MOVING ON

By Lawndale Stalker

~*~

"Thanks for covering for me, Tiffany. I owe you one."

"Sandii, you owe me several. Anyway, I don’t think Stacy believed me this tiime."

Still breathing heavily, Sandi Griffin sat down at her computer, which Tiffany had turned on for her, and called up the article she’d been working on yesterday. She looked over to Tiffany in the cubicle across the aisle, and smiled reassuringly. "Don’t worry, Tiffany dear. Stacy is our friend. Anyway, I can handle her."

Tiffany’s return look was either dubious or disapproving. It was hard to tell with Tiffany, because she didn’t use expressions that she thought might contribute to wrinkles. Saying nothing, Tiffany turned back to her computer and resumed typing. Sandi jumped to the end of her article and read the last two paragraphs to pick up the thread of her thought. Just as she placed her fingers on the keys, her phone rang. Muttering a bad word under her breath, she picked it up. "Sandi Griffin."

"Sandi, come to my office." It was Stacy.

Sandi thought about saying something, but decided against it. Instead, she rose and headed down the aisle in the direction of the editorial offices. Stacy’s office was of course elegantly furnished and decorated, with a pair of matching bulbous-trunked potted palms and a set of exotic bromeliads for accents. Stacy looked up and saw Sandi approaching through her glass office wall, and beckoned her to enter.

The background noise nearly vanished as Sandi closed the office door behind her. She wondered how long it would take her to get an office like this. "Stacy, I know that article is late, but I’m almost…"

Stacy held up a hand to cut off Sandi’s excuse. "Quinn wants to see you, Sandi." She picked up two layout sheets and resumed comparing them.

The walk across the break/lounge/waiting area seemed much longer this time than before. Sandi walked to the end of the short corridor, stopped before the all-glass door, and inhaled deeply. One word, in gold letters, in the magazine’s title font, adorned the door. The word was "QUINN." Sandi pushed the door open, exhaled, and entered.

On the other side of the sumptuous outer office, the receptionist looked up. "Quinn will see you now," she said, gesturing to the massive, unadorned mahogany door that led to Quinn’s inner office.

Quinn stood at the oversized picture window, taking in the magnificent view of Central Park over the tops of lesser skyscrapers, fashionable hotels and apartment buildings. She turned as Sandi entered. Quinn wore low-rider jeans of an unfamiliar cut and prefade pattern, held up with a rope in place of a belt, a short-sleeved gingham top with poufed shoulders tied to expose her midriff, palomino faux work boots, and no-makeup makeup. Her long red hair hung down her back in a ponytail, with two ringlets framing her face. A darling little gold baby bird with sapphire eyes peeked out of her navel. It was, Sandi knew instantly, the next new look.

"You wanted to see me, Quinn?"

"Not really, not like this," Quinn sighed. "Sandi, all of us here at QUINN magazine aren’t just a working group, or even a family. We’re almost like a single individual, a personification of today’s teen. Smart, savvy, stylish, on the cutting edge of the latest trends. You might say I’m the personification of that personification. That’s my job. Your job is to keep QUINN ahead of the leading edge of clothing styles—cuts, colors, fabrics—far enough ahead so that, when the magazine hits the stands, the information is still prescient enough to keep our readers one step ahead of current fashion. You’re not doing that job, Sandi."

"Quinn, if you’re worried about that article, it’s almost done. You’ll have it before lunch."

"Page Design was supposed to have it yesterday. Five highly paid professionals sitting around for hours with nothing to do, and the issue deadline can’t be postponed. But it’s not just that."

"If you mean me being a few minutes late occasionally, I’m sorry about that, but Manhattan commuting is brutal."

"It’s more than a few minutes, and more than occasionally, Sandi. All of us here are faced with essentially the same set of commuting problems, and you’re the only one who can’t seem to solve them. But it’s not just that, either."

"Well, what, then?"

Quinn picked up some papers from her freeform glass-topped desk and gestured with them. "Take this article of yours on the new colors for summer. What were you doing, crystal ball gazing? Throwing darts at a color wheel? Wishful thinking? Aubergine, for crying out loud! Aubergine isn’t due back till Fall of next year."

"That article was a result of extensive research and careful analysis," Sandi replied, looking hurt.

"Sandi, you’re not supposed to be doing any analysis, or any other form of prognostication. You’re supposed to download the information from the Cartel website, and write your article around it. Same for styles and fabrics. The Cartel decides those things, based on input from the labs of the fabric and dye makers, other science and engineering data, and economic, political, and sociological projections."

"Anyone who can write can do that. What about my fashion savvy and expertise?"

"The previous editor’s fashion savvy and expertise, her instinctive grasp of what it’s like to be a teenage girl today, and her deep understanding of the evolving youth culture are what drove this magazine into bankruptcy. Morgendorffer Multimedia took it over, changed the name from VAL to QUINN, brought in a younger, more with-it staff, and raised it from the dead. We can’t have you using it as a soapbox to promote your personal preferences and wild theories like she did. Everybody has to work together and pull their own weight around here to keep QUINN on top, Sandi, and you’re just not doing that. I have to let you go."

