“What’s wrong with this giraffe?” Max asked.
“It’s not right,” David snapped.
We were in the conference room at the publishing office. I, physically weary and mentally exhausted, propped my head up on my elbows and watched them in the back-and-forth way one watches a game of ping-pong.
“It’s a giraffe,” Max said wearily. He leaned back in his chair and polished his glasses on his tie.
He was just as tired as I was. It was six-eleven in the morning and we were trying to fit as many meetings in as we could between my classes and Max’s schedule. David seemed to have all the time in the world, and of course he was the only one who wasn’t tired. He was pacing.
“Of course it is,” David said acidly. “Any half-wit can see that. It’s not the right giraffe. Lissy doesn’t seem to understand the material.”
What the fuck was there to understand? “It’s a children’s story,” I said.
Max nodded, agreeing with me.
“No shit,” David said. “You just don’t understand the heart of the material. Alice. Listen to me. Anthropomorphism.” He carefully enunciated every syllable. “You know what that is?”
“Yes,” I said, thinking about how my hands were distorting my speech. I sounded fat and slurry, kind of like a drunk Cartman. Was that funny? Was that usable in any way?
“It’s lacking!” David shouted.
“I disagree,” Max said.
“Thank you,” I said, sitting up straight. Jesus. Max was dry, but at least he wasn’t a complete raving lunatic. Unlike SOME people.
“Sure you do,” David said, sitting down hard. “It’s not your work, Max. I think I understand my own work.”
Now he sounded tired.
“You do realize,” Max said, leaning even further back in his chair so he could look down his nose, “that this is exactly the kind of obsessive-compulsive behavior that has driven away every single one of your other illustrators?”
“I’m not obsessive-compulsive.”
“This is exactly what has reduced us to hiring art-school students.” Max paused. “No offense, Alice.”
“None taken.”
“Now,” Max said, sitting up straight, “the deadline is quite literally right around the corner.”
“Figuratively,” David snapped. “You’re an editor, Max, for Chrissake!”
“Alice, I feel that this current giraffe is perfectly suitable.”
“Fucking mother of God —” David said.
“And,” Max continued, gritting his teeth, “if you would be so kind as to reproduce it wherever necessary, that would be absolutely splendid.”
“Fine.” I didn’t really know what else to say. He wanted that giraffe, he would have that giraffe. I was really beyond caring at this point.
"We'll meet up tomorrow morning, same time. Alice, do you think you can finish up tonight with those reworkings we discussed?"
"Absolutely," I said.
"Splendid," Max said.
David opened his mouth, closed it, covered his hand with his fist, crossed his legs, and looked like he was about to jump out of his skin.
I was about to ask, for the hundredth time, why this man wrote children’s books, of all things, when he should have been writing cautionary tales about the evils of meth use. Then I remembered he’d already tried that.
Labels: january brings few faces
