DADA
CHAPTER 1
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 me.
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 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 Kentucky, by Louise Mayfield. I was afraid of this.
"Please turn to the first page that is marked,” she instructed.
It is the title page. A rather large note is stuck to it.
"If you could just read it."
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 bore 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. How could he have missed it?
"If I hadn't looked over the books 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 though out of my head.
"This childish behavior is something that has gone too far. You cannot keep up this foolishness."
"Did you check the other note?" It was the perfect comeback. Any trace of a possible giggling fit over.
"What other note?” There were a few others throughout the text, all those were 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 here 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, in a particular subject. and 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?’ “ 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 tomorrow.” Her grey-tinged light brown hair bobbled slightly as she pointed her chin towards the door. Her gaze is barely containing the trace of 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.
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. 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 family vibe has been replaced with Anita's corporate know-how from her years in the computer business. 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 violets 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 manager, 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 said.
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 my projects while we talk? I really need to make sure I’ve closed everything before I leave." I sit down and open up 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.
"You aren't irreplaceable. But you are very good, and you do have seniority."
"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 never won 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." was Bennie's response.
"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 more. 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 here how 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 soon."
"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 over fifteen 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.
