have already left.  I ignore the new comics stand that they recently started placing up front as I walk in. Makes for poor foot traffic flow.  Crowds still hanging on around them, and I already have mine pulled for when I'm ready to leave.  No, I go straight to the game room in the back. Wednesdays aren't just when new comics come out; it is also the day that they post slots for the upcoming weekend gaming sessions.  Spots get taken rather fast for some games, and I didn't want to miss my opportunity.

The sign up sheets were on a bulletin board right next to the cash register in the rear room.  I quickly scanned them looking for the spots I always get.

“Excuse me, sir.  How may I help you?”  a young man popped up beside me, before I could notice or even acknowledge him.

“Do your work here? Mark is usually the one back here. On Wednesdays.  I don’t recognize you,” I reply.

“I'm sorry, sir.  I don't know any Mark who works here.  I’m Nate.  Can I assist you with the sign up sheets?”  What a polite, insistent young man.

“I don't know.  I think I need to talk with … ,” I start, only to be interrupted.

  “Here let me help Chris out, and you can go back to the counter.”  It was Ray, the store manager.  He was of friend of the store owner, Jeffrey Lindon.  He asked to help out one busy day soon after I got to Lexington, and he hasn’t been able to leave since.

“Ray, glad to see you.  Who's the new guy, and where's Mark?”

“Chris, Mark left last week.  He graduated, and he already has a job lined up in Cincy.  Saturday was his last day.  We threw him a party and everything.”  I guess I knew that Mark was getting ready to graduate.  The thought never had really entered my mind.  Just thought he would stay, like Ray.

Cue the guilt trip.

“Oh.  I had to miss this weekend.  Heavy work load.” Everyone had to triple check the facts for a history of a very influential political family that had gotten moved up two months to cash in on a recent development.  A rising political star had killed her husband with the help of her boyfriend, but she had put all the blame on him.  The boyfriend later killed himself.  However, his sister found "proof" that he was murdered, although that proof came from a psychic, and that meant changing the text and printing the book early.  Legal needed extra time for clearance once editing was done, so we all had to work overtime to get it finished.  I barely had time to pop in last week, never mind any gaming.

“That still doesn't explain why there aren't any sign up sheets for any of the Chronicles of Darkness or World of Darkness game-lines.” I ask. 

“Well, you and Mark were the only two who showed up every time, every week.  Without him, we decided to go every three-to-four weeks, until we can build up a bigger audience.  We sent you an email about it.”  Ray responded.

  “You know I rarely check my emails.  Not that often, when it’s not for work,”  I say as I pull out my phone.  I got it as a bonus when I gave myself a new computer for Christmas.  Hemphill wanted to make sure she could reach everyone quickly, even if there was no good reason to do so.  She all but demanded everyone have one.  Strange, she wouldn’t help anyone buy one, although I was just about the only employee who didn’t have one. I still wasn't used to all the functions and apps yet.

  But there it was, a notice about the party and the new sign up schedule.  I had missed it.  Now what was I going to do.  I had been playing these characters since high school, when the older brother of one of my friends gave his old supplements to us, well me, when he went to college.  I don't remember where he got them, as most of the game lines were out of print by then.  Although he technically gave them to his brother, they were more my kind of thing, and I kept them even as we all used them.  We were way too young for them, but there was a kind of danger we liked about it.  I was the only one who kept at it well into college.  I kept my friends' characters going as we drifted apart, keeping them a part of the action, and I kept playing.  Now what was I going to do. I’m repeating myself again.

Dada: Chapter 1A

     I close the door and walk slowly down the hall to my desk.  Hemphill’s secretary has already left herself.  I guess Hemphill didn’t need her any more today.  She gets to go home early while I get the riot act.  Most of the floor space at Blue Homestead Press is open, more or less, connected by two sets of parallel halls.  Mrs. Hemphill's executive office is near the middle of the first floor on the left side, while editing is in the main back on the other side of the building.  

Blue Homestead Publishing started as a vanity press project by Aaron Hemphill, and his wife Anita, back when he was just a state attorney in Winchester.  He was interested in history, and he also had unlimited access to much of the county's public records.  He began to collect and collate certain records of soldiers from various wars together into cohesive wholes and self-published them.  Soon, he was able to get collections set up from nearby counties as well.  It soon became successful enough to spread out into other authors, and large enough to set up a headquarters on the east side of Fayette county when he became a judge.  He was too busy to run it day-to-day, so Anita took over most of the duties.  She used her experience as an English teacher to great effect.  He still writes a book every few years, but Blue Homestead makes most of its money now on local authors, including the occasional crackpot like Ms. Mayfield.  They used to have their four kids work here too, but they moved on, with the youngest moving out just after I got here.  He was the only one I got to know.  The others I have really only met in passing, and barely that.  The former family vibe has been replaced with Anita's corporate know-how from her years in the computer business, where she worked after her brief time in education.  Things haven't been as friendly since.

At least she wasn’t wearing her usual perfume today.  That stuff is so strong, the fumes would fill up the hallways even if she never left her office suite most of the day.  A mix of roses, citrus, and maybe coconut.  The violet and plum mix she was wearing today is nowhere near as bad.  It is barely noticeable after a few feet.  Almost forgettable too.  Still, an improvement on that other scent.

