The chilly smile Jake bestowed on her trumped her heat. "Fair enough, Stanna, but you'll write what I need written, or else I'll have to 'edit' your column extensively every week. And by edit, I mean rewrite. I'd appreciate it if you'd learn the new editorial policy and implement it immediately."
"And if I don't?" Now, why was she goading him? Stanna felt like kicking herself rather than Jake. She had such trouble playing it cool.
Jake smiled, amused. She cared for that sort of smile even less than the chilly one. How could such a good-looking man be such a jerk? His heartbreakingly-shaped but cruel mouth parted to deliver equally cruel words: "If you don't, then you may find that this magazine becomes an unpleasant working environment for you. Let me be frank. Due to the existence of that contract, we both know that I can't fire you -- unfortunately for the magazine. But I can make you want to leave. Or, you may eventually choose to renegotiate your contract. For example, you might have value as a receptionist."
Stanna felt her control strain. She mentally listed all the things she could sue him for if she were inclined to duke it out in court rather than at the office. Luckily for him, that went against her own sense of fairness, like running in to tell mommy and daddy that Rickie next door wasn't playing nice. She'd had guy friends all her life, and she knew how to deal with them. Jake was a guy like any other. Easy to handle. No sweat, no lawyers, no complexity.
Well, maybe a bit of complexity.
Jake watched her with his predator-eyes, obviously relishing the thoughtful wariness she was sure showed on her face.
A guy like any other.
Except…
It was one thing for him to say that he had a problem with her work; it was another to engrave the line so clearly between them. He must really dislike her. The feeling was wholeheartedly returned, she decided.
Jake's condescending voice insinuated itself again. "Consider broadening your horizons about the column. You don't have the proper equipment to truly relate to men, in the most basic physical ways. But there's always research." He smiled lecherously, and she had no doubt about what kind of research he referred to.
He pushed his chair back and stood. "Men's Weekly won't support your female-cozy columns any longer. Make 'Woman's Word' -- I mean, 'Stan Says' -- something of interest to men." He paused, then added, speaking slowly and gently, "Not all of us guys out there are cavemen, Neanderthal or otherwise. We're just sick of all the overreacting feminists." He walked to the door, opening it to indicate the conversation was over.
Game, set, and match to the man in the khaki slacks. This time. Stanna rose, seeking her dignity. She wasn't going to let him get away with this. She couldn't. 'Woman's Word' was her column, her way to reach men like Tarzan, here. To teach them what she was in such a perfect position to know: what works with women, and what doesn't. She wasn't going to freak out. She wasn't going to cry, or run away, or anything else he expected. Thanks to her tomboy youth and guy friends, she understood men better than Jake knew.
He would not eliminate her valuable job like so much boot scraping. She controlled the stress-reaction trembling of her mouth with supreme effort.
She mentally commended herself for the easy way she glided to the door, keeping her expression carefully neutral. It was hard to keep it that way, though, when he smugly tossed the reminder after her, "Copy's due tomorrow," but she managed. Barely.
Men's Weekly took up an entire floor in the five-story building, with its advertising department, copy department, and separate dimly-lit and funkily-decorated art department. The shoulder-high partition setup let the departments communicate easily. It also allowed people to drape over them and chit-chat. Stanna liked the friendly camaraderie and teamwork she shared with her co-workers. Despite the separate groupings for departments, everybody truly worked in synch with everybody else, and her few previous post-college work experiences let her appreciate the difference at Men's Weekly. How lucky she was to work in the glamorous world of magazine publishing. It was a good job she had, especially for a twenty-five-year-old, and she knew it.
But at the moment she had a hard time appreciating it. She hurried back to her cube directly, because she didn't want to inadvertently take out her bad temper on anyone. She seated herself in her cube and stared unseeingly at the computer monitor, at her half-finished 'Woman's Word' column. She'd heard the expression, "cross-eyed with anger" before, but she was experiencing it firsthand. The text on the screen flip-flopped and she figured her eyes were as crossed as they could get.
