Hot Desk: A Novel - 5

Jane had walked for what felt like miles in the wrong direction after exiting the subway station; although she had given herself plenty of time, now she was going to be late. Clutching the piece of paper with the magazine office address written on it, she hurried down the quiet street, heading, as instructed by the second doorman she had asked, toward the water. She didn’t have enough time to take off her oversize blazer, though she was suddenly sweating under her best shirt, a red velour button-down that Jane regretted as much as her pointy black ankle boots, which pinched with every step. What had seemed chic and professional this morning now felt wrong as she passed the stately buildings and women in fur coats who looked neither overdressed nor too warm. Smoothing the paper out, Jane confirmed the address of an imposing town house that resembled a museum. Beyond its gray stone facade, the street ended in a cobbled cul-de-sac. Over an iron railing, Jane could make out the bright twinkle of the East River.

Professor Marshall had never visited the East River Review , but he had assured Jane that his other former student, East River Review editor Larry Parker, would welcome a fellow Penn State grad and writer. In fact, Professor Marshall had arranged for a small stipend when Jane was accepted as an unpaid intern, the good news relayed on a phone call from Larry after she had mailed back a thicket of questions and assignments dutifully filled out in black ink, not blue. Larry had made Professor Marshall proud by parlaying his creative writing workshop stories into a well-reviewed collection published last year. Jane knew that the professor expected her to be his next success story. In her Guess purse, recently purchased for this occasion, Jane had the leather-bound notebook she carried with her everywhere. She slipped her hand into the purse and touched the notebook’s cover, cool and reassuring. The East River Review sign was understated enough that you had to be looking for it. Stone steps to the lower level curved to reveal a deep blue door, cracked open. Jane squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. You have an appointment , she told herself firmly. You are supposed to be here .

When she pushed the door fully open, Jane could better hear the clacking of typewriters and murmur of voices. She stepped down another few stairs into the almost damp air of the basement office while heads swiveled toward her from desks that lined both sides of a narrow room.

“Hi. I’m looking for Larry Parker?” Jane addressed the space in general. The typing clatter slowed, then resumed as a man in oversize tortoiseshell glasses and a pink short-sleeved shirt leaped out of his chair.

“It’s just Parker,” he corrected her, holding out his hand and looking her up and down.

“Jane Kinloch.” Jane couldn’t remember if she had ever seen a man in a pink shirt before. Unlikely in Fishtown, Pennsylvania.

“How’s old Don doing?” Parker kept shaking Jane’s hand.

It took Jane a moment to identify Don as Professor Marshall, which was what she had always called him and would forever call him. “He’s fine,” she answered. “I haven’t seen him much since I graduated last year.” She had met Professor Marshall for one awkward lunch when he had urged her to apply for the East River Review internship and once more when she had thanked him for the opportunity. Professor Marshall had been Jane’s most influential professor, moving the class to tears while reciting King Lear and singling her out for praise, then accepting her into his senior writing workshop and bolstering her confidence. But in the ordinary setting of a restaurant, he was just a man who fussed over his veal piccata and asked about her family. Jane didn’t like it. Still, he expected “big things” from her, as he told her more than once.

“I was glad to hear from him,” Parker said, finally relinquishing Jane’s hand. “He was raving about you.”

Jane blushed and shook her head. “He assigned some of your stories in class,” she countered.

“I’ll have to mail him another signed copy of the collection, now that it’s out in paperback,” Parker mused. “Well, let me give you the grand tour!”

There were five other people in the small office. Light came in from the open door behind her and a high, barred window over the stairs to outside, but as they moved down the slim aisle between the desks, the room darkened. It was crowded with bookcases and boxes and posters of past magazine covers lining the walls on each side above the desks. “This is our associate editor, Jonathan.” Jonathan was on the phone but raised his hand in greeting. He had longish hair and a gray-speckled mustache. “This is our office IBM PC.” Parker looked expectantly at Jane, who examined the squat beige machine and murmured a sound that she hoped conveyed awe. “Assistant editor Ellen.” Ellen wheeled her chair around to peer at Jane, said a brusque hello, wheeled her chair back in position, and began typing aggressively. “Voilà!” Parker continued. “Our copy machine. It’s broken.” Taped to the copy machine was a piece of paper on which someone had scrawled, “I PREFER NOT TO.”