  It looks like everyone else has left for the day, which makes sense since it is just past five.  Wait, not everyone, as someone is standing by my desk.  Only Tim Davidson, the managing editor, gets an office.  The regular people, like me, just have desks, not even dividers or cubicles for privacy.  It interferes with ‘the flow’ they say.  Now, I have Bernard ‘Bennie’ Rogers down from Resources (both financial and human, why waste money when you can combine the two) waiting for me, and just after my run-in with Hemphill.  This can't be good.

  “Chris, glad I caught you before you left.  We need to talk, son.”  he says.

  Son!?  He's barely ten years older than me.  Sure, he is further along a career path, married with two children, the oldest already in high school, graying temples, but ‘son?’  Okay, we would never have been in school together, but we are still in the same generation.  Kind of.

  “Can I just check on some projects while we talk?  I really need to make sure I’ve closed everything before I leave.”  I sit down and start my computer.  I already had closed everything, but I needed an excuse to hurry him along.  He steps back a bit to give me some privacy.

  “You have had another run-in with Hemphill.  What does this make, three times in the last year?”  he asks.

  ‘More like fifteen months, but yeah.”  I click on my latest project, a memoir of an actor from well before my, or Bennie's, generation.

  “She really does have grounds to discipline you.  She checked with HR before your meeting.  It was touch-and-go for a moment on whether she could actually fire you,” he grumbles.

“Then it is a good thing that I am so good at my job.” I respond, rather nonchalantly.  I fake going over the life of a so-so actor, originally from Covington.  Well-liked and connected, but no one ever gave him a descent chance to show his stuff.  He went into semi-retirement, but he wasn't forgotten.  Typical Hollywood trajectory.

“You aren't irreplaceable.  But you are very good, and you do have seniority.”  For Bennie, I guess that’s a strong complement, even though the sentence structure is a little off.

“I've been here five years, six if you count my time as an intern.  That's longer than you, at least.” I read on, or at least pretend to.  The actor got a small, but brilliant, role in an art-house movie that swept the smaller awards, even though few saw it and he himself didn’t win anything, although he was nominated.  That role got him more work, and now he will be featured in an action super-hero flick this fall.  Can’t remember if he’s a villain or second-fiddle hero support.  Eh, not important.  Having a hot granddaughter tearing it up on Broadway doesn't hurt either.  It was Andrew Hemphill, the youngest of the bunch and now a Hollywood agent, who got us this book.  Still not sure how he got it, or even why he decided the entertainment industry was the best match for him.  Anyway, it looks like it could be a big hit for Blue Homestead.

“You really might want to think about taking some of your unused vacation time, preferably in the next two weeks.  It should take some heat off of you,” Bennie chimes back. 

“What do you mean?  It's almost time for the start of the fall push.”  I close up my project, and quickly check into the traffic and weather site, one of the few approved for outside access, even in off-hours.  “We will need everyone here for that.”

  “First, we are expecting a few new interns this summer.  They will be more than enough to help out at the start.  Second, you would be the only one in editing taking off, if you go in early June.  Most everyone else will go in July and August with their families.  You're single.  You could go at any time,” he reasons.

  “I have never needed vacation time.   Why can't I just work like I always do?  We will need all hands on deck this coming month.”   Normally, we print two or three books a month.  However, for May and October, the months before the big trade shows and buying seasons, we can go up to five or so.  This year, Hemphill is going for eight.  We have never tried to publish that many in so short a time.  We will never meet the October deadlines with so many titles.  Can’t be sure what Hemphill is thinking.  Her husband can’t be fully aware of what she’s planning.  He would never have tried to do so much out of the blue.  Sure, the finances are probably good enough to handle the overhead, but we don’t have the manpower and skill to do so much.  Not in such a limited amount of time.

  “Son,” Not again with that! "you are in serious trouble.  Anita will fire you for your next offense, even a minor one.  Just take some time off, get you off her mind for awhile. Then, when you get back, you can show her how much you've changed.  Come see me no later than Friday to schedule your time off.  Understand.” He talks down to me, as if he’s some kind of father figure and I’m a misbehaving child.

“Yes.  I will be up there no later than Friday."  I close everything off and shut my computer down again.  “Are we done here?  I really need to get going.”

“Sure.  Remember.  Friday.  And keep out of trouble."  he says to me as he walks to the rear entrance and the executive private parking lot.

I turn and walk the other way, to the main entrance and the front parking lot where all of us ‘regular workers’ must park.  I check the time again.  Instead of getting to leave early, I am now leaving almost twenty minutes late.   I walk over to my car.  I was fortunate enough to get a spot that gets late afternoon shade, so my car wouldn’t get as hot.  I won’t have to wait a few minutes to get it cooled off.  Don’t want to have to wait even one minute longer before I leave here.