"Quinn, I’ll do better, you’ll see. Give me another chance."

"Sandi, we’ve had this conversation before. You’ve had several other chances. You’re just not getting it. You’re not doing the work."

"Doesn’t our friendship mean anything to you?"

"Our friendship is why you’ve gotten all those extra chances. But I have a boss I have to answer to. I’ve already kept you on too long. Now I have to do my job, or I’ll be fired myself."

"Huh? What boss? You’re Quinn!"

"QUINN Magazine is only a part of Morgendorffer Multimedia. A small part."

"But who owns Morgendorffer Multimedia, if not you?"

The receptionist’s voice came over the intercom. "Quinn, Ms. Morgendorffer is here."

"Tell her I’ll be with her in a min…" Quinn didn’t bother to finish the sentence as the door opened. "Hi, Daria."

"Sorry to barge in, but my schedule is really tight today." Daria Morgendorffer, impeccable in a spruce-green silk power suit, crossed the office and laid her alligator hide briefcase on Quinn’s desk. "Hello, Sandi."

"SHE’s the owner?" Sandi asked incredulously. "What does she know about fashion?"

Quinn frowned slightly. "Sandi, Daria was the fashion editor for a newspaper before you could even spell it, and she’s younger than you. And remember, it wasn’t you or me that Val came to Lawndale High to see. It was Daria. Now, if you’ll excuse us…"

Dumbstruck, feeling sick to her stomach, Sandi turned and headed for the door. Just like that, it was over. But then she stopped. "Wait… do you know anyone who’s hiring?"

"I do." Daria pulled a business card from a pocket of her briefcase and handed it to Sandi. "Pan Press is hiring office assistants, and they have good pay and benefits. Once you’re hired, you have first crack at better jobs within the company later on. Talk to Brooke Waters."

Sandi numbly took the card. "Uh, thanks, Daria."

"Sure. Good luck."

"Yeah, good luck, Sandi. Here’s your letter of recommendation." Quinn handed Sandi a piece of paper. "And here’s your severance pay. I hope we can still be friends."

Sandi looked up from the two pieces of paper in her hand and smiled an uncertain smile. "I’d like that, Quinn."

After the door had closed behind Sandi, Daria turned to her sister. "I know that wasn’t fun, Quinn, but you handled it well."

"Thanks, Daria. I know it had to be done, but I didn’t know it would hurt this much."

They were silent a moment, leaning against the front of Quinn’s desk, Quinn gazing sadly at the carpet, and Daria watching her sister.

"That bellybutton baby bird cracks me up."

Quinn smiled a little. "Junior high girls will love it. You know, this all feels so weird sometimes. I still dress like a teenager. I still feel like a teenager. But I’m in this big corner office in a Manhattan skyscraper, running a magazine. It’s unreal."

Daria nodded. "Believe me, I know the feeling."

"That was nice, what you did for Sandi. Thinking to keep an eye out for job openings for her. Uh, that is a pretty good job, isn’t it?"

Daria looked at the door and smiled a peculiar little smile. "It’s the best paying job she’s likely to get without learning to pole dance. Charles Ruttheimer happened to mention in my hearing that another office assistant quit on him. The work is easy, and he won’t fire her even if she screws up, but he’ll try to make her his squeeze toy. He’s been wanting to for a long time."

"Upchuck?! Oh, geez! I forgot that he’s running Pan Press now. Well, Sandi’s known Upchuck for a long time, and she knows his tricks. I don’t think she’ll be an easy target."

"I hope not. The more preoccupied Upchuck is with plans for personal conquest, the more deals I can beat him out of."

Quinn smiled. "Geez, Daria, you’ve always got all these plots and plans going. What deals?"

"Right now, I’m looking at the Mainland Chinese market. I intend to have at least seven magazines and a book publishing house launched while Chuckles is still trying to get into Sandi’s pants."

"Eewww! Now I feel guilty again for firing her!"

"You should have done it sooner. Besides, we’re adults now. We play by adult rules."

"Yeah, I know, but she’s been my best friend for a long time. And she wasn’t that much of a drag on the magazine."

"I think you’ll be surprised how much your team’s morale and productivity improves, now that they see you’re not playing favorites. Even Stacy and Tiffany. And Sandi will do all right. I’m betting she can manipulate Chuck better than Chuck can manipulate her."

"I guess you’re right, Daria. Thanks."

"Sure. Well, gotta go. Here’s my column, and that article on Geek Chic I promised you." Daria handed Quinn a floppy disk from her briefcase.

"Oh, good. This will give the page design people something to do while I finish Sandi’s article. Lunch Friday?"

"You bet."

La la LA la la.