Oblivion Stories Part 5

'And if I'd called in on time as I should have, we'd both have known and there would have been no chance of misunderstanding.'

'That's nice, but it's not really my point,' Laurel Manderley said. She was seated at At.w.a.ter's console, absently snapping and unsnapping a calfskin barrette. As was SOP with Skip and his interns, this telephone conversation was neither rapid nor clipped. It was shortly before 3:30 and 4:30 respectively, since Indiana does not adhere to the DST convention. Laurel Manderley would later tell Skip that she had been so tired and unwell on Tuesday that she'd felt almost translucent, and plus was upset that she would have to come in on the Fourth, tomorrow, in order to mediate between At.w.a.ter and Ellen Bactrian re the so called artist's appearance on The Suffering Channel's inaugural tableau vivant thing, all of which had been literally thrown together in hours. It was not the way either of them normally worked.

Nor had Style Style ever before sought to conjoin two different pieces in process. It was this that signified to Skip At.w.a.ter that either Mrs. Anger or one of her apparatchiks had taken a direct hand. That he felt no discernible trace of either vindication or resentment about this was perhaps to his credit. What he did feel, suddenly and emphatically in the midst of the call, was that he might well be working for Laurel Manderley someday, that it would be she to whom he pitched pieces and pleaded for additional column inches. ever before sought to conjoin two different pieces in process. It was this that signified to Skip At.w.a.ter that either Mrs. Anger or one of her apparatchiks had taken a direct hand. That he felt no discernible trace of either vindication or resentment about this was perhaps to his credit. What he did feel, suddenly and emphatically in the midst of the call, was that he might well be working for Laurel Manderley someday, that it would be she to whom he pitched pieces and pleaded for additional column inches.

For Laurel Manderley's own part, what she later realized she had been trying to do in the Tuesday afternoon telephone confab was to communicate her unease about the miraculous poo story without referring to her dream of spatial distortion and creeping evil in the Moltke couple's home. In the professional world, one does not invoke dreams in order to express reservations about an ongoing project. It just doesn't happen.

Skip At.w.a.ter said: 'Well, she did have my card. I gave her my card, of course. But not our Fed Ex number. You know I'd never do that.'

'But think-they got here Monday morning. Yesterday was Monday.'

'She spared no expense.'

'Skip,' Laurel Manderley said. 'Fed Ex isn't open on Sunday.'

The whisking sound stopped. 's.h.i.+t,' At.w.a.ter said.

'And I didn't even call them for the initial interview until almost Sat.u.r.day night.'

'And Fed Ex isn't apt to be open Sat.u.r.day night, either.'

'So the whole thing is just very creepy. So maybe you need to ask Mrs. Moltke what's going on.'

'You're saying she must have sent the pieces before you'd even called.' At.w.a.ter was not processing verbal information at his usual rate. One thing he was sure of was that he now had absolutely zero intention of telling Laurel Manderley about the potentially unethical fraternization in the Cavalier, which was also why he could say nothing to her of the whole knee issue.

A person who tended to have very little conscious recall of his own dreams, At.w.a.ter today could remember only the previous two nights' sensation of being somehow immersed in another human being, of having that person surround him like water or air. It did not exactly take an advanced clinical degree to interpret this dream. At most, Skip At.w.a.ter's mother had been only three fifths to two thirds the size of Amber Moltke, although if you considered Mrs. At.w.a.ter's size as it would appear to a small child, much of the disparity then vanished.

After the telephone conversation, seated there on the bed's protective towel, one of the other things that kept popping unbidden into At.w.a.ter's mind was the peculiar little unconscious signifier that Brint Moltke made when he sat, the strange abdominal circle or hole that he formed with his hands. He'd made the sign again today, in the home's kitchen, and At.w.a.ter could tell it was something Mr. Brint Moltke did a lot-it was in the way he sat, the way all of us have certain little trademark styles of gesturing when we speak or arranging various parts of our bodies when seated. In what he felt was his current state, At.w.a.ter's mind seemed able only to return to the image of the gesture again and again; he could get no further with it. In a similar vein, every time he had made a shorthand note to himself to inquire about the other side of the Moltkes' duplex, he would then promptly forget it. His stenographer's notebook later turned out to include a half dozen such notations. The clown's teeth were multicolored kernels of what At.w.a.ter's folks had called Indian corn, its hair a spherical nimbus of corn chaff, which happened to be the single most allergenic substance known to man. And yet at the same time the hands' circle seemed also a kind of signal, something that the artist perhaps wished to communicate to At.w.a.ter but didn't know how or was not even fully aware he wished to. The strange blank fixed smile was a different matter-it too was unsettling, but the journalist never felt that it might be trying to signify anything beyond itself.

