The Broken Teaglass (3 page)

I sat on the floor and opened the first box.
The Shining. The Colossal Compendium of Jokes, Puns, and Riddles
. A couple
of John Grishams. These were older books than I’d anticipated. I couldn’t remember packing them. My mother had probably sneaked a couple of boxes into my U-Haul to give herself more closet space. Beneath the bestsellers were a few more joke books. I pulled one out and flipped through its yellowed pages.

Closing it, I leaned back against the oven and thought again of my mother’s use of the term
real world
. I’d seen some real world in my time, and Samuelson Company didn’t bear much resemblance to it.

Dear Mr. Mason,

I’m afraid I can’t tell you which
spelling, Judgment Day
or
Judgement Day
, is more appropriate for the tattoo you plan to receive. I can tell you that
judgment
is the more common spelling variant here in the U.S. The decision of what to include in one’s tattoo, however, is a highly personal one, and I think you should use whichever spelling pleases you….

Dear Mr. Ferguson,

Of course I am happy to put an end to this dispute between you and your wife. There is nothing wrong with your wife’s statement “These chicken legs are
moister
than the ones we had last week.” Although
moister
is not a commonly used word, it is a perfectly acceptable word, following the conventions of standard word construction….

This was the reading material Dan left on my desk in the middle of my second week of training. Answering customer letters was soon going to be one of my duties, and these examples were supposed give me a feel for how it’s done.

Dear Mr. Lawrence,

Congratulations on your successful parole hearing and your early release. It is refreshing to know that you are continuing your linguistic studies outside of the state penitentiary. I am happy to answer your questions.

Indeed,
cunt
is a surprisingly old and well-established word in the English language….

These letters at least made livelier reading material than the usual mimeographed training packets with cryptic titles like “The Philosophy of Defining”
(The job of a lexicographer is to define words, not things….)
and “What Is Lexical?”
(Generic nouns belong in the dictionary proper; names of specific people, places, and historical events do not….)
Usually Dan and I would chat about the packets twice a day in his office. My favorite thus far was “Self-explanatory: A Primer”
(A two-word term is considered self-explanatory, and therefore nonlexical, if its definition can be surmised from the definitions of the two words from which it is formed….)

Dear Brittany,

Thank you for sharing your coinage,
Funday
, with us. Although
Funday
is a very nice word, I’m afraid we can’t put it in the dictionary at this time. It actually takes a long time for any word to make its way into the dictionary….

The last letter on the pile was written by Dan himself:

Dear Ms. Fine,

We are flattered that you considered using our definition of
love
as a reading for your wedding. I’m sorry you were ultimately disappointed with our work.

It’s important that I clarify one point, however. At
Samuelson, we do not aim to define the limits of emotional experiences such as
love, hate, faith, friendship
, etc. We aim only to define what these words mean in standard English discourse. That is, what is generally meant by a speaker or writer when he utters or writes these words. If our definition is, as you say, “unromantic,” it’s because lexicography is, by nature, an unromantic exercise. Precise, clear, and thorough definition is the main objective—and the only objective. A definition could not possibly capture the sensations, the depth, or the variations of something like love as it is experienced by everyone lucky enough to encounter it. And isn’t it best that even the most precise of words cannot capture such things?

Best wishes for your upcoming wedding.

Sincerely,

Dan Wood

Samuelson Editorial Department

What a cheeseball
, I thought, coming to the end of it. But I liked Dan’s approach better than the thinly veiled condescension of some of the others. Dan popped his head into my cubicle just as I was putting the letters aside.

“Ready to try your hand?” he asked.

“I guess … I was just admiring this one about the wedding reading.”

“Yes, that’s one of my recent favorites. I decided to give you a bit of a doozy for your first letter.”

He handed me a ragged piece of lined paper with an envelope clipped to it.

Dear Ms. Minot,

Thank you for your response to my last inquiry. While I do not agree with your conclusions about the word
sobriquet
, it is interesting to hear what uses Samuelson has in its citation file, and I appreciate your taking the time to share those examples with me.

