Hot Desk: A Novel - 9

Ben put his messenger bag down and looked at his desk. Cactus and apple. Rebecca Blume’s stuff was multiplying. The apple was probably from the basket of fruit someone had left in the kitchen last week, where it unfortunately seemed to have replaced the afternoon cheese-and-salami platter. There was a pink Post-it under the apple: MAKE IT FALL . This was clearly in reference to the HOT DESK posting that quoted Che Guevara, which had Ben questioning his previous vision of Rebecca Blume as akin to Mrs. Toddle, who never had a poster of anyone more political than Garfield the cat. There was a new Post-it on the cactus, too, a veritable avalanche of communication from someone who still hadn’t managed to follow the rules and reach out to him officially. I’M 90% DRY. What the hell? Was she writing in the voice of the cactus? Was he the cactus keeper now?

Ben opened the desk drawer for a Post-it and knocked over a half-empty, luckily capped bottle of kombucha. Seriously? Not only a violation of the Clean Desk Policy but also, couldn’t kombucha explode if it was in a dark, warm place and someone unwittingly jostled it? He couldn’t in good conscience put it in the recycling bin unemptied like a bomb, could he? Ben pulled a Bill Russell bobblehead doll and a photo of the Lion at Bread Loaf out of his bag, the only personal desk effects he could come up with to get Ava off his back. He would not have a serial killer vibe at his new job. He was a professional committed to his workspace. Maybe next week he would bring in some favorite books? A mug for tea so that he didn’t have to keep borrowing Mrs. Singh’s “Crazy Vegan Lady” cup? Ben felt a little glow of satisfaction at how well he was settling in at Hawk Mills. He leaned the photo against the monitor and was positioning Bill Russell when Howie suddenly appeared in his red sweater.

“Dude! Is that LeBron?”

“No. Bill Russell.” Ben gritted his teeth.

“Just fucking with you! I’m a Wilt the Stilt man myself, if we’re going old-school.”

“Russell was better in the playoffs, better under pressure,” Ben said.

“I’m just looking at the stats.” Howie shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just looking at the math. I think you need to water your cactus.”

“It’s not my cactus.”

“Ready for the acquisitions meeting?”

“Definitely.” Ben took stock of his newly personalized desk space. He was on track to pursue a collection of short stories, he had Caro’s confidence, he was certainly going to hear back from Atticus anytime now, and Howie had revealed an unexpected knowledge of basketball. The cactus was a little dry, though. No, he reminded himself, watering it was not his job!

“So I was thinking,” Howie said casually. “I know a guy performing at Howl&Yawp this weekend? You know, the underground performance art collective in Bushwick? Maybe you want to go check it out?”

That sounded like a nightmare to Ben. But he was new to New York. He was hanging out with his sister and—if you could call playing absurdly competitive pickup basketball “hanging out”—with a few guys at the West Fourth Street court. Not exactly crushing it socially. Between reading for work and bartending, Ben hadn’t had time to explore the city. And, honestly, he didn’t want to reject Howie, who was looking at him with a hopeful expression. “Sure,” he said.

“Seriously?” Howie did a double take. He pumped his fist and hissed, “ Yassss ,” under his breath. “You won’t regret it!”

Ben was already regretting it. “Just text me the details.”

“I thought we could head over together. Maybe grab some Korean fried chicken first?”

Before Ben could answer, Howie dropped his voice. “Incoming.”

“What?”

“See you around!” Howie backed away as Caro came up behind Ben.

“Hey, good morning.” Ben moved the apple and bottle of kombucha to the side of his desk. Caro was wearing a brown silk dress, a brown silk jacket, and complicated red shoes.

Caro barely nodded a morning acknowledgment. “Have you set up a meeting with Atticus Adams?” Ben appreciated her directness but would have appreciated it more if Atticus hadn’t responded to his texts with only a string of champagne and oyster emojis at 2 a.m. on Saturday.

“We’re in contact. I should have something firmed up today.”

“By the end of the day, Ben,” Caro said sternly. “I’m concerned that Avenue has the jump on us. Ami is making some surprising moves, if I’m to believe the scuttlebutt. Rose Adams has been impossible to reach, and, believe me, I’ve tried. Ty’s tried. I’m starting to think that you and the son are our best way in, at least until I can get a formal meeting set up for us with Mrs. Adams.”

Ben noticed she didn’t look too thrilled with that conclusion. He wondered if Howie, who often lurked around Caro’s office, was the scuttlebutt. “I’ll make it happen,” he promised, more confidently now that he knew Atticus was at least alive.

“Please do,” Caro replied pleasantly, though Ben sensed how restrained she was being, and he really didn’t want to disappoint her.

