Words & Dreams (Book 1 of Smithers Family Saga)

Chapter 15

Erica stood outside the offices of the New York Times, looking up: despite the fact that she could have easily worked there, and had written multiple columns for the newspaper, it still had a mystic quality. 'The Paper of Record.'

Some degree of narcissism made her think there would be- it was hard to say exactly how or why it would work- someone waiting for her, a personal guide to where she needed to go, flattering her on this work and that work.

"A poem about a dog," Erica said. "A fucking poem about a dog."

Not one of her novels: a poem, about a dog named Frog.

Erica walked in and got on the elevator. For some reason she feared- and it was possible, even as a writer; for she was of their class- being recognized; that there would be a snide remark: 'I like your poem; your know, the one' and then the slight tilt of the eyeballs, not quite a roll, 'about the dog. Named Frog.'

There were two people in the elevator with Erica. A man and a woman, and Erica, without looking straight at them, used her peripheral vision to penetrate the nature of their relationship and class.

Good suit, better outfit by the woman, she thought. But that's almost always the way it is. Hands... no rings. Office relationship. Work couple.

This disappointed her. She longed to see a ring on one their hands, hoping that she could craft another story from that image. But then, realizing this, Erica saw the image, and it was real, and she imagined the woman wearing the ring, for some variety. She was his editor, yes, and he gave up the goods- he was better looking than she was, though her heterosexuality, she knew, sometimes gave her false ideas- for more opportunities to publish. But not a consious choice, by either of them. She was too proud, a mother. Good family woman. The man was ambitious, also proud, saw himself as a scrappy young up-and-comer who fell for the editor, he thought, of his own volition, and not his own narcissistic desire to look in the many mirrors of his stories, columns, articles.

The mirror metaphor? Yes, seeing so many of himself. He rises- oh yes, he rises!- in the ranks and he cheats on the cheater, his ego going from thunder to lightning, striking, felling, penetrating the top of a new cathedral. But he keeps her and she keeps him. She must have an affair for the affair, and this time, conscious, and she does. A man not as talented, but more handsome, and guides the very ideas into his head that he writes for publication, and the first man, the one here in the elevator, he sees this, and she brushes off solid ideas by him, only publishing the ones she knows to be his worst, publishing them, putting the first man at a forking path of sorts: to be reassigned as the second best man. Will he leave the paper that he'd always dreamed of writing for? It is unlikely, as without the right articles, columns, stories, getting published, he cannot craft a new resume; no other paper will match or raise a salary of a man on the decline. How will this wicked game of chess end?

Erica got a complement on her outfit by the woman in the elevator, and there was a jolt in Erica's posture as she came back to reality.

"Oh, thank you," Erica said, looking at her.

"Sorry!" the woman said, "I didn't realize you were so deep in your thoughts."

"You scared the poor girl silly," the man said.

As Erica looked at the man and woman, for real this time, she saw what was obvious:

"Are you two siblings?" she said.

"Yes, twins, in fact," the sister said.

Erica laughed, and- seeing, somehow that they were of her class- told them her occupation, and what she'd been thinking.

"I sure as hell hope not!" the brother said.

"We usually go out to lunch together," the woman said. It was one-thirty in the afternoon. "Sometimes it's surprising," and by now they'd all gotten off the elevator at the same place, though this was not Erica's floor, "how many people look directly at us, and still don't see it."

"One time," the brother said, and his voice was excited, "our whole family went on a trip-"

"Last year," the sister said, "and-"

And she made a flourish of her head of sorts; telling her brother to continue; it was not so much an interruption that she'd made, so much as the arc of a telepathic wave, which her brother, now, took back.

"Our parents- and uncle- were sleeping," the brother said, "and we were at breakfast; the waiter, a man in his forties, comes up to me, he nudges me, says 'two lovebirds on their honeymoon, eh? Surprised you two aren't getting in some more action-"

"-Eh-eh?" the sister said, nudging her brother, imitating the man.

It was weird to see siblings so close that they could easily joke about such a thing.

"I would have killed him," Erica said, "or at least given him the worst tip of his life."

"He was such a charming man," the sister said, "that we didn't mind."

They exchanged names, and Erica told them it wasn't even her floor; that she just wanted to talk to them. She turned back to the elevator from which people were now exiting.

"Wait-" Erica heard, as the elevator doors began to close. "Erica Smithers? She's the one-" the sister began, "-who wrote the poem about the dog!" the brother finished.

The elevator was now packed. She pressed the button for her floor, hoping she wouldn't be late, but then checking her watch, knew she wouldn't be.