Your response leads me to another question. I recently consulted the Samuelson definition of
editrix
, and found
editrices
and
editrixes
given as possible plural forms. The entry for
dominatrix
, on the other hand, gives only
dominatrices
for the plural form. My question for you, Ms. Minot, is if this inconsistency is an error. How can the
-xes
ending be correct for one of the words and not the other? As both an editrix and a lexicographer, I suppose you are uniquely qualified to satisfy my curiosity. I trust I will receive a prompt and satisfactory reply.

Cordially,

Jared Houston

Student

“This is really the worst kind of correspondent,” said Dan. “The gadfly. People who don’t want to stop writing to us, want to catch us in an error, or just show us how clever they are. Usually these people have a lot of time on their hands.

“Normally this letter would go to Mona, since it’s addressed to her. But Mr. Houston …” He paused.
“Student
. Whoever he is, he’s been bothering Mona for a few months now. And this subtle pairing of ‘dominatrix’ and ‘editrix’—frankly, I find that a little frightening, and I think Mona agrees. It usually helps when another person answers instead. The guy might realize that she doesn’t have time for a pen pal. Sometimes we just have to stop answering, unfortunately.”

“Who’s Mona?” I asked.

“Oh—you haven’t met yet? Mona’s our most recent hire before you. Last year. Her cubicle is on the other side of the floor, closer to the citation files.”

“Does she know about this letter?”

“Yes. I showed it to her. Mona’s quite happy not to have to answer it. But you might want to go introduce yourself and ask her about Mr. Houston. She could probably tell you a few stories. Mona’s had some bad luck with correspondence.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t be afraid to raid the cit files if you feel you need to. To write your correspondence.”

“Okay,” I said.

The cit files
. We’d talked a great deal about them, but I hadn’t as yet been granted permission to look inside them. The editorial office took up the entire second floor of the Samuelson building. Around the perimeter of the floor were the cubicles, but in the middle of the room were the five rows of cabinets with little wooden drawers—like a giant set of old-fashioned card catalogues. Some of the little cards in there were rumored to go back over a hundred years, to the early days of the company. Editors were always getting up from their cubicles, opening drawers, pulling out stacks of cards to consult, poring over the citations. I’d begun to wonder when I’d get to paw around in there myself. Now that I was official, I felt a little twinge of self-distrust, like when you look over a railing and imagine yourself jumping. As if I might have an inexplicable impulse to flick a lighter into one of the files, reducing entire word histories to ash.

Dan thumped the side of my cubicle as if patting someone on the back. “And just—well, just do the best you can with it.”

I read the letter a few
more times and then decided to take a little walk and find Mona Minot, its original recipient.
When I reached the corner of the office that Dan had described, I circled around the two sets of cubicles there, trying to guess which person was Mona.

“Can I help you find something?”

I turned. A pale, tired-looking woman was standing at the copier, stuffing paper into it in small handfuls. Her high penciled-in eyebrows and stiff movements made me think of Japanese Kabuki theater.

“Hi—I’m, uh—looking for Mona?”

“Oh. Well, I’m Anna, by the way.” She walked over and gave me a weak handshake. “I should have introduced myself earlier.”

“I’m Billy,” I said.

“I know.” Anna arched one of her razor-thin eyebrows. “Dan sent a memo around.”

“Okay. It’s nice to meet you, Anna.”

“Thank you. Mona is there, in the farthest corner,” Anna said, pointing. “The petite one, with the dark hair.”

The cubicle where she was pointing was occupied by a tiny person perched at the edge of her swivel chair. Her tailored blouse and upswept hair gave the impression of a child dressed up as a businesswoman. She had about a dozen little piles of citations fanned across her desk, and she was staring at them through thick-framed glasses—those dark, angular frames people wear when they’re trying to look fashionably nerdy.

“Hi,” I said, looking into her cubicle. She had a poster of Humphrey Bogart hanging behind her. Next to her computer was a photograph of her with an older woman who was probably her mother. They were both wearing white.

