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.