“You’ve caught a rare sighting of our art director, Paco.” Paco was sorting photographs on a small table near a back room. He bowed showily to Jane. “And the famous Deedle Duffin, poetry editor, of course,” Parker announced. Jane had no idea who Deedle Duffin was, but she smiled politely as he stood up and looked her over.

“Well done, Parker,” he said. “Truly you have outdone yourself this year.”

“Leave her alone, Deedle, you lech,” Ellen called out.

“Can’t a man admire the view?” Deedle protested. He was squat and beige like the PC. Jane kept her smile steady.

“Here we have one of your cohorts!” Parker gestured to a handsome Asian boy wearing large headphones attached to a tape recorder and writing intently onto a lined yellow pad. “Drew Kim.” He tapped Drew, who slipped the headphones off one ear.

“Lee,” Drew said patiently.

“Drew Lee,” Parker repeated. “One of our three new interns. He’s transcribing an interview at Paco’s desk and he can show you how to do it later. He’s been here for a week already, so he’s got the lay of the land, right?”

“Right.” Drew put the headphones back on, but not before he gave Jane a quick smile. Grateful, she smiled back.

“We don’t have enough desks for everyone to be in the office at once, obviously,” Parker continued. “Some people work at home. Some people, like Paco here, come in when they feel like it.” With a flourish, Paco tipped an imaginary hat. “You can use any empty desk. Except Jonathan’s. Don’t sit at Jonathan’s. We usually send the interns upstairs.” He paused for a reaction, but Jane wasn’t sure if “upstairs” meant more than upstairs. “Of course, you’ll get to meet EDA. He always makes a point to take the interns out to lunch at least once. He’s in London now. London, right?”

“London,” Ellen confirmed. One of the phones shrilled and she picked it up. “ East River Review . Just a second…” She leaned back in her desk chair, stretching the phone cord across the aisle to hand the receiver to Deedle. “It’s Marion again.”

Deedle took the phone impatiently. “I told you to call my extension. Three-four-five!” he snapped. “You keep bothering Ellen!” The way back to Parker’s desk was effectively blocked as Deedle continued haranguing Marion.

“Wife,” Parker explained, rolling his eyes as Marion’s tinny voice took its turn. Jane couldn’t make out her words, but the tone was clear. Apparently, his wife found Deedle as objectionable as Jane already did.

“Speaking of wife,” Parker said, turning to Ellen, “did the great man even let Clara know he was going to London?”

“None of your business!” Ellen didn’t look up from her typewriter.

“It is my business when she keeps calling to ask where he is,” Parker replied.

Jonathan banged the phone down triumphantly. “Just reeled in Toni Morrison! Teddy can go over to Random House and do the interview. She’s cutting back editing to focus on writing. It’s perfect timing.”

“Congratulations!” Parker enthused. He turned to Jane. “Have you read Tar Baby ?”

Jane had not, although she was about to say she had studied Song of Solomon and that Sula had been the strange, mesmerizing book that had first made her want to write, but Parker had moved on, showing her what he blithely called the “slush pile.” It was a messy stack of manuscripts in a cardboard box, each paper clipped to a cover letter and an envelope. It was obvious that Jane was supposed to know what a slush pile was, especially since Parker was telling her that going through it was her main responsibility as an intern. She looked over at Drew, but he was still wearing headphones. She would ask him later.

“I’m going out to celebrate,” Jonathan announced, snatching his corduroy jacket off the back of his chair. “Who’s joining me?”

“I have a call with Tennessee Williams about the interview for the fall issue,” Ellen said. “It could take a while. Let’s go to Elaine’s tonight on Teddy’s tab. He’ll be thrilled about Morrison.”

“What time is it in London?” Jonathan picked up the phone again.

“Careful,” Ellen warned. “It’s over fifty cents a minute for international. Teddy once got billed a hundred and twenty for one call to Paris. I’ve never heard the end of it.”

Deedle, having abruptly ended his hissing conversation with Marion, immediately perked up, alert to Jonathan in his coat. “Where are you headed?”