He turned on his computer and immediately pulled up Blabber.

BEN:

what do you know about avenue and the lion?

HOWIE:

i heard his widow met with one of their “mid-level” editors like she went over there by herself for hours

BEN:

heard from where?

HOWIE:

BLURB

BEN:

?

HOWIE:

you on IG right?

BEN:

not really

HOWIE:

facebook?

BEN:

srsly? no

HOWIE:

but hinge, right?

BEN:

can you tell me how you heard about avenue?

HOWIE:

just trying to decode your online presence

if looks could kill haha

fine i’ll be over in a sec

Ben watched as Howie trotted across the office and arrived at Ben’s desk, waving his battered phone. “So BLURB is the Instagram account for the publishing world. Like forty thousand followers, even though execs don’t admit to stalking it.” Howie leaned over Ben, reeking, as always, of smoke.

“Who runs it?”

“Top secret!” Howie put his finger to his lips. “Probably some kind of socialist bookworm? English major at Brown is my guess. Hired for paltry wages at an entry-level job; thought it was their big break. Disillusioned. Holding management to account. Pro-union and lots of Ben Affleck memes.”

“Okay, show me.” Ben waited while Howie navigated his cracked and smeared screen. He pulled up the BLURB account and handed Ben his phone. Ben resisted the urge to scrub it down with a sterilizing wipe.

BLURB mid-level avenue editor swoops in on EDA widow—deets please

Anon, please can confirm. [meme of fat baby clenching fist]

juleswolf0910 eyes on atticus adams

MBeeWrites scramble to scoop lion’s estate is a joke: the 80s called and want their old white guy back

skyelovesbooks would not edit that sexist POS if they paid me. which they barely would anyway LOL

Anon, please rose adams going to sell town house out from under ERR

jfoxgoldner boohoo they’ve been squatting rent free for years

MargaretTate battle shaping up between avenue and hawk—caro trying to get in there all week

Anon, please atticus going to fuck some shit up

suburbangirl everyone getting laid off in the industry—can you imagine the $$$ lion’s estate rakes in

skyelovesbooks atticus also sexist

HarveyWark.author saw AI at the grill with frank french plotting no doubt—caro must be freaking

suburbangirl riddle: how many hours do i have to work to afford a $55 cobb salad?

BLURB who is rebecca blume?

bookguy2130 [meme of Michael Jackson eating popcorn]

MargaretTate this is a HAWK V AVENUE brawl

Anon, please 6% of published authors are black but by all means let’s resurrect

BLURB [meme of DiCaprio as Gatsby holding a martini glass juxtaposed with Gatsby floating face down in pool] Me when I loved reading books vs Me after working in publishing

Ben handed Howie back his phone. Even though he knew there was no chance Atticus was awake yet, he texted him again. “That your bootch?” Howie picked up the kombucha.

“No. That has been living in my desk drawer for I don’t know how long,” Ben warned him. “What do you think about the Avenue rumors?”

“Waste not, want not.” Howie unscrewed the cap and Ben flinched, but there was no fizz, let alone explosion. “Who am I?” Howie stuck his lip out in a disturbing manner. “Fat baby clenching its fist!”

“Howie.” Ben didn’t know how it had gotten to this point, but he needed Howie. Ben was a scrupulous editor. He was a thoughtful reader. He was pretty fucking good at basketball and old people in bars loved him. He might even pull off getting Caro access to the Lion’s estate. But this BLURB shit was unsettling. Ben was in over his head with the gossip, the memes, the innuendo. He was all for socialism, especially when he saw what was left of his paycheck after rent and bills, but how did anyone have time for so much drama? Also, he didn’t need his reading acumen to sense hostility toward both the Lion and Atticus. For the first time since moving to New York, he felt a little lost, more so than the time he took the F train to Coney Island by mistake.

“Ha ha, dude, your face!” Howie took a long swig of kombucha, let out a prim burp, and clapped Ben on the back. “I will look into this. Fear not.”

“Why would Rebecca Blume be mentioned? And who is AI?”

“Ami Ito is the Caro of Avenue. She and Hashtag Girlboss have a friendly rivalry. And by ‘friendly’ I mean they would shank each other with a shiv.”

Again Ben thought it didn’t seem quite right for Howie to talk about Caro and, by extension, Ami, in this way. He filed it away for the sit-down he hoped was forthcoming, but for now he needed Howie to figure out some shit for him. “Okay, I have to prep for the acquisition meeting. Can you let me know if you find out anything?”

Howie finished the kombucha and clanked it into the recycling bin. “Will do, chief.”