At.w.a.ter had never before received any kind of s.e.xual injury. The discoloration was chiefly along the leg's outside, but the swelling involved the kneecap, and this was clearly what was causing the real pain. The area of bruising extended from just below the knee to the lower thigh; certain features of the car door's armrest and window's controls were directly imprinted in the bruise's center and already yellowing. The knee had felt constricted in his slacks' left leg all day. It gave off a radioactive ache and was sensitive to even the lightest contact. At.w.a.ter examined it, breathing through his teeth. He felt the distinctive blend of repulsion and fascination nearly all people feel when examining a diseased or injured part of themselves. He also had the feeling that the knee now somehow existed in a more solid and emphatic way than the rest of him around it. It was something like the way he used to feel at the mirror in the bathroom as a boy, examining his protuberant ears from all different angles. The room was on the Holiday Inn's second level and opened onto an exterior balcony that overlooked the pool; the cement stairs up had also hurt the knee. He couldn't straighten his leg out all the way. In the afternoon light, his calf and foot appeared pale and extremely hairy, perhaps abnormally hairy. There were also spatial issues. He had allowed it to occur to him that the bruising was actually trapped blood leaking from injured blood vessels under the skin, and that the changes in color were signs of the trapped blood decomposing under the skin and of the human body's attempts to deal with the decaying blood, and as a natural result he felt lightheaded and insubstantial and ill.

He was not so much injured as sore and more or less pummeled feeling elsewhere, as well.

Another childhood legacy: When anything painful or unpleasant happened to his body, Skip At.w.a.ter often got the queer sense that he was in fact not a body that occupied s.p.a.ce but rather just a bodyshaped area of s.p.a.ce itself, impenetrable but empty, with a certain vacuous roaring sensation we tend to a.s.sociate with empty s.p.a.ce. The whole thing was very private and difficult to describe, although At.w.a.ter had had a long and interesting off the record conversation about it with the Oregon multiple amputee who'd organized a series of high profile anti HMO events in 1999. It also now occurred to him for the first time that 'gone in the stomach,' which was a regional term for nausea he'd grown up with and then jettisoned after college, turned out to be a much more acute, concise descriptor than all the polysyllables he and the one legged activist had hurled at one another over the whole interior spatial displacement epiphenomenon.

There was something essentially soul killing about the print of the vegetable head clown that had made At.w.a.ter want to turn it to the wall, but it was bolted or glued and could not be moved. It was really on there, and At.w.a.ter now was trying to consider whether hanging a bath towel or something over it would or would not perhaps serve to draw emotional attention to the print and make it an even more oppressive part of the room for anyone who already knew what was under the towel. Whether the painting was worse actually seen or merely, so to speak, alluded to. Standing angled at the bathroom's exterior sink and mirror unit, it occurred to him that these were just the sorts of overabstract thoughts that occupied his mind in motels, instead of the arguably much more urgent and concrete problem of finding the television's remote control. For some reason, the controls on the TV itself were inactive, meaning that the remote was the only way to change channels or mute the volume or even turn the machine off, since the relevant plug and outlet were too far behind the dresser to reach and the dresser unit, like the excruciating print, was bolted to the wall and could not be budged. There was a low knocking at the door, which At.w.a.ter did not hear over the repet.i.tive tune and message because he was at the sink with the water running. Nor could he remember for certain whether it was heat or cold that was effective for swelling after almost 48 hours, though it was common knowledge that ice was what was indicated directly after. What he eventually decided was to prepare both a hot and a cold compress, and to alternate them, his left fist moving in self exhortation as he tried to recall his childhood scouting manual's protocol for contusions.

The second level's ice machine roared without cease in a large utility closet next to At.w.a.ter's room. His tie reknotted but the left leg of his slacks still rolled way up, the journalist had the Holiday Inn's distinctive lightweight ice bucket in his hand when he opened the door and stepped out into the ambient noise and chlorine smell of the balcony. His shoe nearly came down in the message before he saw it and stopped, one foot suspended in air, aware at the same time that chlorine was not the only scent in the balcony's wind. The " " HELP ME" HELP ME" was ornate and calligraphic, quotation marks sic. In overall design, it was not unlike the cursive was ornate and calligraphic, quotation marks sic. In overall design, it was not unlike the cursive HAPPY BIRTHDAY VIRGIL AND ROB, YMSP2 '00, HAPPY BIRTHDAY VIRGIL AND ROB, YMSP2 '00, and other phrases of decorative icing on certain parties' cakes of his experience. But it was not made of icing. That much was immediately, emphatically clear. and other phrases of decorative icing on certain parties' cakes of his experience. But it was not made of icing. That much was immediately, emphatically clear.

