Are You Happy Now? by Richard Babcock

far are remarkable. I must tell you about it sometime. There might be something there for you.” Buford stands and extends his arm. “But I shouldn’t take any more of your time. This has been most edifying for me. I’m so glad to have made your acquaintance.”
    Lincoln rises uneasily and shakes hands. Can his crisis really be passing so quietly? When they stop shaking, however, Buford doesn’t let go. They remain connected, awkwardly, across the messy expanse of Lincoln’s desk. “And now that we are acquainted, maybe you would be so kind as to take a look at something I’ve written,” Buford says. “It’s very modest. Just a small collection of poems.”
    In the silence, Lincoln feels acutely the grip of Buford’s hand. “We don’t really publish poetry,” Lincoln says, hedging slightly since once, a year or two before Lincoln arrived at Pistakee, Duddleston unaccountably printed a small anthology of poems by mothers about their sons. Unsold copies used to lie around the office like old telephone books that no one bothered to discard.
    “Well, you might just enjoy taking a look,” Buford continues. He drops Lincoln’s hand and pulls a rather thin manila envelope out of his briefcase, then places it directly in front of Lincoln in the middle of his desk. “Of course, my mother is a great fan of my work. I think it would ease her situation enormously if she had the pleasure of seeing it published.” Buford studies Lincoln’s face. “Looking forward to hearing from you,” the visitor says before turning and marching out.
    Seconds later Byron Duddleston appears in the office door. “Who was that?” he asks, gesturing down the hall in the direction of Buford’s exit.
    Lincoln is still standing behind his desk, asking himself whether he’s being blackmailed. “Uhhh...a writer,” he tells hisboss. He slides Buford’s business card under a pile of papers and casually moves the poet’s package to the side of the desk. (Yes. Blackmail. Definitely.)
    “A writer!” Duddleston repeats, pleased, as if he and Lincoln had accidentally spotted a rare and beautiful yellow-throated warbler well north of its typical range. “We need more diversity on our list.”
    “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Lincoln improvises.
    As Lincoln sits again, the boss steps into the room and hovers, his maroon bow tie adding a menacing edge. (Why menacing? Lincoln has long wondered. Something about academic smugness, aggressive competence. Lincoln could never tie one.) “Bill Lemke has come to me with what I think is a fantastic idea,” Duddleston says cagily.
    Lincoln frowns. “Really?”
    “Yes. He’s been talking to the marketing people with the Cubs, and it turns out they’d really like to promote his book. In fact, they’re doing a special night to celebrate the history of Wrigley Field, and they’ve offered to make Bill part of the event.”
    “That’s great!”
    “Yes. But here’s the thing. They want to do it at the end of September, so we’d need copies of the book by then. Paperback, of course. Oversized.”
    Lincoln does a quick mental accounting of their normal production schedule. “That’s impossible,” he points out.
    Duddleston’s famous temper flares. “Nothing’s impossible!” he snaps. “That’s the trouble with the book business—everybody’s stuck in the same old pattern. Of course, it’s possible to publish a book in two months—companies do it all the time with annual reports, special issues, that sort of thing. We’ve already speeded our schedule way up. There’s no reason we can’t do it some more. If you can get the manuscript in shape, I’ll take care of production and distribution. Bill’s game, that’s for sure.”
    So Lemke, that mothy and odorous fossil, is ready to march with Duddleston into the fast-moving future, while Lincoln, the brilliant young executive editor, is stuck in the sluggish routines of the past. “Wow,” says Lincoln, trying to save his