A Little Bite of Magic Goes a Long Way (BxB)

10 ~ Ben

With the glorious, delicate lemon flavor of the cupcake still lingering on my tongue, I listened as my client rambled on.

She was an author I'd worked with before, and a true editor's nightmare: talented but crippled by self-doubt, needy as a baby bird. One wrong word and her ego would crack like a dropped egg; too many right ones and it swelled like a dead thing in the sun.

Piercing it was never pleasant, and having just read through her latest manuscript, I knew I had my work cut out for me.

"Well?" she asked, having run out of steam at last. "What did you think?"

I took a deep breath, considering. I needed to be tactful—delicate: a surgeon performing a tricky operation.

"It sucks ass," I heard myself say, and then shared my client's gasp of unpleasant surprise.

"What?" she asked, her voice shrill with the onset of panic. "What do you mean, it sucks ass?"

I took another breath, feeling cold sweat prickle across my brow. What had I said? Jesus. I'd never say that even to my worst client, and she was far from it. Sure, her latest effort left a lot to be desired, but everyone has their ups and downs.

Swallowing, I tried again. "It doesn't suck," I said. "That's not what I meant. What I meant was, it's boring as fuck, the characters are unlikeable, the story goes nowhere, and no one's going to read it. If by some chance they do, they'll hate it because the last act is a total let-down. You can't promise a fun, happy romance and then kill your main character two-thirds of the way through the book. Readers will never trust you again. You should scrap the whole thing—all hundred-thousand words. It's garbage."

I stopped to catch my breath and gasped again, clapping my hand over my mouth. What was wrong with me? It was all stuff I'd thought, but nothing I'd ever say aloud. Not to anyone but Matt, anyway, during my regular rants about work.

"What are you saying?" the tremulous voice on the other end of the line asked. "Is this...Is this a joke?"

A joke—yes, that's it; just a little joke. I opened my mouth to say so, but something else came out instead.

"It's not a joke, Sylvie. I'm absolutely serious. You're wasting your time on this. The only reason we're even entertaining it is because your last book was a modest success. My advice? Scrap it. Don't even rewrite it. Just chuck the whole thing. Like I said, it sucks."

Silence. Shocked, horrified, mortified silence—on both ends.

"Fuck you, Ben," Sylvie said at last, clearly in tears. "I didn't think you were just my editor, you know? I thought you were my friend."

She hung up. I sat for several minutes with the phone still pressed to my ear, listening to the terrified beat of my own heart ringing in my ears.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

A short while later, the phone rang again. I knew who it was, and that I had to answer it, even though I would almost rather have eaten glass. Almost.

"Ben Schafer," I said, squinching my eyes shut as I did.

My boss launched his assault without preamble, his New York accent coming through strong with his obvious ire. "Ben, what the fuck are you on? I just got off the phone with Sylvie Blackwell, and she's demanding to be assigned a new editor. She said you went off on her, saying all kinds of shit about her work. Now I know you, Ben, and that's not your style, so I figure there's got to be some kind of misunderstanding. Am I right?

I pressed my lips together, planning my words with care. My plans fell through.

"No, Dan, you're not right. She's telling the truth, and I meant every word," I said.

"Jesus, Ben. I know tough love works with some of these creative types, but Sylvie ain't one of them. She's crushed. You know how much work you just made for some other poor schmuck? It'll take twice as long to get her shit in decent shape to print now. You screwed up big time. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking she deserved to hear the truth. She's better than this. It's a disservice to her to tell her otherwise, and publishing that book the way it is now will kill her career."

"Ben, do you like your job?" My boss's voice tells me he's not speaking as 'friendly manager Dan,' but as 'Mr. Daniel L. Cartwright, Editor-in-Chief.'

I took a breath and held it. If I passed out, at least I wouldn't be able to answer him. Sadly, I've never been good at holding my breath.

"No, Dan, I don't like my job. I hate it. It bores me to death, I can't stand most of the authors you assign me, it's unrewarding, thankless, tedious, and takes up too much of my life. The only thing I like about it is the pay."

He was silent for a moment, and then he laughed uproariously. "Jesus, Schafer, you had me for a minute there! Christ, that was good. You got a funny way of getting my attention, but you sure do got it. So what do you want, huh? A raise?"

"Sure I want a raise," I answered. "I've been wanting a raise for the past two years, but I know you won't give me one because a) I'm the wrong gender for your usual quid pro quo sexual harassment deal, and b) you're a homophobic asshat and I'm married to a man."

It was quiet. Like, 'quiet before the storm,' or 'quiet right before the jump scare in the horror movie,' quiet. So quiet I could almost hear Dan thinking, trying to figure out if I was threatening him, and how much he should be worried if I was.

Finally, I heard him clear his throat. "You think I'm an idiot, Schafer?" he asked.

"No, Mr. Cartwright," I sighed, resigning myself to my fate, "I think you're a bag of dicks."

Needless to say, by the end of that conversation, I was drenched in cold sweat, shaking, terrified that there was something seriously wrong with me, and no longer employed by Haversmith Publishers, New York.