Breaking News! You like me, you really like me!

As the Pegasus Flies is a finalist in the USA Book News National "Best Books 2010" Awards, Fiction & Literature: Short Story Fiction category! The list of winners and finalists was released today. See the results here.

Don't forget, As the Pegasus Flies can be purchased for only $7.50 on Amazon.

A Kris-mas Carol

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Kris placed the last of his personal items in the box—a coffee cup with the old Reader's Digest logo proudly emblazoned on it. Fifteen years of his professional life reduced to a single, small copier paper carton. He had seen the writing on the wall; he wasn't blind sided by the news, wasn't caught unawares, or shocked. He had, in fact, been preparing for it emotionally for awhile. His little group was one of the last to be scheduled to move out of the old headquarters and into the new offices in White Plains. Then—no go. Well, he thought, at least it was over. The worrying, the doubt, the stress. He was off the sinking ship now, but still afloat. He had some options, some contacts to call. Holding the box in his hands, he looked around his empty office, checking one last time for anything he may have forgotten. Just then there was a knock on his door. Whoever was out there was impatient, and before he got a chance to open the door, it swung open. Kris dropped the box, not believing his eyes.

(Part 2) Kris found himself face to face with an unearthly, transparent figure. The visitor looked extremely old, with white hair past his shoulders, and long, bony limbs. "Who are you?" Kris asked. "I am the Ghost of Publishing Past," the figure stated dramatically. "Long past, like Guttenberg times?" Kris asked. "No, Reader's Digest's past," the ghost said. Then, "Take my hand." Kris grasped the ghost's hand and they passed through the brick wall of the building. They were outside up high looking down; everything was different. The annex wasn't built yet, there were less parking lots and more trees. Old fashioned cars filled the front lot. The ghost and Kris passed through the ivy-free brick of the Rotunda and into the office of DeWitt Wallace. "My god, is it really him?" Kris whispered. "Yes. And don't worry—he can't see or hear us," the ghost said. DeWitt's suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He held a red pen and was copy-editing an article, writing directions in the margins. "A CEO doing real work!" Kris said. "Yes, shocking. Come this way," the ghost said, again taking hold of Kris's arm. They proceeded down a hallway lined with original work by famous artists. The furniture was expensive and antique—except it wasn't antique yet. The look of the building was more of a mansion than a place of business. Homey even. Kris had never seen the building in such good shape. They stopped outside a conference room where a team of editors was brainstorming new ideas. There was laughter, and more ideas than they could use. What struck Kris was how happy and relaxed they all seemed. Confident. Secure in their jobs and their profession and the future of publishing—a future they were helping to shape. "Remove me! I cannot bear it!" exclaimed Kris. "Take me back! Haunt me no longer!" Next thing he knew he was back in his own office, sitting at his desk. He was exhausted from the experience and put his head down on the desk and fell quickly into a heavy sleep.

(Part 3) Kris woke with a start. "Who's there?" he asked, sensing someone at his office door. A larger, more robust specter than before stepped inside. "Who are you?" "I am the Ghost of Publishing Present," the ghost said. "Take hold of my arm." Here we go again, thought Kris. Soon they were passing through the wall, and Kris was looking down at a strip mall, where a small, independent bookstore was closed—out of business—and the landlord was posting a For Rent sign. "This is happening all over," the ghost said. The next stop was the home of a young family. Kris recognized the father as an employee of Reader's Digest, a book designer. He was in the kitchen of his house preparing a meatloaf, a boy and girl hanging off each of his legs. They were happy to have their father home from work. A younger boy came hobbling into the kitchen using a crutch. The father stopped what he was doing, picked up the boy and placed him atop his shoulders, then resumed mixing the chopped meat with bread crumbs and eggs. The mother came in, upset that the father hadn't gotten a raise in salary again this year. "Don't worry," the father said, three kids hanging off of him, "we already have everything we need." The scene suddenly dissolved and the two older children—wretched looking now—were clinging to the robe of the ghost, as if for their life. "What about the young boy?" Kris asked. The ghost just shook his head. He said, "There is still time to erase this scene. It doesn't have to happen. You can fix things." Then Kris found himself back in his office, and without delay the third phantom approached...

(Part 4) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] The third spirit stood there, draped in a black robe and hood. He reminded Kris of the Grim Reaper. "Are you the Ghost of Publishing Yet to Come?" Kris asked. No response. "Okaaaay..." Kris said. Finally the spirit just pointed, and a scene of high school kids appeared. Boys and girls were on their smartphones texting each other, others were surfing the internet on iPads, some were playing video games. No books in sight. Magazines and newspapers were as extinct as dinosaurs. Then suddenly Kris and the ghost were in a fog-shrouded cemetery at night. The spirit pointed again, insistently. Kris took the hint and followed the ghost's bony digit to see a tombstone. On it was carved "Publishing, R.I.P." "Aaaah!" screamed Kris. "Tell me this can still be altered! Surely you wouldn't show me this if there was no hope left." Finally the mute ghost spoke, "You have the power to prevent this. You know what you have to do." Kris was confused. "But how can I change things?" "Aren't you the CEO?" the ghost asked. "No," Kris said, "In fact, I don't even have a job anymore—I've just been laid off." "Uh oh," the ghost said. "What?" Kris asked. "The other ghosts aren't going to like this. We're going to have to do this all over again with the real CEO." The ghost shook his head, then waved his arms and they were back in Kris's office. "Good luck to you," Kris said. The ghost wished him well, too, then dissolved into nothingness. Kris hefted his box of personal items and left his office for the final time, closing the door forever. RD had given up on yet another valuable member of the team, someone who could have helped alter the ghost's bleak prediction.

******

MB looked up from her desk to find herself face to face with an unearthly, transparent figure. The visitor looked extremely old, with white hair past his shoulders, and long, bony limbs. "I am the Ghost of Publishing Past," the figure stated dramatically...

Oh, Snap!

Oh, well, it looks like they killed off the Oh, Snap! feature. I wonder what they will replace it with? Something lame, like iGen?

Look for a new short story here soon, to address this new development. And don't forget to check back and find out the results of the USA Book News Best Book 2010 awards, in which As the Pegasus Flies is entered in the Short Story Fiction category.

UPDATE: Winners and finalists will be announced Tuesday, Octber 26!

Week 31

Jonathan

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Jonathan showed up a half hour early for his interview. He allowed himself extra time in case he got lost; if he didn't get lost then he'd just use the extra time to have a look around and absorb the atmosphere of the legendary Reader's Digest grounds and building. The place was amazing! The huge brick building was magnificent—a testament to the iconic brand name of Reader's Digest (some things you could always count on, Jonathan thought, Coca Cola never changing its recipe, and Reader's Digest never changing its name). And to think, this is where it all happened. On a daily basis, no less. Jonathan had wanted to be a part of this for as long as he could remember; he finally secured an interview through the friend of a friend who worked here, and he wanted to ace it. He had all his clippings with him, packed tight into his portfolio. He had been building up his writing resume over the years, mostly freelance, but some staff work, too, on the local newspaper in his hometown of Mt. Vernon. He was ready. He took a deep breath and approached the woman behind the desk. She quickly slipped something into the bottom drawer of her desk (her flask, of course), then said. "How may I help you?" "Hello, Ethel," Jonathan said, reading her nameplate. "I have an appointment with Mr. ________, the managing editor of the magazine. My name is Jonathan ________." "Hold on a minute please," Ethel said, picking up the phone. "Yes, a Jonathan ________ is here to see you. Okay, I'll send him in."

(Part 2) Ethel hung up the phone and said, "He's ready to see you." "Great! Thank you. How do I get there?" Ethel stood and pointed as she spoke. "What you want to do is go through this door right here near the funky chair. Then you'll come out this door here." She pointed to the left. "Then you'll be right back here and you'll want to go down this hall right behind me, past the first door and in the second. Which will lead you right back here, on the right near the funky chair again." Jonathan wasn't sure if she was pulling his leg, but he tried to stay with her, held a wary smile on his face. He repeated the directions back to her. "Then what?" he asked. "Well then," Ethel said, "you sit in the chair and wait for Mr. ________ to come and get you." Jonathan smiled again to let her know he was in on the joke. When she didn't crack a smile, he figured she wasn't joking. "Uh, okay. Thanks," he said. He proceeded through the first door. As soon as he was gone, Ethel picked up the phone and called Mr. ________. "It's me. We got a live one!" she said, then returned the phone to its cradle. Jonathan passed her desk twice, then settled into the chair and waited. He was getting nervous, and checked his watch several times, switched his portfolio from hand to hand, felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. When Mr. ________ finally opened the very door near the chair and stepped out into the hall, Jonathan bolted upright as if a fire alarm had sounded. "Come right this way," Mr. ________ said to Jonathan, draping an arm around his shoulder to guide him in the right direction. "The good news is you passed the first test."

