The Broken Teaglass (2 page)

“Because I don’t know what keeps this thing alive. I’ve had it for at least four years. I haven’t any idea how to care for a cactus. But still it grows here on my desk.”

“Do you water it?”

“Very sparingly.”

“That sounds about right,” I said, perhaps too enthusiastically. “For a cactus.”

Dan handed me a sheet of paper that had
Training Schedule
typed at the top.

“You’ll be happy to know you won’t be doing this every day. Tomorrow your real training begins.”

I nodded.

“It’s not meant to be an endurance test, even if it might feel that way. Quite simply, front matter can train you more succinctly than most training sessions can.”

I nodded again.

“As the schedule specifies, I’ll be doing most of your sessions. Here in this office. Just knock on my door at the scheduled times. For the other sessions—like cross-reference with Frank, or thesauri with Grace—they’ll come to you. Do you have any questions about the process? Or anything you’ve read today?”

When I said no, Dan told me I needed to be introduced to Mr. Needham, the editor in chief. Dan led me to Mr. Needham’s office and smiled wanly as he held the door for me. He didn’t go in with me.

Mr. Needham’s office was pretty Spartan. Unlike some of the cubicles I’d seen earlier in the day, his space contained none of the usual comforting reminders of a slightly rosier existence outside of this office—pictures of smiling children, Nerf basketball hoop, dish of toffee candies. Even on Dan’s desk there was at least a framed snapshot of himself holding a large trout, in addition to that sad little cactus. The only sign of nonacademic humanity in Mr. Needham’s office was a shiny new roll of Tums resting on the corner of his blotter.

Mr. Needham himself looked a little time-worn, sagging slightly behind his glossy wooden desk. He seemed to be scowling at me, but I tried not to take it personally. Maybe he’d eaten something too spicy for lunch—hence the Tums. A thin layer of gray hair was pulled from one side of his bald
head to the other. I wondered if
comb-over
was in the dictionary yet. His clothes, conversely, were crisp and classy: a black sport coat without a trace of lint or cat hair and a tastefully splashy tie that reminded me vaguely of a Gauguin painting. Maybe a gift from a theatrical granddaughter.

“Hello and welcome.” His voice had a gargling quality to it.

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“You can sit down.”

“Thanks.”

“Reading the front matter today, eh?”

“Yes.”

“How are you finding it?”

I searched his face for a hint of a smile. Finding none, I found it difficult to suppress my own.

“Informative,” I said quietly.

“It’s a lot to absorb. But it’s important. If everyone who owned a dictionary actually read that information, actually learned how to use a dictionary properly, our jobs would be much easier. Has Wood told you about correspondence?”

It took me a moment to remember that “Wood” was Dan.

“No … I don’t think so.”

“So many letters we have to answer. Most people’s questions would be answered if they just
read the information that we provide
. Right there in the front of the book.”

“Huh.”

“But you’ll see that soon enough, I’m sure.”

He shifted some papers on his desk and produced a familiar-looking document. My college transcript.

“Philosophy. Hmm. Wood likes philosophy students. I’m not certain why. I don’t believe he ever studied much philosophy
himself. I used to read some now and then, back when I was getting my doctorate. I enjoyed Hegel a great deal.”

“Did you?” I wasn’t sure how to take this. I’m pretty certain no one actually enjoys Hegel.

“Mmm … a German minor? Very good. But whatever academic background one has, whether you’ve got a bachelor’s in philosophy or a PhD in linguistics,” Needham said, leaned back in his chair, and stuck out his lower lip, “you are about to embark on a difficult journey. The work we do here is not easy. It’s an intellectual job, but that doesn’t make it an
easy
job. Quite the contrary.”

I nodded solemnly.

“We have to be very precise. Very thorough. People count on us to do it right.”

“Yes, sir,” I said carefully, thinking of boils and pimples and still trying not to smile.

“No, it’s not an easy job,” he said. He sighed, shook his head, and gazed out the window as if contemplating the many casualties of the great dictionary cause. A moment later he sat back up.

“I encourage you to take a look at some of the histories that have been written about our company over the years. The best one, in my opinion, is
Keeper of the Word: Daniel Samuelson and the Creation of the Great American Lexicon
. There’s a copy in the editors’ library. I’m sure Pat would be happy to locate it for you.”

