Boris Fishman - A Replacement Life

There was a commotion down the hall. Through the knuckles rubbing his eyes, he registered Beau making his way toward the Junior Staff pen. As Beau passed, the heads of writers and editors popped out of the offices that lined the hallway, several deciding to join the boss’s procession, as if he were leading a chorus. By the time Beau arrived in front of Junior Staff, he had an entourage.

“Morning,” Beau said, surveying the Juniors. With two thumbs, he snapped his suspenders. He held a box cutter. “Mr. Grayson?” he called out. With a great exhalation, Junior Staff’s bow-tied captain bounced from his chair. (Mr. Grayson smoked three packs of Merits a day. For his seventieth birthday, the Juniors threw together to get him a carton of Nat Shermans from the Forty-Second Street store, and he still coughed out praise of their fine smoke two years later, though everyone knew they remained untouched in the bottom drawer of his desk.)

Mr. Grayson declined the bald globe of his head. “Mr. Reasons?”

“How many ad pages this issue?”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Mr. Grayson said, regarding the floor. “I’ll have to count to be sure. Sixty-four, I believe, Mr. Reasons. Sixty-four. Don’t quote me on that.”

“Sixty-four!” Beau yelled. “What was it two years ago?”

The eyes of Junior Staff swiveled back to Mr. Grayson.

“In the twenty-to-thirty range,” Mr. Grayson said obediently. “Is my best recollection.”

“Twenty to thirty,” Beau said chidingly. “And what was two years ago?”

“I believe when you started, Mr. Reasons,” Mr. Grayson confirmed bashfully.

“I raise ad pages twofold — more — and what kind of letters do we get?” Beau said. “‘Too many ads.’ It takes them an hour to find the first story.” He held up his hands. “But that’s fine. We’re in the business of serving our readers. We’re going to change the layout designs. Starting next month, you’ll be able to order the magazine in three versions: the regular, the low-ad, and the no-ad. Like milk. But it has to go manual for an issue or two before the layouts are reprogrammed. Who’s the Layout liaison among you?”

Heads turned to Avi Liss, who raised his hand fearfully.

“So you’ll be the point man,” Beau said. He held up the box cutter. “This is top-of-the-line, okay? One slice and it’s out, straight down the margin. Watch your fingers — this thing can cut glass.”

Avi remained seated, so Beau waved the box cutter impatiently at his employee. “But—” Avi said.

“You don’t have to do all three million!” Beau said, laughing. “It’s a pilot thing. Twenty thousand. Give or take.”

Avi walked up to Beau, closed his fingers around the cutter, and returned to his desk shamefully. Silence took over, ringing phones filling the void. Beau stared at the Juniors. The Juniors stared at their boss.

“That was a joke,” Beau said disappointedly. He turned to the editors behind him. “It was funny back there.” He turned back to Avi. “Give me that razor.”

Avi, his head hung, returned the box cutter, several obliging titters rising from the crowd.

Slava peered at the next newspaper in his pile, wishing Beau would get on with it. On the front page was a photo of earthmovers by a riverbank. A flub invented itself, along with a newspaper to shame:

Paiute (Col.) Star-Bulletin : “During the night, the concrete pilings meant to hold back the river gave way. ‘I’ll be damned,’ Mac Turpentine, the lead engineer, said on sighting the bedlam at dawn.”

Century : “The river won’t be.”

“Good issue next week,” Slava heard Beau say, nodding at Peter. Slava burned in his seat a little. “I need to know where we are on a couple of things.”

Rinkelrinck (Ark.) Gazette : “Drivers on eastbound U.S. 36 over the weekend reported a naked man on the shoulder by Exit 11, near Fran’s Fry-Up. He was brandishing a samurai sword at passing drivers, though he did not cross into traffic. He was taken into custody but almost released due to the absence of penal code for the offense in question. Finally, he was charged with public exposure while displaying a dangerous weapon.”

Century : “He also had a samurai sword.”

Slava’s desk phone rang: 718. Brooklyn. He didn’t recognize the number. In the brief pause of Beau’s monologue, the ring was shrill and grating. Slava grabbed the receiver and lowered it back into the cradle.

“Mr. Headey,” Beau said. “Where are we on food flavoring?”

You just had to give it some specific detail — Fran’s Fry-Up — and it sounded real. You might even get away with inventing a town called Rinkelrinck. Let Paul Shank notice. Finally, he would notice.

Charlie Headey answered Beau in too much detail. Beau politely heard him out, feeling bad about the box cutter. Then he turned to Avi Liss and asked about the layout, though he knew perfectly well from the Layout department. Reliably, Ari flubbed the offer of rehabilitation, mumbling for eternity about sources and deadlines.

“Ms. Bock—‘Missing Leonardo’?” Beau said.

Arianna delivered a false claim of progress, swiftly and briefly; she had barely started. Beau’s eyes thanked her for her quiet efficiency.

Fanning (North Dak.) Advertiser : “In response to the mayor’s claim that the ball was dropped by the developer, Dakota Properties cried foul. ‘That’s a red herring,’ Jim Foulbrush, the CEO, said to reporters. ‘They’re after me like a hungry pack of wolves because they need a straw man.’”

Century: “Hold those horses, McCoy.”

The phone rang again. Slava would really have to change the ringtone. He peered at the display — same number. Watching Beau recede down the hallway, he snatched the receiver.

“Allo ?” a hoarse voice said in Russian. “ Allo ?”

“Yes?” Slava answered obediently.

“You are being called by Israel Abramson,” the caller announced. “ Allo ? You are very difficult to hear.” A throat was cleared on the other end. “Excuse me.” Then, with a mix of apology and disappointment: “You are busy?”

“Busy?” Slava said. “No. I’m sorry, who is this?”

“I heard about the letter you wrote for your grandfather,” Israel said. “It’s very good.”

Slava was stunned into silence. It couldn’t be. “I didn’t write any letters for my grandfather,” he said quickly.

“Take it easy, young gun,” Israel said. “Your secret’s safe with me. By the way, Israel’s not my real name. I took it when we came here, to show my support. It was Iosif before, but you know who else had that name.”

Slava didn’t say anything, his mind scrambling. Did Century keep phone records?

“Stalin!” Israel said. “You don’t know history? That butcher. In 1952, my cousin was working at the Second Children’s Hospital—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Slava said. “Israel… I’m sorry — what’s your patronymic?”

“Good manners still, that’s nice,” he said. “Arkadievich. Israel Arkadievich.”

“You… you…” Slava said.

“You want me to get to the point,” Israel said. “I understand completely. I want you to write a letter for me also. You wrote a pretty good letter for your grandfather. You need to pinch a couple of things here and there, but otherwise. I do some writing myself, I understand these things.”

“Maybe you should write it yourself,” Slava said. “Just to make sure you get everything right.”

“Oh, don’t be a schoolgirl.”

“I don’t want to talk about this at work,” Slava said. “How did you get my phone number?”

“The ghetto inmate himself gave it to me.”