convinced that she was about to be dismissed.
“I had my trepidations about hiring a Stanford English major, but you assured me that you understood the simple, basic requirements of writing pulp romance.”
“I guess I just thought I was supposed to write about sex without being vulgar.”
“I have no complaints about the way you write your sex scenes, it’s what surrounds them that’s the problem. This is a genre with particular requirements, Hazel, among the most important of which is the reinforcement of solid, sentimental, middle class values. Your stories are too sophisticated. And there’s not one tearjerker in the bunch. Don’t you understand that you have to pile on the deprivation to make the happy ending seem even happier?”
Hazel did not know what to say and merely waited for him to go on.
“Look Hazel, I’m not saying I don’t enjoy your writing personally. But unless you’re able to write in a way that reflects the attitudes of our readers, I won’t be able to keep you.”
“I understand,” she said, rising to leave.
“Sit down, I’m not through with you yet,” he ordered. “Now tell me something. What’s with you and spanking?”
“Excuse me?” Hazel began to blush.
“Three out of five of your stories had spanking scenes. You know, if we want to keep our audience we have to remain politically correct. One spanking per issue is plenty.”
“Okay,” said Hazel, the blush deepening beautifully.
“Not that I have any personal objection to spanking,” he stated bluntly. “In fact, I’ve a good mind to spank you for the job you did on this issue.”
Hazel’s fear of being fired was instantly transformed to a butterfly in her tummy. Mr. Corning was gruff and cynical, but he was also only 35, impressively tall and rather handsome.
“I’m very sorry,” she said again, almost dizzy with a feeling she had only known through fantasies.
“Next issue, I want to see all the copy before it goes to lay-out.”
“I understand.”
“Get it to me a week from today. You took far too long with the copy last month and we barely had enough time to set up the photo shoots. You’ll have to work fast for awhile to get ahead of your schedule.”
“I only have one week?”
“You can do it. Just don’t be such a perfectionist. The first idea that comes into your head should be your story. Don’t bother refining it so much. Go on to the next job instead.”
“I’ll try, Mr. Corning.”
“Good. I have to get to work now,” he dismissed her and began to make his morning phone calls. Hazel tottered to the door in her fitted taupe wool suit and high heels, feeling Robert’s gaze upon her until she disappeared.
Once she got back to her office she lit a cigarette and sat back in her chair to construct plots.
She had known three spanking references in one magazine was excessive. But how odd of him to have noticed them! He almost seemed as tuned in to spanking as she was. In fact, he had even expressed the desire to spank her!
Hazel shook her head skeptically. He probably just wanted to add her to his collection of office conquests, and in searching for a hook in her stories he had stumbled on her principal turn-on.
She had heard about Robert’s vigorous libido from several of her co-workers. And she could not help but suspect that Ellen Parsons, the perfect blonde editor of Honeymoon, the company’s flagship magazine, was in his pocket as often as possible.
Ellen Parsons, who alternately sickened and amused Hazel, was a company girl. Her magazine was always in on time and flawless, each story brimming with pathos and treacle. Furthermore, Ellen was so efficient about turning in her copy that she also had time to cast, schedule, shop for and art direct the photo shoots that illustrated their magazines. To accomplish all of this, Ellen worked over time and gloried in her martyrdom.
Ellen was 31 and unmarried. Maintaining a constant size 2 made her tense. When Hazel joined the team, with her womanly curves, masses of wavy, light brown hair and superior degree, Ellen almost lost her composure. Two months later the girls were not yet friends. And Hazel wondered just how many faults in her magazine had been discovered and revealed to Robert by Ellen.
The week passed in a blur. Whenever Hazel passed Robert in the hall she was overcome by embarrassment, while he virtually ignored her. He seemed to have lost confidence in her and this upset Hazel greatly. It was a strange little job she had landed, but it was as close to a real editorial position as she had come by so far and she felt that in time she could get Robert to remove all or most of the restrictions he’d just placed upon her creativity.
After working at home all weekend on letters and editorials, Hazel arrived at work on Monday morning with her assignment completed, only to find that Robert had gone to Europe and wouldn’t be back till the following week.
Hazel spent the week rewriting pieces for the issue she had just turned in, to avoid a second scolding when it came out. She added unhappy marriages, sticky divorces, kids with disabilities, episodes of surgery and chemotherapy, wounding in foreign wars, the pains of relocation and the vicissitudes of trailer park life. She also made sure that four out of five of the narrators prayed fervently to God during all crisis points. Only when she had done all this damage did Hazel feel as though she had saved her job, though it lacerated her soul.
Meanwhile, the idea of receiving a spanking from Robert began to preoccupy her. In one respect, it was too scary to even think about, because her boss was an adult, and a bad tempered one at that. When he walked into a room all conversation ceased until his will was known. His impatience and bluntness of address rendered his workers industrious and meek. Yet everyone liked and respected him.
Robert owned a print shop and bindery as well as the publishing house and had many employees to supervise and provide for. One could never be around him for more than a few minutes without becoming aware of the pressures bearing down on him.
Robert’s power frightened rather than attracted Hazel, who was too new in the business to understand his particular genius. Because of his despotic nature, she could never feel truly comfortable in his presence, yet in spite of this, she had recently begun to construct elaborate fantasies involving her boss. Meanwhile, she did her best to stay out of his way.
Spring, and therefore summer, set in early that year in Los Angeles, with temperatures soaring into the upper eighties in the beginning of March. The lilacs in bloom outside Hazel’s window at work gave off a heavy, intoxicating perfume as she stood up and stretched in her sundress. It was two o’clock on a Friday afternoon and she decided to run across the street for a cappuccino.
As she crossed the recently gentrified La Brea Avenue, she noticed Robert rapidly consuming a hot dog at Pinks. She pretended not to see him however, lest being spotted by his least favorite editor somehow annoy him.
A minute after she sat down at one of the sidewalk tables in front of the coffee bar, Robert’s shadow fell across her blueberry cobbler.
“Hi,” he said, falling into the chair opposite her and shaking out a cigarette.