“York Tavern.” Jonathan placed the phone back in its cradle. “I confirmed the Morrison interview.”

“Good man! Good man!” Deedle wrapped a red silk scarf around his neck. “This calls for a rare steak and a cold martini!”

“Parker?” Jonathan lingered by his desk with Deedle close behind him.

“I’ve got Jane’s orientation going here,” Parker said regretfully.

“It’s fine.” Jane tried to sound breezy. “I can come back later, or Drew can show me around?” She hated everyone’s eyes on her, and she hated being the reason Parker couldn’t leave, something he clearly wanted to do. The office reminded her of a noisy family gathering, everyone in a cramped kitchen speaking over each other and jostling for attention. Except this family was talking about Toni Morrison instead of the Phillies winning the World Series.

“Jane is invited!” Deedle twirled the end of his scarf in what Jane assumed he thought was a rakish manner. “And the other one! The girl.”

“Just give me a minute. I’ll meet you there.” Parker motioned to Jane. “I’ll show you upstairs, where you’ll be reading, especially on days when all the desks are occupied.”

Jonathan pulled a corduroy flat cap out of his desk drawer and tugged it on. “Ellen, would you sign for the bike messenger delivery?”

“Not my job,” Ellen emphasized with a furious ding of her typewriter.

“Thank you!” Jonathan flashed a peace sign and headed up the front stairs and out the blue door after Deedle.

“Follow me,” Parker instructed Jane as he disappeared into the gloom of the back room at the far end of the long, narrow office.

“Just us ladies,” Paco said, winking at Jane. She flushed and smiled nervously. She would not be overwhelmed. She could almost take a full breath now that the room was emptier.

Ellen tapped a cigarette out from a pack on her desk and lit it, squinting at Jane. “Where are you from, Jane? It is Jane, right?”

“Yes, Jane. Philadelphia.”

“The city part?” Ellen asked. She didn’t even try to mask her skepticism, Jane thought.

“Did I lose you?” Parker’s voice called out.

“Come on, darling, you know the new ‘suggestion’ about smoking.” Paco motioned for Ellen to come outside with him.

“Suggestion, my ass.” She handed him a cigarette. “These walls have been grimy since the 1800s.” They disappeared up the front stairs and through the blue door, trailing smoke. Jane was alone in the office with Drew, oblivious, bent over the yellow pad, scribbling furiously. She hurried after Parker.

“Somebody has to get this sconce fixed!” Parker was complaining from halfway up a steep set of stairs in the back room. Jane put one hand on the wall, covered with dingy yellowish wallpaper, and looked down at her boots so she wouldn’t trip in the dim light. She took the opportunity to flap her blazer and get some air on her sweaty back.

“There’s another one of you up here,” Parker called over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry?”

“The third intern,” he explained as he opened the door at the top of the flight. “Here we are! Upstairs!” Jane blinked in the sudden expanse of a large galley kitchen. “It’s not the main kitchen,” Parker said. “You can keep your lunch in here if you want—just have to clear it all out for the parties.” He kept moving past the glass cabinets, steel basin sinks, and white tile into a hallway that led to an enormous room filled with light. How was it possible that New York City was all of these things: her tiny fourth-floor walk-up apartment with its shrieking radiator and brick wall bedroom view; the magazine’s cluttered basement office; the wide, gracious buildings she had passed to get here; and this grand room with its windows reflecting the river’s sparkle, its ceiling easily three times the height of any living room she had ever been in before?

“Knock, knock!” Parker barged through the wide French doors. Jane was arrested by the sight of a massive pool table, its green felt pristine, and the gleam of unscuffed balls gathered into the rack, all of it rich with heft and color. For the first time today—actually, for the first time since she arrived in New York City last week—Jane felt a surge of familiarity. Pool she knew. Maybe the tables she ran in Fishtown were in crappy shape, but run them she did. She had practically grown up in her uncle Mike’s bar, and if she wasn’t reading a book and drinking a ginger ale, she was learning angles and practicing shots until the regulars knew not to accept her challenge, hastily swiping their dollars from the table’s edge when she wandered over. True, she hadn’t played much lately, what with college and work, but her fingers still itched to center the rack, to handle one of the heavy walnut cues.

