Edith could manage words better than clients, but it killed her each time she saw her paycheck, as her siblings were successful managers, while she was cleaning up grammar for “shit money.”
Whereas my parents, both custodians, were proud of my job as editor, and said things that would benefit me financially, such as, “dish detergent, when mixed with water, will clean your hair.”
“Really?” I asked, knowing my income didn’t permit expensive shampoos.
“Yes, dear,” they gleefully replied.
My family also encouraged dialogue, whereas Edith’s delivered extensive monologues.
“The American public,” she’d ramble like her relatives, “have a low tolerance for war. Can you imagine if the Iraq War were World War II and we had to deal with Hitler? Americans wouldn’t stomach it. It’s a shame.” Edith was like a reverend who put members of the congregation to sleep. She was also plump and showered herself with copious amounts of Jean Nate. I was the skinnier colleague and wore a ponytail and used my brother’s Tom Ford cologne.
Edith wanted to be the better editor, and when our supervisor gave us an assignment, she grabbed it first.
Two people had to see the copy because if one person missed something, the other might catch it. Edith found most mistakes.
“The boss thinks I don’t make changes because you leave me nothing.”
“Is that my fault, Renee?”
When copy was not badly written she’d give me first crack and I found few errors. She preferred copy when the infinitives split exponentially.
Edith repeatedly asked what I was working on.
“Finding ambiguities in your recent edits,” I snickered.
There was no joviality from her.
“…I’m editing PowerPoint slides,” I corrected myself, and was met with a stony silence.
“Renee—give me them when you’re done.”
“Why are you always telling me that?”
“You don’t need to get defensive…”
“I’m not…”
“That’s another thing—why do you cut me off?” she sneered. Edith had a lisp that should have been corrected by a speech therapist; instead she mispronounced words with extreme self-importance.
“You’re not my supervisor” was my mantra, but it never shut her up.
One day, her one-upmanship failed when she realized I had more vacation days.
“How can you have more time off?”
“I’ve been here longer…”
“Don’t be rude,” Edith said, spraying Lysol on her desk.
“It’s a boundary issue, like when you ask me what I’m doing or tell me how I should do it. We’re both editors,” I remarked, noting the slides had extra spaces.
“You’re good at certain things and I’m good at other things.”
“Meaning?”
“I couldn’t multitask like you, but I can quote The Chicago Manual of Style.”
I shudder when people say “multitask” because it means “you’re a good secretary.”
“You’re better at grammar than me?” I asked.
“Then I, you mean. I’m good at it.”
When an executive explained something to us, Edith had to repeat it.
“What they meant was…”
“I know.”
“We should combine our corrections,” she continued. If she got too close, I smelled her oatmeal breath.
“I’ll read it first,” she insisted.
Edith covered our projects with a red marker and wrote huge explanatory paragraphs though proofreading symbols would have sufficed.
Indeed, grammar comprised Edith’s and my being. We fought over commas like Russians might bread in the days before Perestroika.
“Rooster’s toes, painful and tired,” she agonizingly lectured, “does not require a serial comma after ‘painful’.”
“We always use serial commas.”
“Yes, but here, the toes are in pain. Your commas change the meaning.” She blew her nose and threw Kleenex in the trash.
“You’re right,” I conceded, hoping the germs would remain inert.
When Edith scored a victory, she was defiant, like she climbed Mt. Everest with crutches.
Edith was remarkably learned and sensitive, and, like me, took a daily regimen of anti-depressants. Problems only arose when she got wound up or jealous and acted like someone stole her eggs.
We had an important proposal one morning about poultry fumes and worked separately, combining our queries into one manuscript—Edith’s—which looked as if she edited the entire proposal.
Our boss Richard initially contacted her.
“Yes, Richard, that’s right, mmmhhhhhh….”
Richard phoned for my opinion.
“The proposal’s poorly written. The first section is too theoretical… takes forever to make a point. You’re welcome.” I slammed the receiver.
“How can you generalize like that?” Edith was livid. “You didn’t have any comments while we were working on it.”
“…later I realized…”
“You realized it when Richard called.” Her face was red like her writing utensil.
“Bullshit, Edith. I marked the pheromones.”
“Yes, but why did you show off? ‘I thought it was too theoretical!’ What do you know about proposals?!”
“…as much as you.”
“Renee, if you can’t tell me what’s specifically wrong, how can you tell Richard?”
“Edith, you think you’re Jesus Fucking Christ.”
“How dare you say my Lord’s name in vain!” Edith walked out. A breeze of Jean Nate lingered.
Twenty minutes later, Edith returned.
“I’m really sorry—I didn’t mean to be disrespectful—but I don’t think you should be so critical—” I murmured.
“You were being theoretical about the ‘theoretical proposal,’ as you called it.”
“…you want to fucking intimidate me…” I rolled my eyes, but she couldn’t see through the cubicle wall.
“I’d appreciate you’re not using the F Word—Renee—you’ve already assaulted my Lord with it.”
“At least I’m not Richard’s toady.”
“I’m trying to be your friend, Renee, whereas you’re kissing Richard’s—”
“Does familiarity make you contemptuous, Edith?”
“The expression is ‘familiarity breeds contempt.’”
I paused. I despised fighting with her.
“You mean my commas were good enough? I shouldn’t review the piece?”
“Exactly.”
“Perhaps I’m paranoid about you and everything,”
“Let’s just edit. We’re editors. We’re not writers for God’s sake,” she sighed.
I felt relief. My paranoia was loosening, though Edith observed, “You’re not paranoid, actually, the correct word is insecure.”
Eleanor Levine's writing has appeared in more than 70 publications, including Fiction, Evergreen Review, The Toronto Quarterly, Faultline Journal of Arts and Letters, The Denver Quarterly, Spoon River Poetry Review, Maryland Literary Review, and others; forthcoming work in Thrice Publishing's 2019 Surrealist/Outsider Anthology, Good Works Review, and South Dakota Review. Her poetry collection, 'Waitress at the Red Moon Pizzeria,' was published by Unsolicited Press (Portland, OR) in 2016. Her short story collection was accepted for publication by Guernica Editions (Canadian publisher).