Holding the bucket, his ears crimson and partly denuded leg still raised, the journalist was paralyzed by the twin urges to examine the message's workmans.h.i.+p more closely and to get far away as quickly as possible, perhaps even to check out altogether. He knew that great force of will would be required to try to imagine the various postures and contractions involved in producing the phrase, its detached and plumb straight underscoring, the tiny and perfectly formed quotation marks. Part of him was aware that it had not yet occurred to him to consider what the phrase might actually mean or imply in this context. In a sense, the content of the message was obliterated by the overwhelming fact of its medium and implied mode of production. The phrase terminated neatly at the second E's serif; there was no tailing off or spotting.

A faint human sound made At.w.a.ter look hard right-an older couple in golfing visors stood some yards off outside their door, looking at him and the balcony's brown cri de coeur. The wife's expression pretty much said it all.

All salarymen, staff, and upper level interns at Style Style had free corporate members.h.i.+ps to the large fitness center located on the second underground level of the WTC's South Tower. The only expense was a monthly locker fee, which was well worth it if you didn't want to schlep a separate set of exercise clothing along with you to the offices every day. Two of the facility's walls were lined with mirrored plate. There were no windows, but the center's cardio fitness area was replete with raised banks of television monitors whose high gain audios could be accessed with ordinary Walkman headphones, and the channels could be changed via touchpad controls that were right there on the consoles of all the machines except the stationary bicycles, which themselves were somewhat crude and used mainly for spinning cla.s.ses, which were also offered gratis. had free corporate members.h.i.+ps to the large fitness center located on the second underground level of the WTC's South Tower. The only expense was a monthly locker fee, which was well worth it if you didn't want to schlep a separate set of exercise clothing along with you to the offices every day. Two of the facility's walls were lined with mirrored plate. There were no windows, but the center's cardio fitness area was replete with raised banks of television monitors whose high gain audios could be accessed with ordinary Walkman headphones, and the channels could be changed via touchpad controls that were right there on the consoles of all the machines except the stationary bicycles, which themselves were somewhat crude and used mainly for spinning cla.s.ses, which were also offered gratis.

At midday on Tuesday 3 July, Ellen Bactrian and Mrs. Anger's executive intern were on two of the elliptical training machines along the fitness center's north wall. Ellen Bactrian wore a dark gray Fila unitard with Reebok crosstrainers. There was a neoprene brace on her right knee, but it was mostly prophylactic, the legacy of a soccer injury at Wellesley three seasons past. Multicolored fairy lights on the machines' sides spelled out the brand name of the elliptical trainers. The executive intern, in the same ensemble she'd worn for biking in to the Style Style offices that morning, had programmed her machine to the same medium level of difficulty as Ellen Bactrian's, as a kind of courtesy. offices that morning, had programmed her machine to the same medium level of difficulty as Ellen Bactrian's, as a kind of courtesy.

It being the lunch hour, the center's cardio fitness area was almost fully occupied. Every elliptical trainer was in use, though only a few of the interns were using headsets. The nearby StairMasters were used almost exclusively by midlevel financial a.n.a.lysts, all of whom had bristly cybernetic haircuts. Not for over 40 years had the crewcut and variations upon it been so popular; a SURFACES SURFACES item on the phenom was not long in the offing. item on the phenom was not long in the offing.

