The Editor Shows Up for Lunch

I heard a voice on the stairs. A big voice. I knew immediately it was Hughes.

Panic stricken, I looked at Pee Wee with the hope that he might convince me that yesterday’s edibles were still in effect.

“Do you hear Hughes?” I asked.

Pee Wee nodded “yes” without looking up from his Sudoku puzzle.

“Holy fucking shit,” I said, “If he wanders into the editorial department and finds them all watering their plants and playing Hades Star or stops by the art department and sees the cavalcade of edibles displayed by the coffee machine, I’m going to lose my fucking job.”

The words, “I heard that Gutbloom,” bellowed out from a loud voice in the hallway, followed by the heavy steps of Hughes making his way towards my door. “How many times have I told you that Managing Editors should keep their office doors closed?” He shouted.

Once at the threshold of my office Hughes stopped and stared. He is a big man with a pumpkin head that is framed by tortoise shell glasses and a messy mass of hair. He usually wears the wardrobe of the editor trope — tweed jacket, khakis, big brown hard shoes — but today he was wearing an all white Adidas track suit and sneakers. He looked like an overweight German on his way to watching a soccer match. I stayed in my chair, stunned.