Bad enough that he’d fired Ian and then dictated a column sex change. Worse, though, was that he’d killed a dream: she had, with Ian's encouragement, coveted the position of "Editor" for herself. Ian wasn't too many years from retirement. It could’ve happened.
The grizzled old guy, a veteran of dozens of publishing companies all over the country, could be a little out of it, a little uninvolved, maybe. But he let her do what she wanted. He used to look at her with a strange twinkle in his pale gray eyes and talk about retiring early to bass-fish. He would talk in his funny faux pirate accent and command her to "look after the ship" after he left, as if he was some kind of boat captain.
What changes she could have made in Men's Weekly! Big changes, moneymaking changes. Most of all, educational changes. She’d fully planned on making Men's Weekly a progressive, cultural 'zine that never, ever resorted to woman bashing. But now, with Jake at the tip-top of the chain of command, she wouldn't get the chance to make those big changes. Instead, he was going full-throttle with his own.
"You don't have the proper equipment to truly relate to men, in the most basic physical ways." That just wasn't true. Men and women were human beings and basically the same, just with internal versus external equipment. Why did some people make such a big deal out of the plumbing? Those people were wrong.
People like Jake who perpetuated that way of thinking were dangerous to the idea of basic equality. She'd known the type before. Been friends with some, even. Which was the reason she got hot under her cardigan over Jake's smug, insufferable, arrogant attitude. It wasn't right to shovel females into that limiting bucket o' bimbos. It wasn’t fair.
Maybe he thought his readers wanted a James Bond/Larry Flynt combo, a column about the finer attributes of women who were four feet tall with a flat head -- all the better for setting your beer down, went the sexist joke. Or perhaps a modern-style Conan critique of large versus small rear ends. She could hear the locker-room laughter already. She couldn't bring herself to write like that. And she shouldn't have to. 'Woman's Word' was hers!
Especially since she’d offered Ian the column idea even before she was hired. She wanted to write a civilized and enlightening women's opinion column for men. During her interview, she'd pitched the idea with all the enthusiasm her heart could muster, and Ian had been so impressed that he not only assigned her the column, but also agreed to her ambitious terms for a contract: Three years.
Unfortunately, she was sure the contract wouldn't protect her column from Jake's editing each week as he threatened. As the head honcho, he had the right to alter her copy. Her mind, in good journalistic spirit, faithfully documented her feelings about that: Magazine columnist's head cooks to boiling point and then explodes in a superheated geyser of blood! Magazine's new owner comments, "That's what happens to angry feminists. In our next issue, Men's Weekly explores this phenomenon in our new replacement column, 'Stan Says'--with a new replacement writer."
She ground her teeth together in frustration. She could leave, she supposed. Or become a receptionist. She couldn't believe he had the gall to suggest that one.
She focused on the screen in front of her: her column. She couldn't give it up without a fight. Getting the column was the biggest achievement of her life. She’d had a career setback, but she wasn’t out for the count.
That would let Jake and what he represented win.
And, though she didn't particularly want to, she could see why he was being so stubborn and blin
d. It was because the jerk believed that junk about her not having the proper equipment. He was misinformed, of course.
About the "proper," not about her "equipment," she wryly mused to herself with a flush of amusement that soothed her ruffled psyche.
She snorted, and smoothed the wrinkles out of her pants. She wondered if a guy like that was even a little bit redeemable. It was possible, she mused. Highly unlikely, but possible.
She stared at the screen for a long time, but no column ideas came to her.
"He sounds like a charmer." Telly scooped another green grape from the bowl nestled next to her on the antique chaise lounge and dropped it into her lush mouth, Cleopatra-style.
Stanna felt the tension of the workday begin to drain away in the familiar environment of the two-bedroom apartment they shared, but she knew her stiff perch on the edge of their cream-colored couch told her best friend and roommate even more than her tirade.
For her part, Telly stretched out sinuously, catlike. She reposed in a velvety midnight-blue nightgown that was just a touch too fancy for the casual event of two roommates lounging at night. But that was just Telly being Telly.