Certain parts of a four way internal email exchange Tuesday morning had concerned what specified type(s) of piece the magazine should require the Indianan to produce under tightly controlled circ.u.mstances in order to verify that his abilities were not a hoax or some tasteless case of idiot savantism. The fourth member of this exchange had been the photo intern whose mammoth engagement ring at Tutti Mangia had occasioned so much cattiness during yesterday's SE2 closing. Some of the specs proposed for the authenticity test were: A 0.5 reproduction of the Academy Awards' well known Oscar statuette, G. W. F. Hegel's image of Napoleon as the world spirit on horseback, a WWII Pers.h.i.+ng tank with rotating turret, any coherently identifiable detail from Rodin's The Gates of h.e.l.l, The Gates of h.e.l.l, a buck with a twelve point rack, either the upper or lower portion of the ancient Etruscan a buck with a twelve point rack, either the upper or lower portion of the ancient Etruscan Mars of Todi, Mars of Todi, and the well known tableau of several US Marines planting the flag on an Iwo Jiman atoll. The idea of any sort of Crucifixion or and the well known tableau of several US Marines planting the flag on an Iwo Jiman atoll. The idea of any sort of Crucifixion or Pieta Pieta type piece was flamed the moment it was proposed. Although Skip At.w.a.ter had not yet been given his specific marching orders, Mrs. Anger's executive intern and Ellen Bactrian were both currently leaning toward a representation of the famous photograph in which Marilyn Monroe's skirts are blown upward by some type of vent in the sidewalk and the expression on her face is, to say the least, intimately familiar to readers of type piece was flamed the moment it was proposed. Although Skip At.w.a.ter had not yet been given his specific marching orders, Mrs. Anger's executive intern and Ellen Bactrian were both currently leaning toward a representation of the famous photograph in which Marilyn Monroe's skirts are blown upward by some type of vent in the sidewalk and the expression on her face is, to say the least, intimately familiar to readers of Style. Style.

Some of the internal email exchange's topics and arguments had carried over into various different lunchtime colloquies and brainstorming sessions, including the present one in the World Trade Center's corporate fitness facility, which proceeded more or less naturally because an axiom of elliptical cardio conditioning is that your target heartrate and respiration are to stay just at the upper limit of what allows for normal conversation.

'But is the physical, so to speak handmade character of a piece of art part of the artwork's overall quality?'

That is, in elliptical training you want your breathing to be deep and rapid but not labored-Ellen Bactrian's rhetorical question took only a tiny bit longer to get out than a normal, at rest rhetorical question.

The executive intern responded: 'Do we all really value a painting more than a photograph anymore?'

'Let's say we do.'

The executive intern laughed. 'That's almost a textbook pet.i.tio principii.' She actually p.r.o.nounced principii correctly, which almost no one can do.

'A great painting certainly sells for more than a great photograph, doesn't it?'

The executive intern was silent for several broad quadular movements of the elliptical trainer. Then she said: 'Why not just say rather that Style' Style's readers.h.i.+p would not have a problem with the a.s.sumption that a good painting or sculpture is intrinsically better, more human and meaningful, than a good photo.'

Often, editorial brainstorming sounds like an argument, but it isn't-it's two or more people thinking aloud in a directed way. Mrs. Anger herself sometimes referred to the brainstorming process as dilation, but this was a vestige of her Fleet Street background, and no one on her staff aped the phrase.

A woman about their mothers' age was exhibiting near perfect technique on a rowing machine in the mirror, mouthing the words to what Ellen Bactrian thought she recognized as a Venetian bacarole. The other rowing machine was vacant. Ellen Bactrian said: 'But now, if we agree the human element's key, then does the physical process or processes by which the painting is produced, or any artwork, have anything to do with the artwork's quality?'

'By quality you're still referring to how good it is.'

It is difficult to shrug on an elliptical trainer. 'Good quote unquote.'

'Then the answer again is that what we're interested in is human interest, not some abstract aesthetic value.'

'And yet isn't the point that they're not mutually exclusive? How about all Pica.s.so's affairs, or the thing with van Gogh's ear?'

'Yes, but van Gogh didn't paint with his ear.'

By habit, Ellen Bactrian avoided looking directly at their side by side reflections in the mirrored wall. The executive intern was at least three inches taller than she. The sounds of all the young men's legs working the StairMasters were at certain points syncopated, then not, then gradually syncopated again. The two editorial interns' movements on the elliptical trainers, on the other hand, appeared synchronized down to the smallest detail. Each of them had a bottle of water with a sports cap in her elliptical trainer's special receptacle, although they were not the same brands of bottled water. The fitness center's sonic environment was basically one large, complex, and rhythmic pneumatic clank.

Between breaths, an ever so slightly peevish or impatient tone entered Ellen Bactrian's voice: 'Then, say, the My Left Foot My Left Foot guy who painted with his left foot.' guy who painted with his left foot.'

'Or the idiot savant who can reproduce Chopin after one hearing,' the executive intern said. This was an indirect bit of ma.s.saging on her part, since there had been a WITW WITW profile of just such an idiot savant in an issue the previous summer-the piece's UBA was that the r.e.t.a.r.ded man's mother had battled heroically to keep him out of an inst.i.tution. profile of just such an idiot savant in an issue the previous summer-the piece's UBA was that the r.e.t.a.r.ded man's mother had battled heroically to keep him out of an inst.i.tution.