I didn’t know who Pat was, but I nodded.

“You’re in good hands with Wood. He took over the trainings five years ago. He’s likely to be the next editor in chief, you know.”

He creaked back in his chair again.

“But I don’t know when that will be. Time will tell. I
wanted to see her through the next unabridged, but Lord knows …

“But I’m keeping you from your work. Back to that front matter! One of our most time-honored traditions.”

He stuck out his hand and I shook it.

“Have a good afternoon,” he said, gripping my hand firmly. His fingers were chill.

“You too,” I said, and left him.

I made my way back to my cubicle, where I gazed at pronunciation symbols for the rest of the afternoon. At four o’clock, Dan Wood stopped by my desk and told me I could go.

Maybe it was a sort of
omen that my first encounter with Tom was on that very first day of work. He was sitting on the front porch when I got out of my car and trudged toward the house. In my week of living there, I’d never seen him before. He was bald but for a few long clumps of hair growing out of the sides and back of his head, all pulled into a thin ponytail at the back. His body matched his hair—stringy, skinny, and formless in his lawn chair.

“Hello, Billy.” His lips labored to keep a cigarette in his mouth as he spoke.

“Hi,” I said, pausing before stepping onto the porch.

“You look tired, Billy.”

I hesitated. His deliberate, repeated use of my name was a little
Twilight Zone
, but he probably meant it to be friendly.

“I am,” I replied. “First day on the job.”

“At Samuelson. My brother told me.”

“Your brother?”

“Jimmy’s my brother. I’m Tom. Jimmy told me about you.”

Jimmy was the guy who lived downstairs with his wife, Barbara. They were both about fifty and very friendly, at least so far. Jimmy drank a lot and didn’t seem to have a job. Barbara left each morning on the bus, dressed in a skirt and blouse, with her white-blonde hair pulled up into a clip. But I hadn’t yet asked where she worked.

“They bust your ass down there at Samuelson?”

“Not exactly. It was kind of a weird and quiet day, actually. They had me read the beginning part of the dictionary, where it explains how it’s organized.”

“All day? That’s what you did all day?”

“Yeah. It was pretty boring.”

“Yeah. I’ve heard some bizarre shit goes down at that place.”

“Bizarre shit?”

Tom shrugged. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and took a long sip out of his Black Label beer. “Just check out their definition of ‘civil liberty’ sometime, and maybe you’ll notice something funny going on.”

“Really?”

“Or maybe it’s ‘libertarian.’ I can’t quite remember. Bottom line, though—those dictionary guys gotta have their hands in everything. Think they’re so clever.”

I stared at Tom. It had never occurred to me that there might be a townie/lexicographer rift in Claxton.

“Most of the people who work there think they’re such hot shit,” Tom continued.

“I don’t think I’m hot shit,” I said, sitting down on the step. I was hoping Jimmy would come out. Jimmy wasn’t as creepy as this guy. He’d helped me get my mattress up the stairs the day I’d moved in, and we’d had a couple of good chats since then.

“Maybe not yet. But wait till you’ve worked there awhile.
You’ll get to tell people you’re a
lexicographer
, that you write fuckin’ dictionary definitions—”

“Yeah. Wait till then. I’ll have the chicks just falling all over me when I start saying that stuff.”

Tom puffed on his cigarette and studied me through narrowed eyes.

“You want a beer?” he asked, after a time.

I considered whether a cold one would be worth hanging for a few more minutes with this crackpot.

“Sure,” I answered.

“Jimmy!” Tom yelled through the screen door. “Bring Billy a beer, would ya? And I could use another too!”

Tom put his beer can on the step. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure it’ll be very educational for you. Just don’t let those fuckers throw you to the wolves.”

Jimmy appeared, red-faced, with three Black Labels. He looked like he’d just been sleeping. He had lines on his cheek, maybe from pressing against a rough blanket or a folded sheet.

“Billy boy,” he said. “Nice tie.”

“Where did you go to college?” Tom demanded.