Ben worked steadily until it was time to head over to the meeting. It was teatime. He knew this because Mrs. Singh was brewing a fresh pot. “Greetings, Ben! I think you will enjoy this oolong!” She carefully placed a saucer on top of his “Crazy Vegan Lady” mug in order to let it steep for exactly four minutes. During this time, they made plans to meet in the kitchen later so that Ben could give his opinion on Mrs. Singh’s leftover vegan lemon cake and sign the card for someone named Janice’s baby shower. Ben took his tea and headed to the meeting, glancing at his phone on the way.

If Atticus didn’t text him back, Ben was going to have to figure out plan B. He walked past the conference room where he’d had all his meetings so far. There were a few people he hadn’t seen before, and Paul from Production. As Ben peered into the space, a young woman’s face filled the entire screen against the back wall. Ben stopped so suddenly that hot tea slopped onto his wrist. Fuck! She was gorgeous. Seriously. His breath caught. A ton of brown wavy hair, big green eyes rimmed in dark lashes, her skin flushed pink. She was wearing a green shirt with a low V-neck and a chunky silver necklace. Her mouth was perfect.

Howie jogged up next to him and Ben sloshed the tea again. “Shit! Ow! Hey, who is that?”

Howie looked into the conference room. “I dunno. The queen of England?”

The vision was gone and in her place was an old lady wearing a pink hat and many strands of pearls. Was it the queen of England? The old lady adjusted a pair of red reading glasses and frowned peevishly. Ben watched for a moment more before following Howie to the meeting, the image of the green-eyed woman imprinted in his mind.

As Caro called everyone to order, Ben tried to bring his focus back to the Hawk Mills agenda and a review of last week’s notes. They had decided not to bid on a TikTok therapist’s proposal, I’m OK, You’re a Toxic Jerk , despite her three million followers and successfully acquired a literary memoir about a competitive coed crew team from South Korea ( The Boys in the Boat meets Crying in H Mart ). It was time to move on to new projects.

Ben was glad when Caro started with Harry, seated to his left, since he knew they would move clockwise around the room, and he would be the last to present. Even in the short time he had worked in publishing, his ideas of passionately debating literature had been pretty much dashed. Publishing seemed to be all about competition, publicity potential, and author connections. But still, this was a meeting where he could wax at least a little poetic. When his turn finally came, he took a breath.

“ Our Ghostly Machines is a novel in stories that examines the potential for AI to change our subjectivity, to radically alter how we relate to one another and ourselves. A cross between Jennifer Egan and George Saunders, Marc Cooker is a fresh new voice, one that takes a topic usually reserved for genre fiction and brings it into the literary world.” Caro was watching him—encouragingly, he hoped. “I think we would get excellent review coverage for this, and since Cooker is a Google exec, I can see getting off-the-book-page coverage. Maybe public radio? Definitely some tech podcasts.” Ben sat back in his chair. He was especially pleased with his use of “genre fiction” and “off-the-book-page,” terms he had originally thought of as “science fiction” and “multimedia.” First, a homey desk setup, now facility with publishing jargon. Next, if this meeting went well, his first real editor-author relationship with Marc Cooker. Then, just maybe, he would be masterfully editing the Lion, but humbly behind the scenes. He loved his new job.

“Does this Cooker guy know Mike Zuckerberg?” demanded an older editor who had never been introduced to Ben.

“Mark Zuckerberg?” Ben asked. “Of Facebook?”

“Zuckerberg is Meta,” chided Harry.

The older editor continued undeterred. “My wife took a lot of quizzes on Facebook, and let me tell you, it was a scam! She was hacked!”

“They’re developing AI now that’ll write the next Great American Novel,” someone from marketing announced glumly. “But it will be the Russians. Does the book address that?”

“Well, the Russians write pretty good novels,” someone else pointed out before Ben could answer. “What I want to know is: Can AI foster a relationship with an author? That’s what keeps me up at night. How long before we’re replaced by chatbots?”

Ben made a note to self: Find out from Howie who everyone was so he could make some educated guesses at which one was Anon from the Office Life Inbox.

“A novel in stories, you say?” asked Carlotta from Marketing. “How connected are they? Could they be published separately?”

“Definitely linked,” Ben assured her. “But also perfect for The New Yorker .”

“I mean,” the older editor soldiered on, “they tried to get her mother’s maiden name. These scams are an epidemic. She’s a Carrie from Sex and the City and a Rachel from Friends , by the way.”

“I’m 100 percent a Samantha,” Ty interjected.

Caro wrested back control of the meeting. “Can we get your profit and loss statement up on the screen, Ben?” In the end, Caro agreed to let Ben make a modest offer, with instructions to come back to her if things escalated.