Under the diffused high lumen lights of the cardio fitness area, the executive intern's quads and delts seemed like something out of an advertis.e.m.e.nt. Ellen Bactrian was fit and attractive, with a perfectly respectable body fat percentage, but around the executive intern she often felt squat and dumpy. An unhealthy part of her sometimes suspected that the executive intern liked exercising with her because it made her, the executive intern, feel comparatively even more willowy and scintillant and buff. What neither Ellen Bactrian nor anyone else at Style Style knew was that the executive intern had had a dark period in preparatory school during which she'd made scores of tiny cuts in the tender skin of her upper arms' insides and then squeezed reconst.i.tuted lemon juice into the cuts as penance for a long list of personal shortcomings, a list she had tracked daily in her journal in a special numerical key code that was totally unbreakable unless you knew exactly which page of knew was that the executive intern had had a dark period in preparatory school during which she'd made scores of tiny cuts in the tender skin of her upper arms' insides and then squeezed reconst.i.tuted lemon juice into the cuts as penance for a long list of personal shortcomings, a list she had tracked daily in her journal in a special numerical key code that was totally unbreakable unless you knew exactly which page of The Bell Jar The Bell Jar the code's numbers were keyed to. Those days were now behind her, but they were still part of who the executive intern was. the code's numbers were keyed to. Those days were now behind her, but they were still part of who the executive intern was.

'Yes,' Ellen Bactrian said, 'although, although I'm no art critic, Skip's guy's pieces are also artworks of surpa.s.sing quality and value in their own right.'

'Although of course all the readers will get to see is photos -'

'Maybe.' Both interns laughed briefly. The issue of publishable photos had been one they'd all agreed that morning to table-there were, as the Both interns laughed briefly. The issue of publishable photos had been one they'd all agreed that morning to table-there were, as the WITW WITW a.s.sociate editor sometimes liked to quip, bigger fish on the front burner. a.s.sociate editor sometimes liked to quip, bigger fish on the front burner.

Ellen Bactrian said: 'Although remember that even photos, if Amine's to be believed, if absolutely properly lit and detailed so that -'

'Except hold on, answer this-does this person have to actually be familiar familiar with something to represent it the way he does?' with something to represent it the way he does?'

Both women were at a node of their computerized workout and were breathing almost heavily now. Amine Tadic' was Style Style magazine's a.s.sociate photo editor; her head intern had served as her proxy in the morning's email confab. magazine's a.s.sociate photo editor; her head intern had served as her proxy in the morning's email confab.

Ellen Bactrian said: 'What do you mean?'

'According to Laurel, this is a person with maybe like a year or two of community college. How on earth would he know Boccioni's Unique Forms of Continuity in s.p.a.ce, Unique Forms of Continuity in s.p.a.ce, or what Anubis's head looks like?' or what Anubis's head looks like?'

'Or for that matter which side the Liberty Bell's crack's on.'

'I sure didn't know it.'

Ellen Bactrian laughed. 'Laurel did. Or she said she did-obviously she could have looked it up.' Ellen Bactrian was also, on her own time, trying to learn how to type completely different things with each hand, a la the WHAT IN THE WORLD WHAT IN THE WORLD section's a.s.sociate editor, for whom she had certain feelings that she knew perfectly well were SOP transference for an intelligent, ambitious woman her age, since the a.s.sociate editor was both seductive and a textbook authority figure. Ellen Bactrian liked the a.s.sociate editor's wife quite a lot, actually, and so took great pains to keep the whole bimanual thing in perspective. section's a.s.sociate editor, for whom she had certain feelings that she knew perfectly well were SOP transference for an intelligent, ambitious woman her age, since the a.s.sociate editor was both seductive and a textbook authority figure. Ellen Bactrian liked the a.s.sociate editor's wife quite a lot, actually, and so took great pains to keep the whole bimanual thing in perspective.

The executive intern was able to reach down and hydrate without breaking rhythm, which on an elliptical trainer takes a great deal of practice. 'I'm saying: Does the man have to see or know something in order to represent it? Produce it? Let's say that if he does and it's all totally conscious and intentional, then he's a real artist.'

'But if he doesn't -'

'Which is why the unlikeliness of a Roto Rooter guy from Nowhere Indiana knowing futurism or the Unique Forms Unique Forms is relevant,' the executive intern said, wiping her forehead with a terry wristband. is relevant,' the executive intern said, wiping her forehead with a terry wristband.

'If he doesn't, it's some kind of, what, a miracle? Idiot savantry? Divine intervention?'

'Or else some kind of extremely sick fraud.'