(Part 3) They walked down a carpeted hallway that was adorned with intricate crown molding, antique furniture, and expensive, original paintings. This was one classy joint! No wonder it had taken Jonathan so many years to even get an interview; probably no one ever left the company! Bonuses, surprise days off, company outings, and free turkeys at Thanksgiving. Who'd want to give that up? Jonathan followed Mr. ________ into his office, who said, "Have a seat." Jonathan couldn't believe that someone could work in an office that was so fancy. Leather armchairs, an enormous oak desk, curtains on the windows, a fireplace! This room was nicer than Jonathan's apartment—by far. In fact, he would live here instead if he could. He squinted at the painting on the left wall, then nearly fainted. Yup, it was an original Van Gogh. It boggled his mind, when he really stopped to think about it, that publishing short little articles, mostly condensed from other sources, could become such a money maker. Those Wallaces really knew what they were doing! And if some unforeseen thing happened fifty years from now and people forgot how to read, well then the company still had this amazing nest egg of paintings to keep everyone rolling in the dough for centuries to come. Jonathan hadn't even gotten the job yet, but he saw his whole future laid out in front of him: a big house in Scarsdale, a beautiful wife, 2.5 kids, a new car every two years, a fat pension. Retirement in Miami. It was so close, he could taste it! He just needed to ace this interview. "So, tell me a little about yourself," Mr. ________ said. "Well, I," Jonathan started. Then he fell to his knees and hobbled over to Mr. ________. Grabbing his legs he said, "Please, you have to give me this job. I'll do anything! I can start right away! When do I get to see the pegasus? I hear it has magical powers. Can I pet it? Can I? Please!" Mr. ________ smiled, nodded his head. He always loved the enthusiastic interviewees.

(Part 4) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Jonathan holds his soup bowl with unsteady hands. This isn't good. The server always gives him a little less when his hands shake so much, so it won't spill on the walk to the table. Jonathan wills his hands not to shake. When he gets up to the front of the line his hands remain steady long enough for the man with the ladle to fill the bowl up to the top. Slow even steps get him to the table, where he sits and begins to eat. Thank god for these soup kitchens. He thinks back to his days at Reader's Digest. The glory days—theirs and his. He had a nice house for a while. A wife too. She eventually left. The kids, they never came. The pension came and left. He takes a sip of soup. A little salty for his taste, but beggars can't be choosers. He thinks of that Van Gogh painting from all those years ago. Where is it now? Who owns it? A museum, probably. Maybe he could find out which one and go and gaze upon it one more time before he dies. Jonathan thinks these type of thoughts as he eats, mops up the remaining soup with a slightly stale piece of Italian bread. He feels sleepy, but stands, heads back out into streets of the city. There is only one door in which to exit; he thinks of all those doors that were once open to him when he was a young man. The air outside is bitterly cold, awakening him like a jolt of caffeine. He pulls his tattered overcoat tight around his throat, the warmth of the soup already gone. He makes his way slowly to nowhere in particular, his eyes on the cloudy sky, hoping to see the pegasus once more, too, before he dies.

Nancy and Julia

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Nancy was bored to tears with her job. She liked the paycheck, though, and the way people responded positively when she told them she worked for Reader's Digest. Everybody knew and loved Reader's Digest! Then, inevitably, they'd ask what she did for them. This is when Nancy would have to get a little vague, or change the subject completely. What the hell did she do for them? Yes, she was part of a whole, the sum is greater than the parts and all that. But packing up register tape? How would this help the company in the long run? Fifty years from now, people would remember the articles that were written, not a cardboard box that was packed up and stored in a basement. She wanted to be part of something that would be remembered! Oh, well. Nancy sighed. She never thought she would be one of those people who disliked their job, and had to grit it out to the weekend, when she could then have fun. At least she had plans with her best friend Julia this weekend. They were going to take off work on Friday and drive out to Idlewild airport to see if they could meet the guys in a new band she and Julia were crazy about. The band were making their first trip to the US from England, so Nancy was confident there wouldn't be too many fans, and she'd be able to get some autographs. And then, for Sunday, Julia scored a pair of tickets to see them perform on the Ed Sullivan Show. This is what kept Nancy going. Something to look forward to. Meanwhile, she packed up another box of register tape, wrote "Feb. 1964" on the side, then began a new box.

(Part 2) Pan Am flight 101 approached New York's Idlewild airport. The Beatles were nervous. They had conquered Germany, then their home country of England. This was their final test. The USA! The home of their idols: Elvis, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Little Richard. The band had a big send off from their fans when they left Heathrow airport, and the boys were excited and confident. But despite this, and despite the fact that "I Want to Hold Your hand" was a hit in America, by the time the plane neared New York the fellows were feeling a little doubtful. "America has everything, why should they want us?" George asked aloud, to no one in particular. Soon the pilot sent word to them that a big crowd awaited them. As the plane taxied to the gate, John said, "Just look at that!" More than three thousand fans were in a frenzy at the sight of the Beatles' plane. "They must be out of their minds," Ringo said. "Well, bloody hell," Paul added. Their manager Brian came up front to talk to them. "You boys up for a press conference?" he said. "I've been told there are over two hundred reporters present. Can't buy this kind of publicity." Paul said, "This is great!" "Let me guess," John said, "They're going to ask us about our bloody hair." George, still looking out the window, said. "Look at all those screaming girls!" When the plane came to a stop, the boys were ushered into the Pan Am arrivals building for their impromptu press conference. Amongst the two hundred or so reporters and photographers were Nancy and Julia, Nancy having gotten them in with her Reader's Digest credentials. The fun was about to begin...

(Part 3) The cynical, jaded New York press took an instant like to the cocky, cheeky, young Liverpool musicians. Their confidence and charisma actually made the press conference fun. The reporters fired off question after question, and the boys (they were so hard to tell apart) had quick answers. Can you sing for us? "No, we need money first." Have you decided when you're going to retire? "Any minute now." Julia nudged Nancy, whispered in her ear, "Ask them a question!" "What could I possibly ask them?" Nancy said. "I don't know—just the first thing that pops into your head." "OK," Nancy said and raised her hand. When she was called on, she said, "Hello, I'm Nancy from Reader's Digest magazine. Have you fellows ever seen a real, live pegasus?" The noise in the room abated for a few seconds as the question floated there (this is how the rumor of RD having a pegasus started). Finally, Paul said, "You're daft!" Then Ringo said, "I've seen a unicorn, but never a pegasus." John said, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." Nancy, embarrassed, said, "Nevermind." Then the real reporters resumed asking their serious questions. What do you call that haircut? "Arthur." But John had nodded to someone in his entourage, who went over and escorted Nancy and Julia outside to a waiting limo. Ten minutes later the boys ran from the building and hopped into the back of the limo, giggling like schoolboys causing trouble. (Which, of course, they nearly were.) "So, where do you have this pegasus stashed?" John asked, pushing the bangs out of his eyes. "Pleasantville," Nancy said. John leaned toward the driver. "You heard the lady," he said, "Pleasantville it is!" The limo took off, rounded a corner, and soon hundreds of screaming and crying teenage girls draped themselves over the car, pounded on the windows, and shouted nonsense. The car gained speed and quickly the hysterical fans were behind them. It took an hour to get to the RD campus, but the time went fast. The radio was playing Beatles songs non-stop, the boys were buzzing, and the excitement was palpable. Before they knew it, the limo was pulling to a stop in front of the Rotunda entrance. Lorenzo was outside grabbing a smoke. Everyone piled out of the car. "Buon giorno, Beatles," Lorenzo said.


(Part 4) Nancy liked to walk the grounds of Reader's Digest during her lunch hour. For exercise, but also just to be outside in the fresh air. She loved the garden, where fellow employees got to grow their vegetables and flowers, but she also loved going farther back into the woods—and past that where there was a grassy meadow. This is where she first glimpsed the pegasus, Peggy. The pegasus was no longer held captive, having been freed years before by Lola and Jake. But like a homing pigeon, Peggy always returned to Reader's Digest to graze. The pegasus had magical powers that brought good luck to whoever touched her. Lila and DeWitt Wallace were perfect examples of this, as was Mink Stole Suzy. Nancy said, "Legend has it that if you touch the pegasus, you'll have good luck." The Beatles already had their own magic and luck, of course. Nancy had just asked the Beatles a question, off the top of her head, as Julia had suggested. Now it was all this. She had no idea if the pegasus would even be here! The boys had boundless energy, and once loosed upon the RD campus, it was hard to get them under control. While Lorenzo went to the cafeteria to cook them a nice hot meal, they ran around aimlessly looking for the pegasus before Nancy could tell them about the secret meadow.