“Do you play?” Jane looked up to see a tall, willowy girl unfolding herself from the window seat. “Willowy” was the right word, she thought, and also refined and… not beautiful; “beautiful” was too boring to describe her. The bones of her face and her limbs were long and a little sharp; Jane might have said she was too skinny, but there was strength and litheness to her. Her hair was bouncy like a Wella Balsam shampoo ad. She was wearing green cowboy boots, a long petticoat, a tight white undershirt, a chunky silver necklace, and a cropped black leather blazer.

Jane had taken in all this in the amount of time it took Parker to say, “This is Rose. Rose Bergman, right?”

“No, Larry, it’s Bergesen,” Rose answered coolly. “Three e ’s.”

Jane hid her smile from Parker, who, flustered, waved generally around the room. “All right, so this is it: here and the kitchen we came through, and, uh, there’s a bathroom to the left. Those are the places we’re allowed, right? Don’t go exploring. Remember, people live here.” He gestured to a spiral staircase that Jane could see through the doors. “Never up there, obviously.”

“Right.” Jane nodded. As if she would wander around. As if. She ran her hand against the side of the pool table.

Parker noticed. “EDA’s pride and joy. He’s been known to challenge a few of us. Don’t ever play him for money!” He laughed a little too loudly and glanced quickly at Rose. Jane knew Rose had the upper hand as girls who looked like her usually did. “Rose can tell you about the rest of it. We’re pretty easy here. No punching the clock or anything. Well. Gotta bolt. Later.” He flipped up the collar of his shirt and left. They were both quiet until he had disappeared.

“ ‘Gotta bolt. Later,’ ” Rose said, breaking the silence.

“Larry,” Jane added.

They both burst out laughing. Jane couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed so hard. Every time she tried to take a breath and get a hold of herself, she collapsed into more laughter. Rose was also hysterical. “Stop, stop,” she gasped. “I’m going to pee!”

Jane doubled over, her bag slipping. It wasn’t even that funny. Her ribs ached and tears slid down her cheeks. Rose crumpled to the floor. “I can’t. I can’t…” Her laughter pealed like a bell, then suddenly honked.

Jane, who was starting to calm down, instead started up again. “ ‘Later,’ ” she snorted.

“Larry…” Rose buried her face in her hands, a column of silver bangles clanking down her wrist.

Jane went over and sat down on the floor next to Rose. It seemed like the only thing to do. She hiccuped and quieted. She could tell she was bright red. Rose dropped her hands and shuddered. “I’m wrung out,” she said weakly. “I love your shirt. I love velvet.”

“It’s velour,” Jane admitted.

“The color is perfect on you,” Rose continued. “Crimson. Brings out your eyes, stunning against your black hair. You look like Snow White.”

“Snow White if she had crimson skin, you mean,” Jane deflected, but she felt a glow spreading in her chest. She had, just this morning, secretly thought to herself that the shirt brought out her eyes. She sneaked a glance at Rose, who was looking at her with frank interest.

“How did you get here?” Rose asked.

“The subway. But also my old college professor. He taught Parker a few years ago and pressured him to give me the internship, I’m sure. How about you?”

“A taxi. But also my dad donates money to the magazine. He was roommates with one of the advisory editors. He’s a big patron of the arts.” Rose said the last part in a slightly mocking way, and Jane understood that Rose had a complicated relationship with her father.

“Apparently we’re both here based on our talent and skill,” Jane said.

“They interviewed me in person,” Rose added. “So definitely my talent and skill.”

“I’m sure famous poet Deedle Deedle found you very talented.”

“He immediately composed an ode to my talent.”

“I think he’s at lunch right now composing a limerick to mine.”

“Why sell yourself short?” Rose nudged Jane’s shoulder. “Definitely sonnet material.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A few weeks. I finished the graduate writing program at NYU and started right away.”

“That’s so cool. So you’re a writer?”