Fraud was a frightening word to them both, for obvious reasons. One consequence of getting Mrs. Anger's executive intern in on the miraculous poo story was that Eckleschafft-Bod US's Legal people were now involved and devoting resources to the piece in a way that Laurel Manderley and Ellen Bactrian could never have caused, even given the WITW WITW a.s.sociate editor's own background in Legal. BSG weeklies rarely broke stories or covered anything that other media hadn't already premasticated. The prospect was both exciting and frightful. a.s.sociate editor's own background in Legal. BSG weeklies rarely broke stories or covered anything that other media hadn't already premasticated. The prospect was both exciting and frightful.

The executive intern said: 'Or else maybe it's subconscious. Maybe his colon somehow knows things his conscious mind doesn't.'

'Is it the colon that determines the whole shape and configuration and everything of the . . . you know?'

The executive intern made a face. 'I don't know. I don't really want to think about it.'

'What is the colon, anyhow? Is it part of the intestines or is it technically its own organ?'

Ellen Bactrian's and the executive intern's fathers were both MDs in Westchester County NY, though the two men practiced different medical specialties and had never met. The executive intern periodically reversed the direction of her elliptical trainer's pedals, working her quadriceps and calves instead of the hamstrings and lower gluteals. Her facial expression throughout these periods of reversal was both intent and abstracted.

'Either way,' Ellen Bactrian said, 'it's obviously human interest right out the wazoo.' She then related the anecdote that Laurel Manderley had shared with her in the elevators on the way back down from the 82nd floor early that morning, about the DKNY clad circulation intern at lunch telling everybody that she sometimes pretended her waste was a baby and then expecting them to relate or to think her candor was somehow hip or brave.

For a moment there was nothing but the sound of two syncopated elliptical trainers. Then the executive intern said: 'There's a way to do this.' She blotted momentarily at her upper lip with the inside of her wristband. 'Joan would say we've been thinking about this all wrong. We've been thinking about the subject of of the piece instead of the angle the piece instead of the angle for for the piece.' Joan referred to Mrs. Anger, the Executive Editor of the piece.' Joan referred to Mrs. Anger, the Executive Editor of Style. Style.

'The UBA's been a problem from the start,' Ellen Bactrian said. 'What I told -'

The executive intern interrupted: 'There doesn't have to be a strict UBA, though, because we can take the piece out of WHAT IN THE WORLD WHAT IN THE WORLD and do it in and do it in SOCIETY PAGES. SOCIETY PAGES. Is the miraculous poo phenomenon art, or miracle, or just disgusting.' She seemed not to be aware that her limbs' forward speed had increased; she was now forcing her workout's program instead of following it. Is the miraculous poo phenomenon art, or miracle, or just disgusting.' She seemed not to be aware that her limbs' forward speed had increased; she was now forcing her workout's program instead of following it. SOCIETY PAGES SOCIETY PAGES was the section of was the section of Style Style devoted to soft coverage of social issues such as postnatal depression and the rain forest. According to the magazine's editorial template, devoted to soft coverage of social issues such as postnatal depression and the rain forest. According to the magazine's editorial template, SP SP items ran up to 600 words as opposed to items ran up to 600 words as opposed to WITW WITW's 400.

Ellen Bactrian said: 'Meaning we include some bites from credible sources who think it is is disgusting. We have Skip create controversy in the piece itself.' It was true that her use of At.w.a.ter's name in the remark was somewhat strategic-there were complex turf issues involved in altering a piece's venue within the magazine, and Ellen Bactrian could well imagine the disgusting. We have Skip create controversy in the piece itself.' It was true that her use of At.w.a.ter's name in the remark was somewhat strategic-there were complex turf issues involved in altering a piece's venue within the magazine, and Ellen Bactrian could well imagine the WITW WITW a.s.sociate editor's facial expression and some of the cynical jokes he might make in order to mask his hurt at being shut out of the story altogether. a.s.sociate editor's facial expression and some of the cynical jokes he might make in order to mask his hurt at being shut out of the story altogether.

'No,' the executive intern responded. 'Not quite. We don't create the controversy, we cover it.' She was checking her sports watch even though there were digital clocks right there on the machines' consoles. Both women had met or exceeded their target heartrate for over half an hour.

A short time later, they were in the little tiled area where people toweled off after a shower. At this time of day, the locker room was steamy and extremely crowded. The executive intern looked like something out of Norse mythology. The hundreds of tiny parallel scars on the insides of her upper arms were all but invisible. It is a fact of life that certain people are corrosive to others' self esteem simply as a function of who and what they are. The executive intern was saying: 'The real angle is about coverage. Style Style is not foisting a gross or potentially offensive story on its readers. Rather, is not foisting a gross or potentially offensive story on its readers. Rather, Style Style is doing soft coverage on a controversial story that already exists.' is doing soft coverage on a controversial story that already exists.'