Once they had a focus and destination, John said, "Ringo, use your big schnoz to sniff out the pegasus!" With Ringo leading the way, they--The Beatles, Nancy, and Julia--tramped through the woods and emerged into the sunlit meadow. It was a chilly early February day, but it felt warmer here. "Come on little pegasus, don't be shy!" Paul said. They all looked to the sky, and sure enough, off in the distance a pegasus approached. Peggy's strong wings brought her directly above them quickly, and soon she was on the ground, pulling her wings to her side and snorting happily. Peggy was excited! She had sensed the arrival of the four Liverpudlians, and hurried back to RD as soon as she could. She knew the lads were charmed, and hoped some of their luck could rub off on her. She took a few tentative steps toward the group, and they did they same. The four lads reached out, and gently petted the pegasus...

Sam

Sam had outgrown his job. As much as he loved being part of the Reader's Digest team, he knew it was time to move on, for career advancement. He'd miss his friends—Horace, William, Hilda, Lorenzo, all of them. But they'd still be his friends, right? He just wouldn't see them on a daily basis. After setting up this whole system here at RD, Sam wanted to go where the action really was: IBM. And they were nearby, too! He wouldn't even have to move. He knew computers were the future, but he also knew it would be hard to leave the cushy, lucrative publishing industry for one that was still in its infancy. But the lure of being part of something new and innovative was just too tempting. Sam could help shape the world! He could be part of something historic. He foresaw huge computer systems like this in every home, computers that would run the whole household. Appliances, climate control, garage doors, alarm systems, and on and on. The potential was endless! He had an in at IBM, a contact that would almost guarantee he'd get hired. This was what Sam was thinking, what he was deciding on this Monday morning, as he planned out the next phase of his life, when the new hire, Melissa, walked in the door for her first day. "Hi," she said, "Are you Sam? You're supposed to train me. I'm Melissa!" All Sam's plans immediately went out the window. She was beautiful! His circuits overloaded, his hard drive froze, and his interface twitched uncontrollably. "Absdk heuitdhy," he said, incoherently, but also sweetly. He smiled and shook her hand. She smiled back. Working at Reader's Digest for the next thirty years started to seem like a good option.

As the Pegasus Flies entered in 2010 USA Book News Awards

As the Pegasus Flies has been officially entered in the seventh annual 2010 USA Book News National Best Book Awards contest, Short Story Fiction category. From the website: The National “Best Books 2010” Awards are specifically designed to garner MEDIA COVERAGE & BOOK SALES for the winners & finalists throughout the 2010 holiday retail season and 2011! Winners & finalists will be announced October 2010. Stay tuned here for the results!

Meanwhile, As the Pegasus Flies is available for only $7.50 on Amazon.

The Four of Us

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Look at that picture, will you? We were all so young then (well, Milly was getting a little long in the tooth). I'm an old battleax now; it's hard to believe so much time has passed. Where does the time go? You look for some things to stay constant—when you're old—things that have remained the same over the years, so you feel like part of your youth still exists. You can go back and not only revisit a place, but revisit your younger self, too. I'd go back to RD for various functions over the years—or just to visit—and memories would come flooding back. The building, the grounds, the trees, the garden all basically looked the same. I'd be a young woman again, transported back to my youth, just like in this here picture. That's the image I have of myself, how I still feel. By the way, that's me there second from the right with that curlicue collar design (what was I thinking?), waiting eagerly for some of that happy juice. The company wants Candidness nowadays? Well, there's nothing like a little happy juice to get those tongues wagging. We knew how to be candid back then, believe me. I miss all the girls in this photo. Not that they're dead or anything. The Four of Us (I'm not counting the "bartender" there, she wasn't part of our clique). From the left that's Rhonda, Hilda, myself (Brenda), and Milly. You've already met our spouses: Joey the Pinhead, William, Horace, and Tommy Four Eyes. I remember this picture like it was yesterday. That's 'cause a moment later all hell broke loose.

The Jesters

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Like jesters summoned to entertain a king and queen, Pete, Louie, Wayne, and Bert were called before the CEO. They weren't to be whipped or put to death if their performance was unsatisfactory, however. Their fate would be much worse: unemployment. Yes, they would be laid off, and not make the final trip to White Plains to join the rest of the company, which had already relocated in June. It was to be an impromptu performance, and they grabbed whatever props they could get their hands on; there wasn't much to work with—the old Pleasantville headquarters was now nearly empty of 70 years of clutter. "Maybe we can use this?" Bert called out, holding up an old hot water bottle. He turned it over and saw the initials DW written in faded marker. Eew, he thought, having an image of DeWitt snuggling up close to the hot water bottle during a cold winter, if not a cold marriage. "How about this cane and safari hat?" Louie asked. "I found some old sheets. Maybe we can use them?" Wayne said, tentatively taking a sniff. Pete—reminiscent of Kenny—just mumbled a sound through his parka that sounded like a question at the end. These were all rhetorical questions because they had no choice, they had to throw something together fast; everything was usable. They hung a sheet in the library and waited for the Queen CEO to arrive. They waited in a side room, sweating nervously. Finally her private car arrived and she entered through the Rotunda, sunglasses on top of her head and Blackberry in her hand. "Where are these jokers?" she said, sitting down on the one throne chair in the room. "Chop chop, fellas. I haven't got all day. My plane to Nantucket leaves in an hour."

(Part 2) Bert felt somewhat like a performing monkey, made to entertain someone to keep his job. Is this what publishing has come to? He was fifty-eight years old. He had seen the glory days of publishing—the steady raises, yearly bonuses, expense accounts, travel, the occasional free lunch. How had it all come crashing down so hard, so fast? Were people really not buying books anymore? Or magazines? Was it the recession? The increased costs to produce the product? The competition from other entertainment sources—like the internet, video games, DVDs, iPads and smartphones? Well, yes. Bert had worked his whole professional life in publishing, he had climbed the ladder (and now, apparently, was climbing back down). He was insulted that his job now depended on the whim of the Queen CEO. He had worked—no, slaved—for years, building his reputation, winning awards, mentoring others, working overtime. He was more than insulted; he was mortified, demeaned, livid, hurt, embarrassed, shamed. But when the Queen CEO looked at her watch and said, "I'm not laughing yet, boys," Bert did what he had to do. He grabbed the hot water bottle hanging from his belt, removed the plug, and aimed a nice, long squirt of water right into Louie's face. When the Queen CEO let out a spontaneous cackle of laughter, Bert felt dirty and abused. Used. But hell, he needed to keep his job. When she said, "Do it again!" he gave the bottle another long squeeze.

(Part 3) Louie was taken by surprise the first time Bert squirted him in the face, but the second time he let it happen willingly. He had a job to save—namely, his. He could take one for the team. He waved his cane in a threatening manner in return, which got another laugh. This was all about entertaining the Queen CEO, right? Taking some hot water in the face was the least of his problems. His wife was having an affair with Wayne—there was no doubt about this fact. The private investigator he had hired supplied photos of them in compromising positions; Louie had been struggling with how to confront the libidinous adulterers since he found out the truth. But maybe this skit was his answer, he thought. A well-struck blow to Wayne's head, all in the name of comedy and horsing around, of course, and old Wayne'd be toast. And in the eyes of the law it would all be nice and clean and accidental. And as an added bonus, Louie would get to keep his job, because who would be so cruel as to lay off someone who just accidentally killed a co-worker? Plus, Wayne would be dead, so that would leave either Pete or Bert as the one to get the axe (Louie was wrongly working on the presumption here that only one of the four would lose their job.) He had to make it look accidental, all in the name of comedy. He had to really camp it up. There couldn't be any suspicion that what he was about to do was intentional, pre-meditated. He laughed loudly, then raised the cane high, toward Wayne, and yelled, "Die you robe-wearing Statue of Liberty wannabe!" and struck Wayne a hard blow on the right temple. Wayne went down like a felled tree, bringing a squeal of delight from the Queen CEO. "Good show boys, good show!" she said. Moments later, the pool of blood spreading from the still-prone Wayne finally raised some concerns.