Dada: Chapter One

    Sweat is starting to trickle down the back of my neck.  Why is the heat even on?  It's late-May and in the low 70's, not January.  I swear she must be part lizard to have it so hot in here.  Do not show your discomfort.  She is doing this just to unnerve me.  Just stay calm.  The meeting was supposed to have started at 4:30, over ten minutes ago.  Do not look at the time, again, either.  She had this ‘important’ phone call that she couldn't ignore.  She will probably say it was an author, or an agent, or some other business-related matter.  Can't tell from what she is saying.  It's probably nothing important.  She is just doing this to unnerve me.  I am starting to repeat myself.  It might be working.

She is covering the receiver with her hand.  Finally, we are getting somewhere. 

  “It won't be much longer, Mr. Burton.”

I try not to fidget for another minute.  She finally puts down the phone, for real.

“I am sorry for the wait, but you know how business is sometimes.” Yeah, I do Mrs. Hemphill.

“Of course,” I reply.

“Good.  I have something for you to look over.  It shouldn't take too long for you to read.” 

“Well, that is my job description,” I try to joke.  Technically, I am part of the editing department.  My title is ‘fact-checker’, but I do a lot of proofreading as well.  The department only has eight full time positions, with about five or six part timers, so everyone seems to do a little of everything, at times.  “What is it you need me to look at?”

She bends down and picks up a rather thick galley proof.  “I think you might already recognize this,” she says as she hands the book to over.

I do recognize it.  The cover is a generic looking barn, typical of anywhere in central Kentucky, or the entire Midwest even.  Brick red board with touches of white, with miscellaneous barrels and hay bales stacked in front of it.  There’s also a clear glass pitcher filled with a murky brown liquid, some of it spilling onto a perfectly white plate.  The title is in an incongruous blue.  Sweet Success:  The History of Sorghum in Central Kentucky, by Louise Mayfield.  I was afraid of this.   

“Please turn to the first page that is marked,” she instructs.

It is the title page.  A rather large note is stuck to it.

“If you could just read it.”  Rather insistant, aren’t you.

I don't have to look at it to read it.  I was the one who wrote it. 

This work, although factually correct in most instances, is a boring chore of a book.  No one in the right minds would want to read anything as dull and misplaced as this. In fact, anyone who would want to read this is a complete ...

  

“That will be enough of that, Mr. Burton.  Did you know this copy was one of those that were to be given to Ms. Mayfield for personal use?”

“No, I did not know that,” I reply, rather sheepishly.  That copy was supposed to have gone to the department manager, Tim, first, and he would have removed it, like he usually does with my silly notes.  How could he have missed it?

“If I hadn't looked over this first, who knows what would have happened.  How could you do something so disrespectful, again?”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Hemphill, I was just having a little fun.  You must admit, though, that the subject matter is somewhat dull.  In fact, who ever heard of a book on food without mentioning one use of it in a recipe.  I mean, really”

To be honest, I’ve had sorghum a few times, and it is definitely an acquired taste.  Sure, it can help sweeten a few things, but there is this bitterness that can linger.   In fact, the first time I tried a sorghum candy, I spit it out after a few seconds.  I can barely contain a giggle at the thought.  Better not try to tempt fate, or Hemphill.  Push that thought out of my head.

“This childish behavior is something that has gone too far.  You cannot keep up this foolishness.”  She’s really on the rampage today.  Time for the rebuttal.

“Did you check the other note?” It’s the perfect comeback.  Any trace of a possible giggling fit over.

“What other note?” There were a few others throughout the text, each one of them was entirely necessary and brought up factual points, but I needed just one in particular.

“The one at the back, in the bibliography.  Mayfield used seven cookbooks as references,” I talk as I flip through the galley to the right page before returning it to Hemphill.  “One was originally written in Mandarin Chinese, predominately for the Hong Kong market.  She used a comment in the forward of it directly in her two chapters on the shipping of sorghum across the Pacific from Kentucky to China.  However,” I pause to add emphasis, “the North American English edition of the book doesn't contain that quote.  Only the English edition for the European market does.  They used a different translation, there.  Mayfield got the quote from that edition, but mentioned the American one in her references.  It is a mistake, but maybe only a minor one.  Still, it needs to be corrected before final printing.  She probably got a student make sure that the  translation matched up with the original source, instead of checking it herself.  She didn’t cover her tracks and wound up getting it mixed up.”

Many of our authors are university students using us to get their work published, after their own schools had passed on them.  Others are regional authors, trying to catch some local interest on a particular subject, who have students help ‘write’ their books for them.  I actually did some work on one, back in the day, for extra cash.  Either way, about a third of our titles are not written by professionals, or even semi-professionals.

“Yes.  We did notice.  That is why you aren't being reprimanded today.”  Actually, what would you call this if not a ‘reprimand?’   For that matter, why use ‘we?’ It is just you making the final decision, that any one else. “ You may have saved us some valuable time and money.  However,” she pauses to add her own emphasis, “do not let me catch you doing this again.  This cannot become a habit.  I suggest you leave early, for today.  We will discuss your further assignments, and consequences, tomorrow.”  Her grey-tinged light brown hair bobbled slightly as she pointed her chin towards the door.  Her gaze is barely containing the menace that she actually wanted to give me.  Why wasn’t she harder on me?

I get up to leave, just barely noticing that it is already past five o'clock.