“Don’t mind Tommy,” said Jimmy. “He’s just jealous. He’s always wanted to work at that place. He just didn’t have the grades.”

“Not true,” said Tom. “I had a 3.6 GPA. At least I
went
to college.”

“Yeah, I know. And dropping out one semester before graduation’s a
real
sign of intelligence. If I had the education you had, I sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting
here
. Who’s the one letting it go to waste?”

Tom maneuvered his cigarette to one side of his mouth.

“Education is not a means to an end,” he announced. “Education is valuable in and of itself.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I said, lifting my Black Label. The brothers drank without bothering to clink with me.

“Great. Me and the two geniuses,” Jimmy snorted. “How was your first day, Billy?”

“Tolerable, I guess. I was lucky to get this job. I should probably look at it that way.”

“I hear you,” said Jimmy.

We gulped our beers in silence. After I finished mine, I went upstairs and sprawled out on my futon.

The phone rang later, while I
was warming up a canned minestrone.

“Hello?”

“Billy. It’s Mom.”

“Oh. Hi.”

“You sound tired.”

“I just said hi. I’m not tired.”

“I was hoping you’d call and tell us about the new job.”

“I figured I’d wait for something interesting to happen first.”

“You’re joking. It must be a
fas
cinating place. You must be meeting some interesting people, at least.”

“My boss seems nice.”

“Well, that’s a good sign. Not everyone’s lucky enough to have an understanding boss. I mean, I sure don’t.”

“Yeah.”

“So are they teaching you how to define words yet?”

“I’ll be doing some practice words next week.”

“Do your coworkers seem smart?”

“I haven’t seen anyone chewing their own leg off yet.”

“What?”

“What’s Dad up to?”

My mother sighed. “Tempering chocolate.”

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“The Gardners are coming over for dinner. Your father feels the need to serve his mousse with the little molded chocolate moons and stars stuck into it.”

“Dessert is thirty percent presentation, you know.”

“Please
. I’m going to put him on for you.”

“No, really. It’s fine. I know what a delicate process it is, the tempering of chocolate.”

“Yeah, well,” she said. “Father-son relations are delicate too. Your first day at your first real job. You should chat.”

I heard her calling him, and then:

“William.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“I wish you were here to share this excellent dinner we’ll be having with the Gardners.”

“Me too.” As soon as I said it I realized, pathetically, that I meant it. “I’m having a can of soup for dinner.”

“I hope you’re having dessert, then. This mousse I’m making here is pretty delicious. I’ve already had several test-helpings.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“Eat dessert first. That’s what I say.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Because you never know.”

“You never do.”

“Nope,” I said, finding myself strangely eager to let this exchange of platitudes go on indefinitely. To occupy this alternate space where my father and I conquer life’s problems with a couple of clichés and an upraised rolling pin.

“How’s the job?” Dad wanted to know.

“I’m not sure yet. It’s kinda quiet. I don’t really know what I’m doing yet.”

“Well. That’s fine. Just don’t quit in the first six months. That’s a résumé killer.”

“I won’t be quitting anytime soon, I don’t think. I don’t know if I’ll find it inspiring, exactly, but it seems a harmless enough way to support oneself. For the time being.”

A long pause followed.

“Dad?” I said into the phone.

“This is becoming a little unwieldy,” Dad said finally. “The white chocolate stripes are particularly difficult, William. I’m going to put your mother back on.”

“No problem.”

My mother ended the conversation by telling me how proud they both were of me, and congratulating me on my entrance into the
real
world, which made me flinch. After we hung up, I sat at my little kitchen table and spooned thin tomatoey water into my mouth. I wondered what brainless version of myself had picked this can of soup off the supermarket shelf and deluded himself that it would satisfy him. I vowed to look at a few cookbooks before I went to the store next time.

As I slurped the last of the soup, I stared across the kitchen floor at the two boxes of books I’d left by the stove. I probably didn’t have enough shelves for them all, and the idea of unpacking them exhausted me. But those books and my TV were my only means across this endless evening, and I wasn’t ready to turn on the TV yet. TV was desperation. TV was a last resort—the inadequate piece of driftwood that you grab just before you drown anyway. If I needed television to survive my first night in the real world, there was little hope for me.