Ellen Bactrian had two towels, one of which she had wrapped around her head in an immense lavender turban. 'So At.w.a.ter will just rotate over and do it for SOCIETY PAGES, SOCIETY PAGES, you're saying? Or will Genevieve want to send in her own salaryman?' Genevieve was the given name of the new a.s.sociate editor in charge of you're saying? Or will Genevieve want to send in her own salaryman?' Genevieve was the given name of the new a.s.sociate editor in charge of SOCIETY PAGES, SOCIETY PAGES, with whom Ellen Bactrian's overman had already locked horns several times in editorial meetings. with whom Ellen Bactrian's overman had already locked horns several times in editorial meetings.

The executive intern had inclined her head over to the side and was combing out a shower related tangle with her fingers. As was something of an unconscious habit, she bit gently at her lower lip in concentration. 'I'm like ninety percent sure this is the way to go,' she said. 'Style is covering the human element of a controversy that's already raging.' At this point, they were at their rented lockers, which, in contradistinction to those on the men's side, were full length in order to facilitate hanging. Painstakingly modified with portable inset shelving and adhesive hooks, both the women's locker units were small marvels of organization. is covering the human element of a controversy that's already raging.' At this point, they were at their rented lockers, which, in contradistinction to those on the men's side, were full length in order to facilitate hanging. Painstakingly modified with portable inset shelving and adhesive hooks, both the women's locker units were small marvels of organization.

Ellen Bactrian said: 'Meaning it will need to be done somewhere else first. SOCIETY PAGES SOCIETY PAGES covers the coverage and the controversy.' She favored Gaultier pinstripe slacks and sleeveless cashmere tops that could be worn either solo or under a jacket. So long as the slacks and top were in the same color family, sleeveless could still be all business-Mrs. Anger had taught them all that. covers the coverage and the controversy.' She favored Gaultier pinstripe slacks and sleeveless cashmere tops that could be worn either solo or under a jacket. So long as the slacks and top were in the same color family, sleeveless could still be all business-Mrs. Anger had taught them all that.

In what appeared to be another unconscious habit, the executive intern sometimes actually pressed the heel of her hand into her forehead when she was thinking especially hard. In a way, it was her version of Skip At.w.a.ter's capital flush. The opinion of nearly all the magazine's other interns was that the executive intern was operating on a level where she didn't have to be concerned about things like color families or maintaining a cool professional demeanor.

'But it can't be too big,' she said.

'The piece, or the venue?' Ellen Bactrian always had to pat the ear with all the studs in it dry with a disposable little antibiotic cloth.

'We don't want Style Style readers to already know the story. This is the tricky part. We want them to feel as if readers to already know the story. This is the tricky part. We want them to feel as if Style Style is their first exposure to a story whose existence still precedes their seeing it.' is their first exposure to a story whose existence still precedes their seeing it.'

'In a media sense, you mean.'

The executive intern's skirt was made of several dozen men's neckties all st.i.tched together lengthwise in a complicated way. She and a Mauritanian exchange student in THE THUMB THE THUMB who wore hallucinatorily colored tribal garb were the only two interns at who wore hallucinatorily colored tribal garb were the only two interns at Style Style who could get away with this sort of thing. It was actually the executive intern, at a working lunch two summers past, who had originally compared Skip At.w.a.ter to a jockey who'd broken training, though she had said it in a light and almost affectionate way-coming from her, it had not sounded cruel. Over Memorial Day weekend, she had actually been a guest of Mrs. Anger at her summer home in Quogue, where she had reportedly played mahjongg with none other than Mrs. Hans G. Bod. Her future seemed literally without limit. who could get away with this sort of thing. It was actually the executive intern, at a working lunch two summers past, who had originally compared Skip At.w.a.ter to a jockey who'd broken training, though she had said it in a light and almost affectionate way-coming from her, it had not sounded cruel. Over Memorial Day weekend, she had actually been a guest of Mrs. Anger at her summer home in Quogue, where she had reportedly played mahjongg with none other than Mrs. Hans G. Bod. Her future seemed literally without limit.