“Hey,” she said. She stared at the citations for a moment longer before turning to look up at me. Then she noticed the letter in my hand.

“Brilliant,” she said under her breath. “That’s
brilliant
.”

“What?”

“He didn’t tell me he was gonna give that letter to the newbie.”

“Who? Dan?”

“Yeah.” She lowered her voice. “That is such
shit
.”

She grabbed the letter from my hand. I left the hand extended for a handshake.

“I’m Billy.”

“Yeah, hi,” she muttered, shaking my hand absently. “I’m Mona. You know, he’s really a sweet man, but he has no idea how to make a person feel comfortable around this place. Did he make you read front matter all day the first day?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Such
shit. This
place is hilarious. That must be why I’m still here. For the laughs. Of course he hasn’t introduced you to anyone else, I’ll bet.”

I shrugged. “Mr. Needham.”

“That doesn’t really count. You’ll never talk to Needham again. They keep him around to maintain a sort of Dickensian feel to the place, but only the senior editors ever really have a reason to talk to him. I mean, have you started to meet some
real
people yet? I guess it’s been lonely so far, when your only human contact is those little sessions with Dan, stuffed together in his office.”

“It’s all right. Dan’s actually pretty cool,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess. Maybe in the same way a tumbleweed is kind of cool,” she replied, tidying her citation piles.

An odd characterization. I wondered if it had something to do with Dan’s doomed cactus.

Mona whispered, “So you’ve met Anna. She’s the art editor. Draws all the little pictures. And she’s the first African-American art editor in Samuelson history.”

A smirk twisted up the sides of her little pink mouth as she watched my reaction.

“African-American?” I said.

“Just look up ‘Afro,’” she whispered, pushing her desk dictionary toward me. I did. Next to the definition was a drawing of a woman with a thick Afro of solid black ink.

“Yeah?” I said.

“Look closer,” Mona whispered. “You’re a dictionary editor now. You need to develop a keener eye for details.”

The woman in the picture had a white face—naturally, since she was outlined in black on white paper. But her nose was straight and sharp. Her eyebrows were thin and neat over slightly drooping eyes.

“Holy
shit,”
I said, remembering to whisper only the second word.

“Shhhh,” Mona said. “Control yourself.”

“That’s just
wrong,”
I whispered.

“I think it’s brilliant,” Mona said. “Putting yourself in the dictionary where it’s least expected. A hiding place right in front of everyone’s face. Now, probably everyone here’s got a secret fantasy of doing that sort of thing. To write their old high school bully’s name into the definition for ‘asshole,’ or put a picture of themselves at ‘awesome,’ or something. But of course you’d never get away with it. But just adding a touch of yourself, smiling from a little hiding spot—”

“A touch? It’s kind of … ghastly, actually.”

Mona hit me on the arm, swinging unexpectedly hard. “
Ghastly
. Don’t take it so seriously. It doesn’t hurt anyone. It doesn’t alter the meaning or compromise the definition. And we all need to find little ways to keep ourselves happy around here.”

I watched Anna as she continued to work the copy machine. She looked fairly content.

“Anna’s very sweet,” Mona added, whispering. “Don’t hold it against her.”

“Do the boss editors know?”

She shrugged. “I’m not exactly in the inner circle yet. Probably they noticed a long time ago. I’m told it’s not the only trick picture she’s done. Clifford’s the one who showed it to me.”

“Who’s Clifford?” I asked.

“He sits right near you. Heavyset guy, in his forties, curly blond hair?”

“Don’t think I’ve met him.”

“Well, maybe someday he’ll circle around to your side of the island and you’ll get to see him. You’ll hear him first, probably. Clifford’s pretty vocal, as far as editors go. But he’s nice, once you get to know him. Very normal. Maybe the most normal editor here. Second to Grace, of course.”

“I’ve met Grace. She introduced herself on my first day.”

“Of course she did. See? The most normal. Just a regular old nice person. And always good for gossip when you’re desperate to get away from your desk for a little conversation.”