After the meeting ended, Ben hurried out in order to check the conference room, but the room was empty, the screen blank. He went back to his desk, sat down, and tossed the apple from hand to hand. One, he had to call the agent and make his offer. Two, Atticus. Three, figure out who that woman was on the screen. Four, lunch and Mrs. Singh’s lemon cake. Five, Rebecca Blume’s stupid cactus. Should he water it? It was her cactus! Wasn’t it pretty much impossible to kill a cactus? Still, what if it died on his watch? Six, Atticus. Ben had been working on a pitch for the Lion’s estate and, sure, Atticus was his “in,” but could plan B be his approaching Rose Adams directly? He thought she of all people would appreciate his ideas about reissuing the Lion’s work in conjunction with essays on what the Lion had meant to younger writers. It would be cool to have independent bookstores feature readings of the Lion’s work by new authors.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that Ben allowed himself to check his phone. A photo from Ava, of Butch looking handsome, and, finally, a text from Atticus.

Atticus:

chill chill chill i got you

Ben:

sorry for all the texts but hoping we can meet up sooner rather than later

Atticus:

you know you’re the man

Ben:

can you come by hawk mills office? Or do you want to meet up somewhere this afternoon?

Atticus:

IV drip therapy at two

Ben:

…

Atticus:

then some shit to do but how about tonight

Ben:

i’m working until 11 but could sneak out for a minute or meet you at 5?

Atticus:

damn they get their money’s worth

Ben:

i’m bartending at betty jack’s

Atticus:

respect

Ben:

so 5?

Atticus:

nah

you got my word about tonight tho i’ll come by BJ

Ben:

ok

Atticus:

no sweat man i will be there

Ben:

see you tonight

Ben didn’t love the plan such as it was, but at least he had something to report to Caro. Once he got face-to-face with Atticus, he knew he could make headway. He googled Rose Adams and ended up reading two of her stories published in The New Yorker in the mid ’80s. He hadn’t known she was a writer too. The stories were neatly formed, meticulously observed, wise about being a young woman moving through the fashion world in Paris and London. Ben searched, but aside from society photos of her and the Lion, snippets about her work with HIV-AIDS and education charities, and a long piece in Vanity Fair in which Rose was described as “flowing gracefully into the room” and “alighting attentively at her husband’s side” but not quoted, he found no more trace of her work. One thing he was sure of was that tea alone was not going to get him through a night with Atticus. He needed to hydrate and caffeinate. Also, carbo-load.

“I’m open!” Ben looked up and Howie was slow jogging toward his desk, hands up as if to catch a football. “Hit me!”

Ben tossed the apple to Howie, who promptly fumbled, caught it on the toe of his grubby Converse, and dribbled it back toward Ben, who was sorely regretting his actions. Ben scooped up the apple and looked around to make sure Caro was shut in her office. “Did you get any intel from Avenue?”

“All the interns have a group text,” Howie explained. “And I sent out a Bat-Signal.”

How was Howie both such a New York City trust fund Ivy League kid and a giant nerd? Ben wondered.

“There’s a super-hot assistant at Avenue who told one of the interns that Ami Ito thinks it’s pretty much a done deal with the Lion’s estate.”

“What does she look like?” asked Ben, suddenly alert. The woman he had seen on the screen must work at Avenue, right?

“Ami Ito?”

“No, the assistant.”

“Buttercream blonde, wears a lot of plaid, smells like flowers,” Howie said wistfully. “The interns and assistants have happy hour every Friday. I’m sure I could wrangle you an invite if you want in.”

“I’m good, thanks.” Ben leaned back in his chair, absentmindedly trying to spin the apple on his finger like a basketball, attempting to focus. “Did they say why they think they have the estate?”

“The widow asked for one of their editors specifically. So word is she’s the Lion’s secret love child, and the widow wants to see if she’s contesting the will. Or the widow is using her to get back at Maury Kantor because he enabled the Lion’s bad behavior. Or —and this is my hunch—the Lion and Maury were secret lovers but it ended badly and this editor has photos.”

“Seriously, how is any of that helpful?”

“Just sayin’ you better get on it with Atticus.”

“Thank you. I know that. I’m meeting him tonight.”

Howie snapped his fingers like the audience at a poetry slam and gave Ben a meaningful look. Jesus, was Howie going to be wearing a beret or, worse, a wool beanie and smoking clove cigarettes at Howl&Yawp? Ben grabbed his water bottle to refill and headed to Caro’s office, ready to spin his hope that Atticus would show up and that the night would somehow result in snatching the Lion’s estate back from Avenue. He knocked on her door, took a deep breath, and thought, in the words of Larry Bird: When you step on the court, you play to win.