Reader's Digest For Sale

According to today's Wall Street Journal:

Reader's Digest Association Inc., the magazine and website publisher that emerged from bankruptcy protection in early 2010, has put itself up for sale and hopes to fetch around $1 billion, according to people familiar with the matter.

The New York-based company, which is best known for its namesake family magazine, has hired financial advisers to shop the company to potential buyers, including private-equity firms and other media companies, these people said. The process may result in the sale or spinoff of some Reader's Digest properties rather than the sale of the entire company, two of the people added.

Is this winter over yet?

Hi all. I figured I'd check in and give you an update from icy White Plains.
• This winter is relentless. One snowstorm after another. And the temperature is not warming up, so the snow from previous storms isn't melting. More just gets piled on. Yesterday we had an ice storm, just to change things up a little. RD's snow policy seems to be the company will never close, but you can work from home if you clear it with your manager first. Except upper management is putting pressure on lower management to make everyone come into the office. So, we're getting a mixed message. I myself have been coming in every day.
• The management of our building, Westchester One, cancels shuttle service to the train station without much warning. If you commute here by train, well—sorry! You're out of luck. Either you have to beg a co-worker for a ride to the train station, or you have to walk a mile (uphill) through ice and snow to get there (while carrying your files so you can "work from home"). Why are they canceling the shuttle service? This is White Plains! We're not in the sticks here. The roads are plowed and salted. In Pleasantville RD owned a shuttle van, and someone drove it back and forth. If it snowed, they drove slow. We're not trying to get people to the moon here. It's only a mile drive.
• The White Plains office now has flooring in the kitchen and carpeting outside of the elevators.
• Still no personal garbage cans.
• There is now "art" hanging on the walls. It's the ugly, reject art that no one wanted to buy during the company auction, but at least we're not looking at bare white walls anymore.
• I still have no idea where these supposed "huddle rooms" are.

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.