and it squeaked painfully under her considerable weight. She was wearing one of her tentlike dresses that fell in folds around her huge upper arms and mountainous breasts. This one swirled with black and red and had a small red bow at the collar where her breasts just began to press together into deep cleavage. Large red beads were strung around her neck and little black cubes dangled from her ears beneath her curly, stiff, salt-and-pepper hair. Her glistening red lips smiled at Davey, pushing her fleshy cheeks up until they almost obliterated her eyes.
“You wanted to see me?” Davey asked.
“Yes,” she said abruptly, her smile disappearing. She took another drag on her cigarillo and exhaled smoke as she continued. “I think it's about time we had a talk. Another talk, I should say, since this isn't a new issue.” She leaned forward, not without effort, and tapped her finger on a notepad before her. “I want to talk to you about these stories you've been recommending to our editors. Like the one about...” She lifted the notepad and looked over it briefly. “...about the family who loses their son to a, uh...” Another peek at the pad. “...to a ‘gun-cleaning accident.'” She looked at Davey silently, waiting for him to respond.
“Well,” he said, wondering whether he should be honest or tell her something she wanted to hear. He decided to be honest. “I really thought it was an important story. And well written."
“Come on now, Owen,” she said quietly. “That is a pro-gun control story you gave to Max. How many times do I have to tell you that is not what our readers want to read. We leave all that stuff to Phil Donahue. We publish action-adventure magazines, vigilante magazines, war magazines. In our business, Owen, guns are more important than people . We are read by people who have seen Rambo fifty-seven times and who tap-dance on the throats of those who support gun laws. If we were to print that story you recommended, they would storm this building and beat us all within an inch of our lives. If we were lucky."
“Well, maybe so,” Davey said quickly, sitting forward in his chair, “but the truth is — "
“The truth is, Owen, that you are not doing your job. You're doing a job, but I'm afraid it's not the one you're supposed to be doing.” She took a long drag on the cigarillo, sat back in her chair, and closed her eyes a moment. When she spoke, she gestured with her hand, leaving a swirl of smoke behind the cigarillo. “Your job, Owen, is to toss this stuff out, do you understand me? You may be a pacifist, and your tastes may lean toward literature of a more intellectually stimulating nature. America is, however, a country of armchair warriors, and those are the people to whom Penn sells magazines. We want gunfire, explosions, war, violence, mayhem. For our female readers, we want stories about handsome men and beautiful women with fascinating careers who meet, fall in love, and have no cares or worries except whether to spend the weekend in Paris or Rome and what they should wear.” She looked again at the pad before her and continued, her tone exasperated, “Two weeks ago you turned in a story about an aging magician who falls in love with a young blind girl. For Christ's sake , Owen, this is not what we want , don't you know that by now?"
Davey uncrossed his legs and shifted his position in the chair, trying not to sound off the way he wanted to.
Your lack of spine, Davey. You have no spine.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I understand. And I'll, um, I'll try to keep that in mind."
“Good. Now, like I said, we had this talk last year. I would be very pleased if, next year, or a few months from now, we don't have to have it again. Because if we do, Owen, we aren't going to, do you understand me?"
You have no spine.
He exhaled his reply: “Yes."
She smiled again, pooching up her cheeks. “Good. Now. Unless you have any questions, that's all I wanted to
“You wanted to see me?” Davey asked.
“Yes,” she said abruptly, her smile disappearing. She took another drag on her cigarillo and exhaled smoke as she continued. “I think it's about time we had a talk. Another talk, I should say, since this isn't a new issue.” She leaned forward, not without effort, and tapped her finger on a notepad before her. “I want to talk to you about these stories you've been recommending to our editors. Like the one about...” She lifted the notepad and looked over it briefly. “...about the family who loses their son to a, uh...” Another peek at the pad. “...to a ‘gun-cleaning accident.'” She looked at Davey silently, waiting for him to respond.
“Well,” he said, wondering whether he should be honest or tell her something she wanted to hear. He decided to be honest. “I really thought it was an important story. And well written."
“Come on now, Owen,” she said quietly. “That is a pro-gun control story you gave to Max. How many times do I have to tell you that is not what our readers want to read. We leave all that stuff to Phil Donahue. We publish action-adventure magazines, vigilante magazines, war magazines. In our business, Owen, guns are more important than people . We are read by people who have seen Rambo fifty-seven times and who tap-dance on the throats of those who support gun laws. If we were to print that story you recommended, they would storm this building and beat us all within an inch of our lives. If we were lucky."
“Well, maybe so,” Davey said quickly, sitting forward in his chair, “but the truth is — "
“The truth is, Owen, that you are not doing your job. You're doing a job, but I'm afraid it's not the one you're supposed to be doing.” She took a long drag on the cigarillo, sat back in her chair, and closed her eyes a moment. When she spoke, she gestured with her hand, leaving a swirl of smoke behind the cigarillo. “Your job, Owen, is to toss this stuff out, do you understand me? You may be a pacifist, and your tastes may lean toward literature of a more intellectually stimulating nature. America is, however, a country of armchair warriors, and those are the people to whom Penn sells magazines. We want gunfire, explosions, war, violence, mayhem. For our female readers, we want stories about handsome men and beautiful women with fascinating careers who meet, fall in love, and have no cares or worries except whether to spend the weekend in Paris or Rome and what they should wear.” She looked again at the pad before her and continued, her tone exasperated, “Two weeks ago you turned in a story about an aging magician who falls in love with a young blind girl. For Christ's sake , Owen, this is not what we want , don't you know that by now?"
Davey uncrossed his legs and shifted his position in the chair, trying not to sound off the way he wanted to.
Your lack of spine, Davey. You have no spine.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I understand. And I'll, um, I'll try to keep that in mind."
“Good. Now, like I said, we had this talk last year. I would be very pleased if, next year, or a few months from now, we don't have to have it again. Because if we do, Owen, we aren't going to, do you understand me?"
You have no spine.
He exhaled his reply: “Yes."
She smiled again, pooching up her cheeks. “Good. Now. Unless you have any questions, that's all I wanted to
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