Stanna herself wore simple sweatpant cutoffs and a T-shirt. It was amazing, she thought, that the day's confrontation hadn't given her a monster headache instead of just stringing her emotions taut. The single glass of red wine was helping, but after unburdening herself to Telly about her experiences with her new boss, she still felt the urge to vent.
"It's not just that he wants to make the magazine more profitable. It's that he really hates women. The guy had that look in his eyes that says, 'You are a bug.'" Stanna demonstrated by narrowing her eyes the way she'd seen Jake do, and then exaggerating an affected disdain that made Telly nearly choke on a grape with laughter.
"He probably feels threatened by you," Telly said when she caught her breath. She smilingly ran one painted-nail finger over her hip and Stanna had no doubt she was thinking of times when she had "threatened" the males of the species. But for all of her obvious charms, she still hadn't found Mr. Wonderful, either.
Stanna surreptitiously evaluated Telly's looks: short, spiky blond hair, perfect makeup, voluptuous body. And, of course, excellent taste in clothes.
Very different from her own minimalist makeup style. Her single tribute to face paint was her dark pink lipstick, and the lack of other makeup made hers a "French" style, she’d read somewhere. Which sounded way more glamorous than she was. She kept her straight, thick, blunt-cut blond hair clean and frizz-free.
Her body was not nearly curvy enough, she compared, critical. But she was happy enough with her bod. Since she'd been an adult she'd never been confused for a boy. Telly was better endowed, maybe, but she always moaned about men gawking at her more generous chest long before they noticed she had a brain.
Stanna considered Telly's comment that Jake might feel threatened, for all of two seconds, then shook her head. "He's too in-control for that. Like nothing could faze him." She stared at a spot in the cream couch and tried to imagine the strong, powerfully athletic man who was her boss feeling threatened. She failed utterly. She was unaware of Telly eyeing her speculatively, with a mischievous smile curving her flawlessly lipsticked mouth.
"You could..." Telly paused dramatically and then continued with the seriousness of a scientist announcing a medical breakthrough, "try tickling him."
Stanna greeted that outrageous statement with an unladylike snort of laughter. She felt her face completely relax at the thought of tickling Jake. "That would be about as effective as tickling a marble statue."
Telly paused her hand in mid grape-delivery and raised one thin brown eyebrow theatrically. "He's that good-looking?"
"Believe me," Stanna responded emphatically, feeling her face tighten once more, "good-looking means nothing when the personality is poison. And this man has RAID running through his veins. Regarding women, anyway. I don't know how I'm going to work under him for another two years." What was it about the man that just the thought of him made her skin crawl interestingly and her muscles tense as if in anticipation of a fight?
"From the look on your face when you were thinking of tickling him," Telly needled, "you wouldn't mind working... under… him too terribly much." Stanna glowered at her roommate, punching a crocheted beige pillow to emphasize her next words. "No! No matter what kind of pheromones he oozes that let me ever even consider... that... which I have not, just for the record... but even if I had..." She paused for a deep breath, trying to compose her words. It was tough, trying to explain why she could never be intimate with Jake, and she wasn't sure why. The man was like some kind of a wicked demon, for crying out loud. Absolutely off limits.
Telly smiled affectionately and said, "Enough about that." Stanna nodded in agreement, waving her hands in the air dismissively, as if to wave away a bad odor. "My guy situation is exactly the same as it has been since I moved down here, since we won't count that ogre-in-residence at work. What about you? Any fun prospects?"
"Only if you think putting together rare sci-fi monster models for 3 hours is fun." In answer to Stanna's questioning look, Telly grumbled, “Don’t ask. Where, I would love to know," she paused dramatically, and Stanna joined her in the little ritual, "are the really good men?" They gave each other matching lascivious grins. "But, not too good."
"They're all home reading my column," Stanna quipped.
Telly looked at her with interest. "Do you ever get fan mail from them? With pictures, maybe?"