(Part 4) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Juan, the CEO's driver, sat outside the Rotunda entrance with the car idling and the A/C on. What a plum job he had. He let out a low chuckle, satisfied with his lot in life. He knew he was earning more than most folks who worked under the CEO (or below Level 8, anyway), and here he was sitting around doing nothing. Or not nothing, really, more like taking care of his personal business. Sending out emails on his smartphone, paying bills, making phone calls, catching up on his reading. Even the driving part of his job wasn't all bad. He had himself a nice new Garmin GPS system; he could easily get around traffic jams, meaning he'd get his client to her meetings faster, allowing himself even more free time to do his own stuff. Heck, he didn't even have to worry about small talk; she was always on the phone "working" while he was driving her around. He didn't feel guilty about this easy gig; he'd paid his dues, working too hard for too little over the years. This is what he was thinking when the CEO suddenly emerged from the building and hopped in the back seat. He didn't even have time to get out and open the door for her. "Go, go, go!" she shouted. He took off like he was driving the getaway car for a bank job (something he really once did many years ago). Before he had a chance to ask what was the matter, she was on the phone. "He's dead! They're killing each other now! No, I don't know. Some level fiver. Doesn't matter. Uh huh. Okay, bye." She hung up and stared out the window, one would think almost pensively, if you didn't know better. Juan knew better. "Where to?" Juan asked. "The Manhattan office," she said, then got back on the phone. "It's me. Get rid of them all," she said. "They weren't that funny anyway." Juan pulled onto the Saw Mill River Parkway heading south. This should take forty minutes or so, he thought. Then he could get back to his personal stuff.

Accordion Joe

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Thank god for Reader's Digest. They were keeping Accordion Joe employed. Christmas parties, company outings, philanthropic events—you name it, and they always gave Joe the gig. Like this one here, at the Guest House on the RD grounds. A retirement party. Mix in the weddings he booked on the weekends, the occasional Sweet 16 party, and he made enough dough to pay the $85 rent for his one bedroom apartment in Pleasantville. But this Elvis cat was changing everything. Joe wanted to play rock n' roll now. He began to let the top of his hair grow out, started to wear the collar of his shirt above his jacket—no tie—and even bought a cool pair of suede shoes. Before Elvis, of course, there was Johnny Cash and Bill Haley and Jerry Lee and Chuck. But Elvis was the whole package—looks, voice, style, youth, charisma, music. Though Joe had some of that stuff too, the package was smaller. Elvis had the girls squealing, and that's what Accordion Joe wanted. He would get a little taste of it here and there, when he'd get off a nice run on the accordion, serenade a woman like this one here. Emily, her name tag said. He wondered briefly if she was with that turkey with the pencil behind his ear, but that didn't stop him from crooning Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade" to her, as drippily as he could. Her eyes were twinkling at him by the end, and he discreetly slipped her a business card when he was done. The good thing about rock n' roll: you didn't have to be discreet. He had given her one of the cards on which he had scribbled his next gig on the back. He was booked to play his first rock n' roll show in a joint down in Mt. Vernon, over on First Street, right near the 241st St. subway. Just him, a piano, and Slick Rick, his stand-up bass player. Hopefully this Emily dame would show, sans the pencil pusher.

(Part 2) Joe didn't have room in his small apartment for a piano—not to mention not having the money to buy one, either—so he'd go down the street to Mrs. Wagner's house. She had taught him piano when he was a little boy. His mother had known Mrs. Wagner from a quilt-making circle of which they were both members. So he got to visit his old tutor, plus he got a little taste of home again. It had been five years since his mother died, and Mrs. Wagner treated him like a son, always trying to feed him, and asking about his love life. As he walked to her house, he thought about rock n' roll, and how it was the future. How it was his future, too. Maybe this was what he had always been searching for. Maybe soon he could earn enough money to buy his own house, maybe he could even find someone to share that house with. She was waiting on the porch for him when he arrived. "There's my Joey," she said, opening the screen door for him. He kissed her hello, and when he stepped inside he was welcomed with the smell of something sweet baking in the oven. "Hmmm, what's that?" he asked. "Why, apple pie, of course. You go practice, and when you're done we'll have some tea and pie." Joe went over to the piano and moved the bench off to the side. He wanted to play standing up like Jerry Lee, he wanted to pound the keys and get the place rocking. Let his hair flip down all wild, too. He cracked his fingers, took a deep breath, then banged out a few rocking numbers, finishing off with Jerry Lee's new "Great Balls of Fire." The last loud notes were still reverberating, sweat was dripping off his forehead, the imaginary crowd going wild, women throwing their brassieres at him—when he heard clapping. He turned to see Mrs. Wagner looking at him proudly. "I have to say, I was a little skeptical about this rock n' roll notion, but that was great!" "Thanks," Joe mumbled, embarrassed, but also happy. "Come on," she said, "time for your reward." He followed her into the kitchen. Something about having tea and pie after a rock n' roll performance didn't seem right. But hell, he wasn't in the club yet. He'd save his drinking for after the real show. As he shoveled the warm pie into his mouth he thought of Emily, wondered if she would show Friday night.

(Part 3) Emily turned the card over in her hand, though she knew the name and address of the club by heart. Maybe she just liked looking at Joe's handwriting. "Accordion Joe" they called him. But surely he wouldn't be playing that same sappy music as usual. She had seen him at numerous RD functions, standing in the background, professional, talented, quiet. But she always did notice him. This was the first time that she was aware of that he noticed her. He even came up and serenaded her, gave her his card. Emily had a moment of panic: maybe he was just handing those cards out to everyone to get a crowd at his show; maybe she wasn't anything special. But he sang to her! Their eyes met! That had to mean something! Since it was such a nice summer day, the Wallaces had let everyone out of work early to enjoy the beautiful weather. So she was able to go home and change, eat dinner, fix her makeup, and still get here on time. She was as ready as she was ever going to be. "Come on," her friend Tabitha said, "or are you going to just stand here all day?" Emily laughed nervously. "Okay, I'm ready," Emily said, running a hand over her skirt to get rid of the wrinkles that weren't there. "Good," Tabitha said, "We're not going to meet Elvis, you know. Just some guy with an accordion." They walked into the club, which was about half full. A piano and stand-up bass sat on the small stage with a microphone set up near the piano. No accordion. This could be interesting, Emily thought. They sat down at a table up front and ordered drinks: a Singapore Sling for Tabitha, and a South Pacific Sour for Emily. At eight o'clock, the proprietor took the stage. A spotlight came on, and he said, "Thank you for coming out this evening, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight's performers are about to take the stage, here for the first time. Let's give a warm welcome to Anarchist Joe and Slick Rick." "Anarchist Joe?" Tabitha whispered. "Well...I guess he had to come up with something else, since there's no accordion," Emily said. "Uh huh," Tabitha said. Joe and Rick walked out, looking a bit sheepish, and went to their instruments. Joe had an open-collared shirt, suede shoes, and his hair was combed forward. "Wow, he looks cool," Emily whispered, "so much different than I'm used to." "Yeah, a real anarchist," Tabitha said. Joe mumbled a "Hello" into the microphone, then they launched into "Blue Suede Shoes." He hadn't even looked at them. Emily thought, Does he even know I'm here? She was just fooling herself, he wasn't interested. She ordered another drink.

