The Pink Ghetto. Liz Ireland

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      At six-forty I straggled up the stairs to the building lugging my copy of The Baby Doctor and the Bodyguard. Every muscle in my body felt tired, even my mouth from holding it in a tense friendly smile for half the day. I really needed to have a Calgon evening, but unfortunately the apartment was tubless. Maybe I could have a hot shower and relax for a little bit before tackling the editing of the manuscript, which I was determined to make considerable headway on that night.

      As I reached the third floor where we lived, the door was flung open. There stood Fleishman, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. “You’re finally home! The pizza’s cold.”

      He took my totebag full of manuscript as I dragged myself through the door. “Cold is okay,” I said. Even after pigging out at lunch with my coworkers, I was starving now. “Sitting at a desk all day really gives you an appetite.”

      Fleishman had set the little table in what we laughingly called our entertainment area. It was the ten-foot square of space into which we wedged a round eating table, a futon couch, a thirty-five-inch plasma screen television, a bookcase, and the microwave oven. (The kitchen didn’t have room for the microwave.) He had even put out cloth napkins and lit a candle. At the moment I would have been happy to collapse on the couch with a pizza box in my lap and an IV hookup to a box of wine, but it was really thoughtful of him to try to make the apartment nice for the occasion.

      Though I wondered what kind of occasion he thought this was. It wasn’t as if I had never worked before.

      “Have a seat.” He guided me over to a chair and pressed me into it. “I have to show you the surprise.”

      “Oh.” I assumed that this was the surprise—pizza by candlelight. That would have been enough.

      But Fleishman had never been one of those people for whom enough would suffice. He was fond of over-the-top gestures, and as he skipped back to Wendy’s closet of a room to retrieve whatever he had hidden there, I wondered what on earth he could have gotten. I mean, he had already arranged a wardrobe for me. At the moment, I felt I lacked for nothing except self-confidence and a modicum of editorial know-how.

      He came running back with a large cardboard box, which he put carefully on the floor in front of me. It was just a plain brown box, though it had a big white bow around it. I was just so exhausted I couldn’t focus, because it appeared to be moving.

      “Open it,” he said.

      I frowned at it suspiciously. “What is it?”

      “Open it.” When I hesitated, he yanked the bow off himself.

      After that, I didn’t have to open the box. It opened itself. Suddenly, I was staring into the face of a tan colored puppy. His little pink tongue was sticking out at me, panting like mad, and his paws were scrabbling pointlessly against the cardboard. He wanted out of that box and onto my lap. Onto someone’s lap. Like all puppies, the eagerness in his eyes gave you the impression that he wasn’t going to be too particular. Anybody would do.

      He yelped. I jumped.

      “Isn’t he cute?” Fleishman said. He picked up the puppy and plopped the squirming mound of fur onto my chest. My neck and face were immediately assaulted by that tongue and the Mighty Dog breath that went with it. “His name’s Maxwell.”

      “Maxwell?”

      “For Maxwell Perkins, the editor. I thought your dog should have a publishing name.”

      “My dog?” Maxwell let out another yelp, letting me know that was A-OK with him.

      “I thought it would suit him better than naming him some lame author name, like Hemingway. That’s so unoriginal. Of course, Max isn’t exactly original, either. We could call him Perkins, but people might think we named him for Anthony Perkins—”

      It was time to interrupt his soliloquy. “My dog?”

      “Of course. He’s a gift.”

      The dog was having a hard time balancing on my lap, so I put him on the ground. He proceeded to try to crawl up my leg. I had to admit he was awfully cute. His fur was short and bristly in appearance but soft to the touch, and his little face was like something you’d see in a Puppy Chow ad. The tips of his ears folded downward, giving him a look that was goofily rakish.

      “He’s СКАЧАТЬ