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.