(Part 4) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Joe was sweating, and not just from the performance or stage lights. She was in the crowd. Emily. He saw her straight off, as soon as he walked out on stage. But he played it cool. Another girl was with her. But no pencil pusher. That was a good sign, right? She looked great, dressed in a grey shirt and white top, her hair down. He was nervous—about the performance (he needed it to be good so he'd be invited back), the song selection, his choice of clothes, and the fact that Emily was watching. After two songs he loosened up, though. He nodded to Slick Rick, who also looked more at ease. This rock n' roll was fun! During the third song—"Ain't That A Shame" by Fats Domino—he finally looked over at Emily, gave her a smile. She smiled and waved back. Joe felt giddy. He and Slick Rick ripped through a half dozen other numbers, all rockers. During what was to be the last song, some people Joe recognized from RD came in and sat with Emily and her friend. An Italian man with an open shirt, and a man and a woman, who were clearly a couple. He was older with pants a little too high; she was a tall drink of water with funky eyeglasses. The single man sat next to Emily and started chatting her up. Joe could tell he was a smooth taker—could talk the white off of rice probably—and Joe could practically smell his cologne from the stage. (Or maybe it was just the five dollar bill Joe stuck in his own tip jar as a hint.) The man stretched, then draped his arm over the back of Emily's chair. This couldn't be happening, this is not the way things were supposed to happen. The song ended and Slick Rick bowed, thinking the set was over. But Joe grabbed the microphone, went to the center of the stage solo. "For being such a good crowd, I'm gonna do an extra number for you tonight," he said. Suddenly he felt naked, standing there without his accordion to hide behind. But he forged ahead. He broke into Elvis's "Love Me Tender," acapelo. Emily was entranced, tears forming in her eyes. The Italian man, Lorenzo, knew he was trumped. When the song ended the jukebox came on, and the older couple and Lorenzo and Tabitha got up to dance. Joe moved in for the kill. "That was beautiful," Emily said. Joe blushed. "Thank you for coming," he said. "I wouldn't have missed it!" Emily said. Then, "But I gotta ask—Anarchist Joe?" Joe's blush got a shade darker. "I guess he thought I needed a more rock n' roll sounding name." Emily laughed. "Or maybe he thought you were a boxer," she said. Joe laughed. Slick Rick had packed up his bass, and now sat down at the table with Joe and Emily, handing Joe a cold beer while taking a sip of his own. "Cheers," Rick said. "Cheers!" Emily and Joe said in unison, Joe taking a long pull from his bottle and Emily finishing off her Pacific Sour. "Our next set is at 10. Will you stay?" Joe asked. "Joe, you've crooned to me twice now—" Emily began to say, but didn't finish. That's because Joe had leaned over and kissed her. After the kiss they were both a little embarrassed. Emily said, "So, where's your accordion?" "It's back at my apartment. Do you want to see it?" Emily said, "Of course."

Epilogue. Joe never did become a big rock star. He kept doing what he was doing, picking up more rock gigs along the way, mixing in some weddings and tutoring. When Mrs. Wagner passed away, she left Joe the house, where Joe and Emily still live. Their son Raymond did become a big rock star, however, during the height of the heavy metal hair band days with his band Anarchist Blitz. Joe kept working RD functions into his old age, mostly for nostalgic reasons, until they moved out of Pleasantville in 2010. Emily left the company to raise Raymond, then returned years later. She retired with full pension in 2000.

Exclusive video interview with Sue Nami

Sue Nami has given her first, exclusive video interview! The normally reclusive writer agreed to the interview—to set some things straight—as long as her true identity was kept secret. She intends to keep living her quiet, enigmatic life, and doesn't want adoring fans chasing her through the streets of her hometown. Watch the interview here. Thanks go out to Robert and his crew for putting the piece together, and for safeguarding the secret of Sue Nami, not to mention the whereabouts of the Pegasus, which was always close by during the filming.

The Machine

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Harry's invention was near completion. All he needed to do now was give it one last test drive, try it out on his secretary Cindy. (Of course, she was more than just his secretary, but we'll get to that later.) He thought of it as "The Machine," for lack of a better title, similar to the way a writer titles a new work "Untitled" until he or she can come up with something more clever, or at least suitable. The machine would revolutionize the workplace, would enable managers to rate the performance of an employee's performance with a 98.5% rate of accuracy. Come raise time, employees would have to accept the review—not to mention their raise in pay (if there was one)—because the company had cold hard facts backing them up. Nothing to haggle over. The basic idea was similar to a polygraph, also known as a lie detector, except it didn't have all those annoying wires and sensors to attach. Just a little slot to place your hand, where the machine can read an increase or decrease in blood pressure, level of sweat, tension, and overall nervousness. "Okay, Cindy," Harry said, flicking on a series of switches, "just slide your hand in there and grab tight onto the lever." "Why Harry, usually you buy me dinner first," Cindy said, seductively entering her right hand into the slot. "Honey, when people get a load of this machine, I'm going to be rich! We'll eat out every night!" He really believed that, too. Of all his inventions, this was the one that was going to put him over the top. He had thought that about his last invention—a mirror that flopped your reflection so you would see yourself correctly, as other do—but this one had a more practical, commercial use. "Okay, here goes nothing," he said, and flipped the final switch. The machine began to hum and vibrate. Cindy held her hand still. Lights flickered and pulsed. The vibration increased. After several minutes, it slowed, and a printer began to whir as it spit out the results. Harry pulled at the paper, tore it off and read the results. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

(Part 2) "So, how'd I do?" Cindy asked. "It says you should be earning 75 times what you are now! You should have a company car, your own driver, and take your meetings in Nantucket!" Cindy stood up, excited now. "That's great! When does this machine go live? I can't wait till my next review!" Harry slumped back down into his chair, defeated. "Forget it. They'll never go for it." Cindy said, "What? Why not? It works great! It actually shows how hard I work, how much I am worth and what I should be getting paid." Harry looked at her, sadly. He said, "Exactly. That's why they'll never go for it." Cindy sat down again, also now defeated. "Now what?" she said. Then, "Hey, maybe it was just a fluke. You should test other people. Get Stu or Hank, or even Lorenzo in here!" Harry just shook his head. "Don't you see? They'd all test through the roof. Every one of them works like a dog and the results would show they deserve a big increase in pay." "Well then, maybe you can just re-calibrate the machine so it skews a little lower—but still, you know, on the positive side." "No!" he said, "I will not cheapen my invention!" She went as if to console him, then suddenly grabbed his hand, put it in the slot, and flipped the "On" switch. Four minutes later they were reading the results. She said, "Wow! it says here you should be making ten times what you are, and should have a corner office in Manhattan!" This didn't make him feel better. She brightened. "Hey," she said, "you know what we should do? Get one of the big wigs in here, see how they score." "Cindy," he said, "you are a genius."

(Part 3) Kidnapping is such a dirty word. And really, if you think about it, it's made up of "kid" and "napping." A child sleeping. What could be more sweet than a child sleeping? This was what Harry was thinking as he pushed the blindfolded Dylan into the chair. Cindy shut and locked the door behind them. "What do you want from me!" Dylan screeched. She wasn't used to this kind of treatment. Then again, who is? "Take the blindfold off her," Harry said. "Are you sure?" Cindy asked, "We don't want her to be able to identify us." Harry said, "Don't worry, I have that covered. If the results are what we think they'll be, she'll won't want anyone to know." Cindy went behind Dylan and untied the blindfold. Dylan looked around, getting her bearings, blinking in the sudden bright light. "What is this contraption?" she asked. "What are you going to do to me?" Harry moved next to her, adopting a bedside manner of a family doctor. "Don't worry, Miss Dylan, this won't hurt a bit." He gently lifted her arm, gave her hand a pat, and put it in the slot. "Just hold on to the lever." Dylan looked frightened, but did as she was told. Harry stood over the machine and flipped the series of switches to get it up and running. He hit the final button and the machine kicked in, the vibrations rattling Dylan's body, not to mention her nerves. "Don't let go!" Harry yelled over the noise. Dylan squeezed tighter, sweat breaking out on her brow, her blond hair stuck to her forehead. Finally the machine slowed and Harry went to get the results. Dylan was still clutching the lever. "You can let go now," he said, tearing off the printout. Cindy went over and stood next to him. "Just as I suspected," Harry said, handing her the paper. "What? What is it?" Dylan asked. Cindy handed the paper to Dylan. "That's right," Harry said, "you should be making a tenth of your salary." Cindy said, "The jig's up."

(Part 4) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] "But I don't want the jig to be up! I have a fancy lifestyle I need to maintain!" Dylan said. "Well, boo hoo," Cindy said. Harry said, "I invented this machine for accurate career evaluation. In fact, I'm going to call it FACE, for short. But now I realize it works in reverse, too. It tells us who is working below expectations." Dylan said, "I'll tell the Wallaces what you're up to. You'll get fired!" Harry said, "You won't tell, and we won't get fired." Dylan looked at him, pouting. He continued, "The machine has a 98.5% rate of accuracy. If your results get out, you'll be the one fired." "What do you want from me?" she asked. He said, "You're the head of our division. Get us good raises, and your secret is safe with us." Cindy said, "And I want business cards, too!" "That's blackmail!" Dylan said. "Blackmail is such a dirty word," Cindy said. "So, what are you going to get every executive in here? Try to blackmail them too?" Dylan asked. Harry went over and patted the machine tenderly. "No," he said, "FACE is a great invention, but I see now it would never be used for good purposes—only bad." Cindy went over to the machine too. "What are you going to do with it?" He said, "I assembled it here at RD, and I'll disassemble it here. I will store all the parts randomly throughout the building—just in case I need to put it back together." He gave Dylan a severe, threatening look. "Oh, just let me go," Dylan said. "I'll get you your raises and we'll all be happy." Cindy said, "Don't forget my business cards." "And I want a garbage can for my office," Harry added. Dylan stood and they all shook hands on the deal. Except Harry never did dismantle his baby. August 2010: Two interns kicking around the empty parts of the old headquarters. "Hey, what's this thing?" one asks. "I don't know," says the other. "Let's fire it up!" Intern #1 plugs the machine in and flips some switches. "Put your hand in there," he says. Intern #2 inserts his hand. Four minutes later they are reading the results. Intern #1 says, "Wow, this says you should be making fifty thousand dollars a year!" Intern #2 says, "That's fifty thousand more than I'm making now!" Intern #1 says, "We should tell RD about this contraption." Suddenly, a very old woman using a walker comes into the room. "You will do no such thing," she says. "My dear departed husband Harry invented that, and I've sworn it wouldn't get into the wrong hands." She hands them each her business card. Intern #1 says, "How long have you been down here?!" "Many years now," Cindy says, and sits down on an old folding chair. Cindy reminds Intern #1 of his grandmother, so he feels protective of her. "Don't worry," he says, "we'll keep your secret." "Thank you young man. So many changes around here lately. I've always tried to save FACE, though." With that, the two interns return to their office, and Cindy resumes her lonely vigil.