Stanna thought back. "That's funny... I never thought about it, but I haven't received even one fan letter from a guy. I got a couple of emails from grateful girlfriends who read the column. They were really positive emails, praising me for keeping up the good fight. Nothing from a guy." Stanna arched her back, stretching the kinks out, then shrugged. "They'll thank me when they see how well my advice helps them in their lives, especially in relationships."
"I've read your column, and I agree one thousand percent," Telly said. "If my sci-fi friend on Friday had read your column...if any of my recent dates had read your column... my weekends would offer better memories."
"And mine," Stanna moaned. "What's with our luck lately? My few dating adventures here were a waste of time, too. Is it a big-city thing, maybe? The guys here are just freaks? I dunno. The more I hear from you, the more I want to stick to red wine and a good book on Friday and Saturday nights."
Telly spoke again, reproachful. "You can't just hide. The dears can't all be duds. There are good companions out there."
She sounded to Stanna as if she were trying to convince herself as well, and Stanna couldn't resist: "The best ones have a lot of fur, cuddle with you on command, and are affectionate and obedient by nature." Now, why was she suddenly thinking of Jake's golden chest hair peeking through the V of his white shirt? Shaking her head and smiling, she added, "And if they're bad, you can give them a good smack."
Telly whistled. "Careful what company you spout that sort of thing in. If a guy said that, he'd be carted off for a chauvinist pig."
"Pigs are better, too. Nice, clean pets."
Bemusedly imagining a pot-bellied pig trotting across her light-brown berber carpet, Stanna rose from the sofa to get some food for her empty stomach. The wine clearly had taken over her brain. "The problem with men -- and I've said this in my column -- is that they're too male." Her gray eyes sparkled with humor.
"Exactly!" Telly agreed. "Now, why can’t they be masculine without those nasty old side affects? Something ought to be done." She put her arms out in front of her, palms up, and loudly beseeched an unseen audience, "Somebody do something!"
"How about... governmental deprogramming!"
"A medical study!"
"Female hormones in the drinking water!"
"A woman for President!"
"Penile shut-off switches! They have chemical castration for pedophiles, so it could be done…"
"A cult of modern-day Amazons!"
Stanna sud
denly became quiet on hearing that. She paused halfway between the couch and the kitchen, and stared fixedly into the distance. What a neat idea. Women banded together to show that men weren't the only ones who could kick ass.
"Stanna. You're getting an idea, aren't you?" Telly didn't sound surprised. Living with a columnist, she was used to Stanna's creative fugues. Stanna murmured to herself, "Cults are pretty common, actually. Maybe not of Amazons. I mean, that wouldn't fly, would it? They kill people, and the whole right-breast removal thing sounds a little gratuitous. But a group of modern women who want good guys instead of the jerks that are out there… it might just get a lot of media attention and volunteers."
Stanna turned to catch Telly peering at her suspiciously. "Are you going to start your own little tribe?" She tipped an index finger at her, an I've-got-it gesture. "This is because of your new boss, isn't it?"
"No," Stanna replied a shade too quickly. "Well, maybe," she amended, to be fair. "Maybe I just like the thought of Jake Tremere trussed up and hanging over a bubbling cauldron ringed by tough chicks. He needs a demonstration that men are not roughly forty feet higher on the food chain than women."
"Cauldrons and food chains!" Telly giggled. "You know what Freud would say about your edible metaphors? That you want his meat dipped in your cauldron!"
Stanna lunged for the couch and hurled an embroidered pillow at Telly. Telly dodged, still laughing. Freud was a fool, anyway. Just another man who thought with his phallus and thought everyone else did the same. "Ooooh," she suddenly said, thoughtful.
"Another idea?"
Stanna felt a devilish grin stretch her lips. "Woman's Word' just got the word, thanks to Freuddy-poo. And Jake won't like it at all."
"Uh, Stanna? Not to state the painfully obvious, but didn't he tell you to change the 'Woman's Word' column? And, isn't he your boss?" Telly's expressive eyes managed to both smile and telegraph her concern.
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