Rose paused before she answered. “Yes? I mean, I wrote a lot of short stories while I was there. I have a whole portfolio of them now. I guess they’re pretty good, but I don’t know if they’re great, you know what I mean?” She reached up to the window seat and pulled down a fringed suede bag. “I got more into photography. Not, like, darkroom photography but Polaroids.” She pulled out a boxy black camera.

“Oh, I have one of those at home,” Jane said. She thought about the writing workshop with Professor Marshall and her own portfolio of short stories. “Do you ever have readings? I’d love to go.” There was one student in her college workshop who had invited Jane to the campus pub after class to read each other’s stories. But Jane had to go to work, and the woman had never asked her again. One of her best memories was of the reading Professor Marshall had organized for the graduating seniors. Usually Jane was shy about sharing her work, but that night her voice was strong and she found the power of her words as the audience stilled, then applauded, then rushed up to her afterward with praise. It wasn’t like her to take the lead, but if there was a chance to recapture that feeling… and Rose, as tall and striking as she was, made her feel comfortable, not intimidated.

“I mean, not really readings, but I’d love to show them to you! Honestly, my workshops were filled with wannabe Kerouacs and one deluded boy who worshipped Tolkien. As in he handed out a ten-page addendum with made-up vocabulary so we could follow along. I love to edit, but it was rough going. Are you a writer?”

A litany of possible answers—hedging, noncommittal, self-deprecating—ran through Jane’s head. She thought again of the reading, of her stories coming alive in the expectant hush. Rose was waiting, her clear eyes fixed on Jane. “Yes,” Jane said simply. She felt a thrill surge through her as the affirmative lingered in the air. How easy it was to say it! Why had she been so afraid? So knotted up? She thought of the leather notebook in her new bag and the pen already staining its lining. She lived in New York City now. She worked at the East River Review .

“I’d love to read yours! Short stories? Let me guess: You’re working on a novel, right? Something sharp and observant like Joan Didion?”

Jane felt a flutter of familiar doubt. “Nothing like Didion,” she protested. “I mean, I only took a few creative writing classes in college.”

Rose cocked her head. “It sounds like your professor must have thought you were pretty good, though.”

“He did, I guess,” Jane admitted. “I do have some short stories.” Why was she acting like this now? She knew she was better than anyone in any of her workshops. But that wasn’t the same as a master’s program at NYU.

“We’ll have a reading party! Like, get some wine and bake a Brie or something,” Rose suggested. “Bring our red pens!”

“I’d love that.” Jane pushed down a hint of panic at the thought of showing Rose her writing. But at the same time she wanted to pull out her notebook and read it all to her right now, every word.

“It’s a plan!” Rose enthused. “Now, what do you need to know about being an East River Review intern? I’ve been here almost three weeks, so I’m kind of an expert.”

“Okay, don’t laugh. I mean, really, please don’t start laughing again, but what exactly is a slush pile?”

Rose smiled. “Ha! I had no idea either! Parker kept saying it, and I kept imagining one of those sno-cones you get at Coney Island. Like an electric blue one that gives you a cold headache?”

“I thought about Broad Street after it snows and all that gorgeous white turned ash gray in piles, icy and wet and dirty.”

“We are obviously super-talented writers,” Rose joked. “Okay, so the slush pile is where they dump all the unsolicited manuscripts that come in. All the people who don’t have agents or who are unpublished or whose dads didn’t room with an advisory editor, when they mail their writing here it gets sorted into the slush pile for the interns. If we find something good that we think one of the real editors should read, we have to write up a description and recommendation. Then we give it to one of them, and they reject it. I mean, it’s like a unicorn. Ellen told me that a few years ago, one of the interns pulled T. C. Boyle out of the slush pile. That intern was Parker. I can’t believe he hasn’t mentioned it to you yet.”

“Ellen was taking a call from Tennessee Williams. Streetcar Named Desire Tennessee Williams.” Jane knew she was probably being uncool, but she couldn’t help it. She had never heard of T. C. Boyle, but she had read Tennessee Williams’s plays in high school.

“I know! It’s amazing! I’m transcribing an interview with Nadine Gordimer.”

“Seriously?” Jane paused. “I’m not sure who that is?” Should she have pretended to know? There goes the evening of sharing our writing , she thought.