Sue Nami—THE INTERVIEW!

Novelist and award-winning author Susan DiPlacido took time out of her hectic writing schedule to sit down and interview Sue Nami. Read the interview here. Thank you, Susan!

UPDATE 8/4: The legend of Sue Nami grows: Check out this happy fan, second photo down. What's that he's holding? (Click on photo to enlarge.)

Greg and Lorenzo

(Part 1) [This week's "as the Pegasus Flies"] Reader's Digest was growing and expanding fast. International editions, ads in the magazine, the purchase of the Guest House, and now French, German, and Italian versions of Condensed Books, set to debut in the new year--1955. Lorenzo accompanied Greg, Condensed Books senior editor, to work as an interpreter while Greg put together the first edition with their Italian colleagues. Sitting in first class, smoking a cigar and sipping champagne, Lorenzo said to Greg, "I left Italy almost two years ago with nothing, just a dream of finding my lost love Ethel in a magical place called Pleasantville. Now, I have all this." He gestured with his hands--spilling some champagne--as if he owned the airplane. He was also embellishing the story a little, or maybe it was just the alcohol talking, but he wasn't broke when he came to America. He had $50,000 cash with him, $10,000 of which was later stolen by Margaret the mail clerk (in the very first As the Pegasus Flies story.) "The American Dream," Greg said to be polite, though he was really thinking about all the beautiful Italian women he'd heard so much about. He was looking out the window, picturing all the babes that awaited him below. Why would Lorenzo ever leave Italy!? Was he crazy? Lorenzo was still blathering on about his great new life in the U.S. when suddenly it got a little more interesting. "...so that's when I sold all my furniture and took off for America, leaving my wife behind." Greg turned to Lorenzo. "I thought your first wife died?" Lorenzo looked worried. "Oops. Don't tell Ethel, okay paesan?" "Okay," Greg said, thinking, Maybe this won't be just a boring business trip after all.

(Part 2) Both Greg and Lorenzo nodded off during the long plane ride. After the in-flight meal and the drinks, sleep came easily. Greg dreamed of money, for some reason, jumping in piles of it like kids would jump in a pile of leaves during Autumn. The dream was so vivid, he could actually smell the dollar bills. Of course, this was just Lorenzo's cologne intruding on Greg's unconscious mind. When Greg woke he was momentarily disoriented; then he looked around and remembered where he was. It was a red eye flight and Lorenzo was still asleep, as were most of the other passengers. Greg thought of the work ahead of him, the important task he was given of launching the condensed book series in Italy. He was hoping for a promotion and a good raise when he got his next review. He had his eye on a little house in Pleasantville selling for $12,000, not too far from work. He was close to affording it too; an increase to three thousand five hundred a year would put him mentally at ease, at least financially. Then all he'd have to do is find a woman to share his new home with. He didn't have any delusions of bringing a wife back with him from Italy. But just the fact that he was ready, he was open to all possibilities was a good sign. His star was on the rise, he could feel it. He was confident and optimistic; nothing could go wrong now. Suddenly the plane jerked and dropped violently as it hit an air pocket. Lorenzo woke and grabbed Greg's arm. The plane jerked again, causing several bags to come crashing out of the overhead compartments. Once again the plane dropped. "Madone!" Lorenzo yelled, "We're all gonna die!"

(Part 3) Many things become apparent to you the moment you are faced with death. Everything becomes clear. Important things. For Lorenzo, he realized just how much Ethel meant to him. He'd have to end things properly with his Italian wife Maria, get a divorce and make it official. Ethel was his first and true love. He'd do this for her. When the plane landed—safely—in Rome that morning, Lorenzo said to Greg, "I need to go to Napoli right now." Greg said, "But we should check into the hotel. We have a meeting this evening." Lorenzo said, "We have plenty of time to drive there and back." "What's in Naples?" Greg asked. "My wife Maria." Lorenzo ran out of the airport and began flagging down taxis. Greg, struggling after him with his suitcase, said, "Shouldn't we at least drop off out luggage first?" "No time! I saw the light when I thought we were going to die. Life is short, I have to do this NOW!" A taxi stopped and Lorenzo hopped into the back seat. "Do what?" Greg said, jumping in after him. "Ask Maria for a divorce." Lorenzo gave the driver the address and the taxi took off, driving wildly through the streets of Rome. Greg had never seen anything like it. Soon they were out of the city and the roads became more country-like. But the driver didn't slow down; he smelled money and wanted to get his customer to his destination quickly. Before long they stopped in front of a small, cute stone house with a nice vegetable garden in front. Maria had great tomatoes! Lorenzo told the driver to wait, then hopped out of the car and went inside. After he'd been inside for a while, Greg began to look at his watch. What was taking Lorenzo so long? Finally Greg got out too, and approached the house. The front door was open and he could hear Lorenzo and Maria talking. Lorenzo said, "My cousin is a lawyer, he can get all the paper work done fast." "So, I'm guess I'm not your little braciole anymore?" Maria said. That's the moment Greg walked into the room, the moment that everything that went before ceased to matter. Maria turned to look at Greg. Their eyes met. She was the most beautiful woman Greg had ever seen. The legendary Italian thunderbolt struck both of them at that instant. Without taking her eyes off of Greg, Maria said to Lorenzo, "Where do I sign?" "Uh, well, I don't actually have the papers yet," Lorenzo said, and turned to look at Greg. Lorenzo, well he knew the look of the thunderbolt when he saw it. Maybe everyone would end up happy. He said, "Maria, this is Greg. Greg, Maria." Greg had the moment of clarity that Lorenzo had had on the plane. That little house in Pleasantville didn't seem like such a good idea after all. A stone cottage in Napoli seemed a whole lot better.

(Part 4) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Greg and Lorenzo made it back in time for the meeting that evening. Their two Italian colleagues, Gianni and Luigi, took them to a local restaurant that kept the food coming and coming. After the antipasto and two bottles of wine, the three Italians slipped comfortably back into their native language, making Greg feel a little left out. He excused himself and found a phone booth in back, went inside and closed the door. He called Maria and after several minutes of baby talk and kissy sounds, they made plans to see each other the next day. When Greg returned to the table, Lorenzo said, "There you are! We were just about to do a shot of Sambuca to honor our great company!" Lorenzo poured out four even shots. "Reader's Digest, she is known around the world. May her name live forever!" Lorenzo raised his shot glass, and the other three men followed. Then they all downed their drinks. In halting English, Gianni said, "Everybody loves Reader's Digest. They smile when they hear who I work for." Luigi didn't know English at all, but Lorenzo translated. He said, "Other companies would kill to have such a global brand name." Lorenzo poured out four more shots, and they toasted the great name of Reader's Digest. The entrees arrived, followed by salad, then dessert. Espresso and a bottle of port wine ended the night. The next day they got to work, closer now, having bonded over the meal and drinks. When Lorenzo and Greg left at the end of the week, they left knowing RD was better for their efforts, stronger, a new series of condensed books launched in Italy. The company was growing and they would be part of it, rewarded for their efforts. On the return flight to New York, Lorenzo was happy, the divorce paper work filed, the rest of his life with Ethel ahead of him. Greg knew his life was just beginning. There was much to do. Sell his furniture, give up his apartment, transfer to the Italy office, buy an engagement ring...

