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.)