(Recently, C. W. Charles, editor-in-chief of the Rancho Cucamonga Review of Books, visited SORB editor-in-chief Ellis Weiner in the latter’s office. The following is an unabridged transcript of their conversation with nothing added, especially at the end.)
C.W. CHARLES: Well well…
ELLIS WEINER: Oh god. What do you want.
CWC: Not a very warm greeting, Ellis. To a former colleague.
EW: Sorry, Charles. Will heated do? Oh god, what the fuck do you want?
CWC: I heard about your one-month anniversary and thought I’d tender my congratulations.
EW: You’ve changed your underwear, haven’t you? You scamp. And you got that haircut we talked about for so long.
CWC: Ellis, you wound me with your cynicism. No, truly. I read about your office re-modelling and thought I’d drop by to admire it in person.
EW: No kidding.
CWC: None. Imagine my surprise — or complete lack thereof — now that I see that the whole thing is a tissue of lies. As I suspected from the start.
EW: Ow. Ya got me, pal. What tipped you off?
CWC: Come, Weiner, you know my methods. (produces tablet, displays SORB article) For example, this first photo.
EW: Of the “main reception area”?
CWC: So you claim. But a cursory examination reveals that this can’t be the reception area of a tiny, desperate literary magazine in the San Fernando Valley. Look at the immense scale. Observe the dozens of visitors. Behold the elaborate stained glass windows.
EW: Then what is it?
CWC: These columns and ribbed stanchions give —
EW: “Ribbed stanchions”?
CWC: — give it away. This is in fact a composite photo of the main floor of the Basílica i Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família, designed by Antonio Gaudi (1852-1926), the Spanish Catalan architect from Reus and the best known practitioner of Catalan Modernism.
EW: Aren’t you clever.
CWC: And take this, the so-called “main editorial office.” This is, in point of fact, the Rose Reading Room in the central branch of the New York Public Library.
EW: You’re too sharp for me, Charles.
CWC: Well one knew that already, didn’t one? And this, what you claim to be your office — it isn’t really your re-modelled office at all, is it? This shabby little space in which we’re currently chatting so pleasantly is your office. This, in sharp contrast, is a photo of a spa suite in a luxury hotel. The bubble bath is of course preposterous. And note the balcony, which gives onto a lush, verdant wood — a wood of which there is no evidence in our current location.
EW: Uh-huh.
CWC: Your purported “lunch room”? A dining salon on a cruise ship. Although I will grant that this final photo, of a miserable chamber in which people seem to be doing yoga, could be an actual facility for your minuscule staff.
EW: Thanks for dropping by.
CWC: I’m sorry about all this, Ellis.
EW: About what?
CWC: Your desperation. About your pathetic need to publish self-aggrandizing lies to conceal the fact that your little experiment in self-determination has come such a cropper.
EW: People don’t really talk that way, Charles.
CWC: They would if they could. Anyway, I assume you won’t mind if we run a story revealing the truth about this entirely fictional “refurbishment”?
EW: Knock yourself out.
CWC: And so I shall. Nice to see you again.
EW: Wait. You know, of course, that I’ve been recording this conversation.
CWC: I’m the opposite of surprised.
EW: And I intend to publish it.
CWC: Be my guest. Just promise me that you won’t edit anything I’ve said.
EW: I promise. I won’t change or omit a word you have spoken.
CWC: Splendid. Well, then—
(A knock on the door is heard.)
EW: Come in.
(The door opens. SCARLETT JOHANSSEN enters)
SCARLETT JOHANSSEN: Honey, we need — Oops. Sorry. I didn’t know you were busy.
EW: That’s okay, Scar. He was just leaving.
(CHARLIZE THERON enters)
CHARLIZE THERON: Guys, are we — Oh.
CWC: Ah…
EW: Oh. Sorry. Scarlett Johanssen, Charlize Theron, C.W. Charles.
CWC: Um…um…
SJ: We’ll come back later.
CT: Did you get the menus?
EW: Got ‘em. Haven’t looked at them yet.
CT: There’s a lot of French. But that’s okay, isn’t it?
EW: It’s great.
SJ: Nice meeting you.
CWC: Y—uh, wuh, me, um—
(THE WOMEN exit)
EW: Here’s your hat, Charles. What’s your hurry?
CWC: What are they doing here?
EW: What do you mean? They work here. They’re my assistants.
CWC: THEY’RE YOUR—
EW: Okay, not exactly. Charlie is my assistant. Scar is more like an intern.
CWC: What “menus”?
EW: We’re going to Bali for a week. We thought about pre-ordering the dinners.
CWC: How can you possibly afford to take your entire staff to Bali?
EW: Not the whole staff. Just the three of us. Now I really do have to get back to work.
(CHARLES heads toward door, then stops)
CWC: May I ask you something?
EW: Let’s say.
CWC: Why do those two fantastic women want to work here?
EW: Ask them yourself. Don’t steal any Post-Its on your way out.
(CHARLES exits. A minute later HE returns)
CWC: I couldn’t find them. (CHARLES pauses at door). Did this really happen?
EW: Define “really.”