February 22, 2010—Foliomag: RDA reportedly was expected to announce a new corporate name around the time of its emergence. An RDA spokesperson did not immediately return a request for comment about a name change.

As the Pegasus Flies, reviewed on Amazon

5.0 out of 5 stars
Part Mad Men, part The Office, all fun!, July 23, 2010
By susan_d
Amazon Verified Purchase (What's this?)
This review is from:

As the Pegasus Flies: A Reader's Digest Soap Opera, Volume 1 (Paperback)

This book is a riot! It's a collection of short stories set in the '50's at Reader's Digest. Each story is inspired by a picture from that era. Sometimes, just the combination of the picture and the character's name was enough to get me giggling, "Boom-Boom Bernadette," priceless. The recurring characters cracked me up -- what chick wouldn't love skirt-chasing Lorenzo? And the antics! So few writers know how to do actual, vintage screwball and yet keep it funny by today's standards, and Sue Nami is definitely one of the lucky few who can pull it off. Homemade helicopters, cyrogenics, corporate espionage, shark attacks and plenty of hanky-panky will keep anyone amused. Full of action! intrigue! romance! and laughs on every page, this book is SO cool!

Sue Nami Rolls with the Changes

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Call me Sue Nami. Some years ago--never mind how long-- having little or no money in my purse, I thought I would sail about a little on the publishing ship. It was SO lucrative back then! I've been on the ship ever since. In fact, I've always been at Reader's Digest, and I always will. I was there in the 50s, 60s, 70s, 80, 90s, 00s, today. I'm not a person, I'm an idea. A watcher. A worker. An orphan. A cog. Sometimes male, sometimes female. Necessary--and sometimes unnecessary. I can be eliminated, or replaced, but there are many more like me. I'm an idea, remember? Understand? The one not eligible for bonuses. The one not part of the inner circle. The one without the blonde hair. But one of the ones that drives the company. That does the work, that produces the product. Censorship on the intranet? I'm Fast, Accountable, Candid, and Engaged. I'm SMART. But I'm not telling anyone anything they didn't know. This is my story. This is your story.

(Part 2) So the ship pulled into the Port of White Plains. It's a bustling, commercial, historical city. General Washington had his headquarters here during the American Revolution. Sue Nami was not around physically then, not even the idea. Well, maybe the idea. The rebellious spirit. The rebels were fighting the British military, with their huge warships, fancy-ass uniforms, warm boots, ample weapons, and sheer number of soldiers. But they didn't have what the ill-equipped revolutionaries had—heart. The British soldiers just wanted to go home, not fight a rag-tag army shooting at them from behind trees, instead of the proper, civilized, man-to-man combat they expected. Picture shoeless rebel soldiers warming their frostbitten feet over fires at Valley Forge. Hunger. Dysentery. We don't have garbage cans in White Plains. We had them on the first day, then they took them away. Now we have to sit with our balled-up tissues, our used napkins, our banana peels, our cardboard coffee cups on our desktops, waiting until we have a chance to walk them down to the allotted receptacle. If you're lucky, maybe a generous soul will offer to throw away your trash if he/she is headed in that direction, and your trash isn't too gross. Maybe not. Sue Nami has to make a garbage run now. I only regret that I had but one bin to give for my company.

(Part 3) Sue Nami sits in traffic on I-287, heading east, contemplating censorship. Ironic that she was censored by the publisher she works for; publishers should not engage in censorship. They should fight it at every turn. Back in the 50s, Lorenzo once said to her, "Freedom of the press. I LOVE it!" Even though he worked in the cafeteria, and not in editorial, he was proud to be part of the American press. Giddy even. Sue inches forward. The move to White Plains troubled her from the start. She knew this would be her daily commute, 25 MPH tops, sitting here on the parkway instead of at her desk. She looks to her left and sees a young man texting when he should be holding the steering wheel with both hands, not to mention actually looking at the road. Sue sighs. It occurs to her that that could be the title of her memoir, if she wrote one. Sue Sighs. She can envision the book's cover, a black and white photo of a woman with her head resting on her hand, the picture cropped just below the eyes. Maybe the image is slightly blurred to make it even more intriguing. There is a momentary break in traffic and Sue gets up to 32 MPH before the traffic suddenly grinds to a halt. Sue looks to the right and sees a woman holding a cigarette in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, and the steering wheel in none. Sue wonders where the Pegasus is now, wonders why the company forsook her (yes, forsook is past tense of forsake). Eventually, Sue nears her exit, and she gets into the right lane. She sits at a traffic light, then makes the turns until she is at the parking garage. She waves her transponder at the reluctant gate until it opens. Then the hunt for a parking spot, the long walk to the lobby, the wait for the elevator. She gets stuck on the local, stopping on nearly every floor until she reaches the 18th. She makes it to her desk, looks out over the city below, thinks of George Washington, the Battle of White Plains, the fearless soldiers, the rebel spirit. She opens the intranet, and checks Oh, Snap! She drinks a cup of coffee, leaving her empty cup on her desk until she can make a garbage run. She works. She goes to lunch. She returns and works some more. She feels under-appreciated. She stays late for summer hours, then leaves and does the reverse commute. She sits in traffic. She contemplates censorship.

(Part 4) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Sue Nami uses her old I.D. card to get onto the campus of the former headquarters of RD. She parks her car in a far lot and strolls along the rolling grounds, the landscapers still trying to keep nature from reclaiming the land. Grass still needs to be cut, bushes trimmed, trees pruned, flowers ripped out and replaced with different flowers. She goes up to the garden area, where in years past employees could sign up for a plot and grow vegetables. It is nothing but overgrown weeds and grass now. This is the perfect spot. She sits down Indian-style, takes a button of peyote from her pocket, and pops it in her mouth. She closes her eyes and waits till it takes effect. The Native Americans used to go out into the desert to have their visions. This place isn't the desert, but it is deserted. After a little while, Sue sees the tall weeds begin to shrink back into the ground. They are soon replaced with towering sunflowers, tomato plants, peppers, cucumbers. Sue stands and runs through the garden, twirling as she goes. She heads toward the Rotunda entrance, way off in the distance. The vines start to pull back from the bricks and disappear. The annex on the right side of the building is deconstructed brick by brick. A black 1952 Plymouth stops in front of the building, picks someone up, then leaves. Sue makes it to the building and enters the wide doors. A woman—Ethel—is behind the front desk. "Mr. Wallace will see you now," she says, and points. Sue goes to the office. DeWitt Wallace is sitting on top of a huge oak desk. He's tall and extremely groomed, that's what impresses her the most. "Hello, Sue," he says. Sue sticks out her hand and he shakes it. "Mr. Wallace, it's a great pleasure to meet you." "Sit down," he says, motioning to an armchair. He sits behind his desk. "I think you know what you have to do," he says. He turns and opens the window behind him. The Pegasus arrives and sticks her head in. "We need you," she says in Pegasusese. Sue understands her. Mr. Wallace continues, "The company has been chipped away at for years. The art—sold. The building, this glorious estate that Mrs. Wallace and I had built—sold. Now they want to change the name of the company too? What's left?" "I'm sorry all this happened, Mr. Wallace." "Well, if they don't want the name, you should take it back. Form a new company with the same name, heart, and spirit of the original. Rent space here at this building until you can afford to buy it back." Sue says, "How?" "Come closer," he says, "pet the Pegasus." Sue stands and tentatively reaches out a hand. Then she feels the soft white hair, feels the strength and the magic of the Pegasus pass through to her. An image forms in Sue's mind, an image of a new Reader's Digest built on the original ideals. Employees treated like they were under the Wallaces. Surprise bonuses. Unexpected days off—with pay. Christmas parties. Sue knows how to accomplish this. It is all crystal clear to her. She knows all the secrets. "Go now," Mr. Wallace says, "restore my company." Sue feels the drug begin to wear off. She sits, cross-legged on the floor. Closes her eyes. She knows perfectly well what needs to be done. She has all the answers. When she opens her eyes, she finds herself in an empty office. No furniture. The window is closed. She stands and leaves the office, wanders the hallways. She can feel the ghosts, but can't see them. She knows they wait for the return of the company, and the return of the Pegasus. Sue gets to her car, drives to White Plains. She sits in traffic, not contemplating censorship, but contemplating rejuvenation. Restoration. Rebirth. Revolution.

As the Pegasus Flies book now on sale!

As the Pegasus Flies is now on sale! Only $7.50! Available on Amazon.