'Yes, though again, it's delicate,' the executive intern said. 'Think of it as not unlike the Bush daughters, or that thing last Christmas on Dodi's driver.' These were rough a.n.a.logies, but they did convey to Ellen Bactrian the executive intern's basic thrust. In a broad sense, the cover the extant story angle was one of the standard ways BSGs distinguished themselves from both hard news glossies and the tabloids. On another level, Ellen Bactrian was also being informed that the overall piece was still her and the WHAT IN THE WORLD WHAT IN THE WORLD a.s.sociate editor's baby; and the executive intern's repeated use of terms like tricky and delicate was designed both to flatter Ellen Bactrian and to apprise her that her editorial skill set would be amply tested by the challenges ahead. a.s.sociate editor's baby; and the executive intern's repeated use of terms like tricky and delicate was designed both to flatter Ellen Bactrian and to apprise her that her editorial skill set would be amply tested by the challenges ahead.

Gaultier slacks held their crease a great deal better if your hanger had clips and they could hang from the cuffs. The voluptuous humidity of the locker room was actually good for the tiny wrinkles that always acc.u.mulated through the morning. Unbeknownst to Ellen Bactrian, lower level interns often referred to her and the executive intern in the same hushed and venerative tones. A constant sense that she was insufficient and ever at risk of exposing her incompetence was one of the ways Ellen Bactrian kept her edge. Were she to learn that she, too, was virtually a.s.sured of a salaried offer from Style Style at her interns.h.i.+p's end, she would literally be unable to process the information-it might well send her over the edge, the executive intern knew. The way the girl now pressed at her forehead in unconscious imitation of the executive intern was a sign of just the kind of core insecurity the executive intern was trying to mitigate by bringing her along slowly and structuring their conversations as brainstorming rather than, for instance, her simply outright telling Ellen Bactrian how the miraculous poo story should be structured so that everyone made out. The executive intern was one of the greatest, most intuitive nurturers of talent Mrs. Anger had ever seen-and she herself had interned under Katharine Graham, back in the day. at her interns.h.i.+p's end, she would literally be unable to process the information-it might well send her over the edge, the executive intern knew. The way the girl now pressed at her forehead in unconscious imitation of the executive intern was a sign of just the kind of core insecurity the executive intern was trying to mitigate by bringing her along slowly and structuring their conversations as brainstorming rather than, for instance, her simply outright telling Ellen Bactrian how the miraculous poo story should be structured so that everyone made out. The executive intern was one of the greatest, most intuitive nurturers of talent Mrs. Anger had ever seen-and she herself had interned under Katharine Graham, back in the day.

'So it can't be too big,' Ellen Bactrian was saying, first one hand against the locker and then the other as she adjusted her Blahniks' straps. She now spoke in the half dreamy way of cla.s.sic brainstorming. 'Meaning we don't totally sacrifice the scoop element. We need just enough of a prior venue so the story already exists. We're covering a controversy instead of profiling some freakoid whose b.m. comes out in the shape of Anubis's head.' Her hair had almost completely air dried already.

The executive intern's belt for the skirt was two feet of good double hemp nautical rope. Her sandals were Laurent, open toe heels that went with nearly anything. She tied the ankles' straps with half hitches and began to apply just the tiniest bit of clear gloss. Ellen Bactrian had now turned and was looking at her: 'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'

Their eyes met in the compact's little mirror, and the executive intern smiled coolly. 'Your salaryman's already out there. You said he's shuttling between the two pieces already, no?'

Ellen Bactrian said: 'But is there actual suffering involved?' She was already constructing a mental flow chart of calls to be made and arrangements undertaken and then dividing the overall list between herself and Laurel Manderley, whom she now considered a bit of a pistol.

'Well, listen-can he take orders?'

'Skip? Skip's a consummate pro.'

The executive intern was adjusting the balloon sleeves of her blouse. 'And according to him, the miraculous poo man is skittish on the story?'

'The word Laurel says Skip used was excruciated.'

'Is that even a word?'

'It's apparently totally the wife's show, in terms of publicity. The artist guy is scared of his own shadow-according to Laurel, he's sitting there flas.h.i.+ng Skip secret signs like No, please G.o.d, no.'

'So how hard could it be to represent this to At.w.a.ter's All Ads person as comprising bona fide suffering?'

Ellen Bactrian's mental flow charts often contained actual boxes, Roman numerals, and multiarrow graphics-that's how gifted an administrator she was. 'You're talking about something live, then.'

'With the proviso that of course it's all academic until this afternoon's tests check out.'

'But do we know for sure he'll even go for it?'

The executive intern never brushed her hair after a shower. She just gave her head two or three shakes and let it fall gloriously where it might and turned, slightly, to give Ellen Bactrian the full effect: 'Who?' She had ten weeks to live.