THE EDITOR

Chris Skiles

 

IT was a pipingly hot,

Yet rainy day. The intern

Looking down sheepishly, first

At his watch, then the editor’s clock

Began to think of his wife

And newfound baby,

Born ona day, not quite

So rainy. The intern looked at the editor

In slick, merino slacks

And a white silk shirt.

 

The day had been a long one,

And, the intern, worried about proving

His worth, had sent a text as a curse

To his wife, with the baby, now nearing five,

The baby’s mouth none the less gaping wide.

 

“Well,” the editor said. He was smoking a pipe

He had gotten long ago

No doubt, from an

Offshore, exotic foreign coast.

 

The intern, looking at his coat on

The far room wall

Thought of a way to

Stall, his impending doom.

 

Not the worst worker, you ever met

Yet I say to this day with

Some regret,

Not the best.

 

“All the people who laugh hysterically;

Who do not agree.”

 

“Oh, I see,” the intern said. He was beginning to wish

He was dead. In response, he said, “How come

There are all the buzzards here. What is dead

For so many to appear?

There’s not that much life loss

Around here. Or is it?”

 

“I don’t know,” the editor said, perplexed.

“I wish I knew. Say, throw that paper over here.”

 

“This here?” the intern said. He chucked it

Missing the bed

Of papers stacked, taking up half the rack

Of the editor’s shelf.

 

“A review,” he said.

“Of something long dead, of something once led

Out by the demons of Hell.”

 

“Will it sell?” the intern said.

“It was written by a student

Not so prudent.

Time will tell.”

 

A long silence

Ensued the editor and intern.

The editor was smoking his pipe

The smoke making an entrail

Leading up to the ceiling fan,

Surrounding the desk.

 

The intern, trying to look smart, trying

To play his part, looked

Up, at the shelf.

“There’s nothing this man can’t do

My worth must be proved,”

He half muttered, half

Thought to himself.

 

“What?” the editor said,

Ejaculated, raising up

In a sudden movement

Of his easy chair

His back in slight disrepair,

Choking on some tobacco.

 

“Nothing,” the intern said, looking up.

“Just talking to myself.”

 

“Uhummm…” the editor said. He continued

In his concentrated, yet easy trance

Leaning back in his chair;

“He must give me a chance,”

 

The intern

Thought to himself, more silently now.

He wondered if he should do something, but

“How…?” The editor once again starting up

Ejaculated, putting his tobacco stub,

Loading it once again.

 

“This paper states,” he said, clearing hs throat

“It is not a sin

To be gay. Well, I’d say

It’s not a sin to be straight, either.”

 

Looking at the intern, he took a breath

From the pipe smoke he had apparently been choking on

While the intern, suddenly looking up

Knew he had been asked upon.

 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Instead of picking

Up, his

Thoughts began to slow.

 

“Huhummm…” the editor said, setting down his pipe.

“Time will show…”

 

“Excuse me,” the intern said.

All thoughts of excuse or reason

Had fled

His tiny mind.

He knew his ass was on the grind.

 

The editor looked up, then down at his watch and fob—

It was after five.

“If there’s something I can do

Or to you to prove

I’d love to do it,

Even to give my own life.”

 

“Well, it’s after five,” the editor said.

The intern looked up, and wished no longer

He was dead.

 

The editor, smoking once again, his eyes

A puffy red,

Said,

“Well, you can push the envelope for me,

Get here tomorrow no later than three,

Then we will see

If you can prove your worth to me

On a drowsy day,

Or an electric night

 

In you, I think,

I can find some delight.

Some light, at the end of my day

Before I take my drawers off

And kneel down to pray.”

“Yes,” he said, the smoke from his pipe clearing.

“I think you can stay.”

 

The intern was relieved

And none the less pleased

But none the less an employee.

 

“Employed to what?” he said to himself.

He was not quite sure how

He could sell his soul

To the devil;

All the wife’s wants

And his troubles.

 

He looked up at the top shelves.

“There’s nothing this man can’t do.”

He said to himself.

And that’s all the story

The editor had to say.