“Oh, she’s not that well known in the States! She’s a white South African who writes about how terrible apartheid is. I think you’d like her. Maybe we can have a book club too?” Rose looked at Jane warmly. “Don’t worry, I promise I won’t monopolize all of your time.”

“I’m not worried,” Jane said. She stopped herself from adding that she would be happy to spend all her time with Rose. “Have you met EDA yet?” She changed the subject so she wouldn’t linger in the emotional impact of Rose’s easy kindness. Except for one “I made it here without being murdered and none of my belongings were stolen” call to her mother from the graffiti-splashed phone booth outside her apartment on the Lower East Side, Jane hadn’t spoken to a single person in more than a transactional way since she arrived. The next day the phone had been ripped out of the booth, a development that Jane tried not to take personally. She could deal with meanness or neglect; they only hardened her will. But kindness had the capacity to undo her. When she bought her New York Times from the kiosk yesterday morning and the old woman working there slipped her a blueberry muffin, Jane had swallowed a sudden, embarrassing lump in her throat and escaped down to the subway, barely suppressing tears.

“Yes! Drew and I met him quickly last week. He’s been traveling a lot. I almost asked him to sign my copy of the collected stories, but I didn’t want to be too much of a groupie and freak him out.”

“And?” Jane tipped her head. Edward David Adams was famous for his writing, yes. But he was also famous for other things.

Rose laughed. “Okay, he’s a stone-cold fox!”

“Details?” Jane demanded. She thought of the photo on the book jacket of the collected stories and EDA’s novels. Adams, somewhere water-adjacent, windswept, his broad shoulders bare, eyes intense. She and every other English major she knew had spent plenty of time gazing longingly at it.

“Hmmmm…” Rose tapped her long, slender fingers against her chin. “I would say tall, magnetic, and overwhelming, but I can do better than that. He’s a huge presence, like he takes up all the space. But you want him to take it all up, you know what I mean? Physically and more. He makes the rest of them seem small. And his voice…” Rose trailed off. She pressed her hand against her chest. “You feel it everywhere.”

“Do you think he’ll take us out for lunch? Just the three of us?” Jane remembered what Parker had said.

“He mentioned it after we met him! I think he will.”

“I can’t believe how lucky I am,” Jane blurted.

“How lucky we are! Do you think he’d ever look at our writing?”

Jane shook her head. She was having enough trouble imagining showing her work to Rose. “I could never ask.”

“Fine,” Rose said airily, “I’ll ask ‘Teddy’ and you ask Deedle.”

Jane burst out laughing again.

“Oh, hey, excuse me?” They turned to see Drew in the doorway looking curiously at them. Without the headphones on, his hair sprang up in a fashionable swoop. He was tall and graceful, and he was wearing a thin gold chain over a black T-shirt. Jane remembered that they were sprawled on the floor and scrambled to her feet. She reached down for Rose and hauled her up as well. Rose gave Jane’s hand a little squeeze and let go.

“Ellen is asking for you downstairs,” Drew continued. “We’re going to learn how to call the copy machine repairman.” He raised one dark eyebrow in a quizzical expression, and with that, Jane knew they were all going to be real friends.

“Wait, Drew, will you take a photo of us? Jane’s first day!” Rose went to hand Drew the Polaroid and came back to lean against Jane, her arm draped casually over her shoulders. She was almost a head taller. Jane’s cheek brushed the smooth leather of her blazer.

Drew flipped the flash up, held the camera to his face, and started with demands. “Give me Gia! Give me Jerry Hall! Give me Rose ‘Three- E ’s’ Bergesen!”

There was a burst of white light and the photo whirred its way out. Drew shook it by a corner tip. “Well?” Rose reached out impatiently. “Let us have it!”

“Absolute babes,” Drew confirmed. He handed the blurry photo to Rose, who held it so the three of them could see.

“We are very talented,” Rose confirmed.

“Very skilled,” Jane added. Her heart swelled, and instead of a lump in her throat she felt almost giddy.

“Oh, we are going to have a killer time here,” Drew promised. “Best interns ever!”

Heads bent over the Polaroid, they watched as the colors deepened and it all came into focus.