Member-only story
Work
poem for a technical editor
The technical editor’s work is never done. My friend edits copy in California
and tells me how hard it is to deal with vendors. Things are bad all over.
The database people write code all day, looking for syntax errors. When the system crashes they get up and pour more coffee.
The systems guys scan the screens all day, looking for ways to secure
the banks of memory against the wandering user.
The network runs through these buildings like a snake’s tongue, flickering
into offices. Some of the ports are dead, the occupants packed up and moved.
The technicians have worn holes in the knees of their jeans, crawling after dead cables twisted between floors. This is against the official dress code policy.
I’m in charge of communications but no one talks to me. The director smiles all day because no one talks to him either. His secretary is enrolled in a Dale Carnegie course. She smiles a lot.
I have a nice desk, gifted from the last editor. It’s smooth and solid, with only
the tiniest jagged initials cut into the corner of its surface.