Now, for the first time in print—the Reader’s Digest intranet sensation, As the Pegasus Flies. Follow the antics of all the lovable misfits in Sue Nami’s nostalgic 1950s soap opera. Memorable characters such as Lenny and Stu, who are fearlessly determined to build their own helicopter on the Reader’s Digest grounds—during work hours; Edna Wilkins, who has a very Rip Van Winkle-esque experience; Lorenzo, everyone’s favorite skirt chaser; and don’t forget Martin—good old, money-hungry, murderous Martin. Look for special cameos by Reader’s Digest founders DeWitt and Lila Wallace as you’ve never seen them before!

But wait—there’s much more! This print edition is loaded with extra photos, a foreword by the reclusive author herself, expanded text, and paragraph breaks! Also included is a spanking new Sue Nami yarn, the controversial "The Butler." 14 stories in all. Enjoy!

EAN-13 9781453671238

UPDATE 7/20: Sue Nami and As the Pegasus Flies are catching on! Check out this blog mention. And keep your eye out for the upcoming, exclusive interview with Sue Nami!

UPDATE 7/22: Fly on, little Pegasus!

UPDATE 7/23: As the Pegasus Flies, the press release!

UPDATE 7/28: Sue Nami is currently being interviewed. Stay tuned to this blog!

Dorothy

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Dorothy once vomited over the side of the boat during a booze cruise. That was when she was young, single, and carefree—a recent college grad—with her whole future ahead of her. Now she was not so young, but still single and somewhat carefree. And she was making good progress professionally. Reader's Digest was lining up their first ads, which were slated to start running in 1955. Very soon! And Dorothy had landed the Timex account, which she was celebrating now at the company Christmas party. It was TIME to celebrate, was the joke she had been saying all night. The more she drank, the funnier the joke got, at least to her. She knew a whole new world was opening up for the magazine, ads for products and companies that could help shape readership, lead RD into a cooler, modern future. She envisioned full page advertisements with sporty cars, movie stars, athletes, cigarettes, alcohol—there were no limits! The only limits were the ones you put on yourself, and she was never one to do that. The Christmas party was at a swanky Manhattan restaurant, and people from Madison Avenue were popping in, trying to make some contacts so they could advertise in the world's most-read magazine. One thing she loved about RD was they never scrimped on their holiday parties. And this year's celebration attracted outsiders, people like Mr. Frederick, who sidled up to her now. He said, "I represent a product, but I'm not sure if it's too racy for the pages of Reader's Digest..."

(Part 2) Mr. Frederick knew he had piqued Dorothy's interest with an opening line like that. Even if his product was too racy, it could at least open the door to a flirtatious conversation with her. And he'd been around the block enough times to know what that could lead to. His scotch on the rocks had gone straight to his head, what with dinner not having been served yet. And he could tell Dorothy wasn't sipping Shirley Temples. That Reader's Digest was now taking ads at all was a shocker; but their readers had spoken, and they'd prefer ads to an increase in subscription price. Dorothy said, "I'm the gal to talk to about advertising. And let me determine if it's too racy for RD." Mr. Frederick--Freddie to his friends--smiled, and knew he had the fish hooked. "You know, I could use a little fresh air before dinner," he said. "Let's pop outside for a minute," Dorothy said, "the frigid air should clear our heads." Once outside, Freddie fired up a cigarette. He offered her one, but she shook her head. "So tell me about this product of yours," Dorothy said. He exhaled a perfect smoke ring. "Well, it's not my product. But I represent it. I'm an adman, you know." "Yes, I've heard all about your type." Freddie didn't know if that was good or bad. He forged ahead, "I've learned that hands-on experience is the best way to demonstrate something. Wouldn't you agree?" She sipped her Manhattan slowly, looking at him over the rim of the glass. She said, "I guess that depends on whose hands, and what they're on." Freddie thought, The fish is definitely on the hook.

(Part 3) "So, whatcha got for me?" Dorothy asked. "Well, I'm in advertising, and I'm dedicated to my clients. But I don't walk around with every product I sell in my pocket," Freddie said. "What about those Camel cigarettes?" Freddie laughed, said, "Yeah, well, those are different. And they fit in my pocket!" Dorothy said, "So, where do we have to go to get our hands dirty?" "Hands ON," Freddie said, "not dirty." Dorothy said, "Uh huh." "Well, my office is just a few blocks from here, over on Madison." Dorothy looked at her watch, considered this new development. She said, "Mr. Wallace is giving his speech at eight, before dinner. I need to be back for that." Freddie smiled--a cat that ate the canary smile--and said, "I'll get you back in time. I promise." They grabbed their coats and walked the few blocks to the offices of his advertising agency. Once inside, Freddie flicked on some lights. Dorothy said, "Wow, so modern! Not like the stuffy old-fashioned offices we have." "This way," he said, leading the way to his office. "Have a seat." He sat behind his desk and pulled out a marker comp mounted on foam core board of an upcoming ad campaign. Before he showed it to her, he said, "There's a revolution going on in France. On the beaches, to be more specific." Dorothy said, "Is that so?" "It is. And this is what I'm talking about!" Freddie turned the board around to show an illustration of a curvy young woman wearing a bikini. Dorothy gasped, then said, "A bikini! I've heard about those. Seem pretty skimpy." "Would you wear one?" "I don't know. Is that what you want to advertise in Reader's Digest?" "Well, I know that's a long shot. But let's get back to you wearing one." She laughed. "Well, this isn't France, and I don't have a bikini." Freddie opened a desk drawer and pulled out something skimpy and blue. He tossed it to Dorothy. "Now you have one. Why don't you try it on?"

(Part 4) Dorothy shimmied into the bikini, and felt a little naughty. She had gone into an empty office to change, while Freddie fixed them some fresh drinks back in his office. She was reluctant to try it on, but Freddie had convinced her by saying, "Just pretend you're in France." The five Mahnattans she had at the party helped, too. She admired herself now in a full-length mirror, admired the way the blue bikini showed off her curves, highlighted them, in fact. She felt practically nude; maybe because she was practically nude. She spun around, checking herself out from every side. Not bad. But even if you're happy with your body, it takes a lot of courage to walk around in public like this. She was still looking in the mirror when, in the reflection, she saw the door open. Freddie with the drinks. "Now there's a sight for sore eyes," he said. She turned around to face him, reflexively covering herself with her hands. It didn't help much. She was embarrassed, but not surprised; she had known it would probably come to this. The only thing she could think to say was, "So, is there a male version of the bikini?" Freddie moved a step closer. "No, French men just go naked." She dropped her arms and said, "So, aren't we supposed to be pretending to be in France?" "Oui," he said. He began to remove his clothes. "I have to be back by eight," she said. "Bon jour," he said, the only other French he knew. Dorothy interpreted that to mean they'd be back in time. "Oh, Freddie," she said, removing the bikini...

Louis Reard, genius inventor of the bikini

(Part 5) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] Dorothy and Freddie made it back to the party just as Mr. Wallace was raising a glass and toasting the subject of his speech--Dorothy. For all her great work selling ad space in the upcoming issues of Reader's Digest. "Where is she?" he said, squinting into the lights. "Dorothy, come up here!" All eyes were on her now as she approached Mr. Wallace. She felt disheveled after her romp with Freddie, mostly because she was disheveled. In fact, she still had the bikini on under her dress. Freddie, for his part, paused tucking in the back of his dress shirt to applaud Dorothy as she accepted the Pegasus statuette for all her hard work. She shook hands with Mr. Wallace as they kissed each other's cheek. Then she raised the trophy triumphantly. "Here's a toast," she said, "to the Pegasus!" People cheered and drank, and she drank too, downing the liquor in one pull. Her head was swimming from the whole night: the drinks, Freddie, the bikini, the award. The point is, she was drunk on more than just alcohol, but let's face it, the alcohol was the most effective, noticeable, and judgement-impairing. She bathed in the glory of the moment, all eyes on her, people smiling, the Wallaces looking on like proud parents. She couldn't hold her secret in any longer; if they thought the sales she had made were good now, wait till they hear of the account she just landed. She held up a hand. "Wait," she slurred. She leaned forward to place her empty glass on the table, nearly stumbled, and grabbed onto the podium. "I have even bigger news!" She ripped off her dress and stood there, swaying, wearing nothing but the blue bikini. Stunned silence. Someone dropped a glass. "The French bikini! My new account! Reader's Digest magazine is going to be SO cool and hip!" Freddie ran up to the podium then and draped his suit jacket over the drunken, excited, misguided Dorothy. He whispered to her, "Not a good reception. Tough crowd," and led her away, outside into the cold air. Back inside, DeWitt said to Lila, "This ad thing may have been a bad idea."