THE HUNDRED-AND-NINTH PAGE

Little did the agent know that when the submission of her novel was returned by My Editor that he had told his assistant not to open any suspicious package and to return it to sender before it exploded (!) For all the new assistant knew, the thousand-plus manuscript carton could contain anything from a compacted horse to a baby hydrogen bomb.

Had the agent bothered to call and alert her new friend, My Editor, that the thing was on its way, tragedy could have been averted. Tragedy was not averted; as far as I was concerned, Triumph reigned.

Triumph reigned in this manner: the winning house, of course, was fêted throughout the press, but the press always needs color. After the agent furiously denounced my editor on the six o’clock news as he who cared so little that he returned the manuscript unread, My Editor was apparently not seen anywhere without his dark glasses now augmented by a hat covering most of his face. After a week of dodging phone calls, the company decided it might be best if he took a paid holiday to a Caribbean island. While he was gone, his office was dismantled, personal affects sent to his apartment, and his works in progress assigned to other editors. Upon his return, his wife left him and moved in with the editor-in-chief, whom she had met at the annual Christmas party.

THANK YOU, GOD, IF SUCH YOU BE!