At my last therapy session, Dr. Dick suggested that singing might be a good way to combat my feelings of claustrophobia when riding in elevators, so I was in the middle of “Little Red Corvette” when the car stopped on the 4th floor. A portly gent with grey muttonchops, busily tapping the tiny keypad of a PDA, stepped in and jabbed the button for the 35th floor without looking up. I recognized him at once. He was none other than Evil Editor, the most famous editor in the whole world.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said, but he kept texting.
I tried again. “Hey, aren’t you Evil Editor?” I asked.
Just then he looked up and I noticed the wires leading to an ipod nestled in his vest pocket. Without thinking, I reached over and gently tugged one wire.
“What the hell?” he sputtered. His bright blue eyes squinted in anger, but at least I had his attention.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, but you are Evil Editor, blogger extraordinaire, aren’t you?”
“And what of it?” he snapped, fumbling for the earbud.
I was having trouble breathing, partly from the excitement of meeting Evil Editor in the flesh, and partly because I was beginning to feel just a bit crowded; he was a rather large fellow, after all. Struggling to regain my composure, I was just about to launch into my pitch when I heard the tinny strains of a familiar tune emitting from the still dangling earbud. Evil had my song on his playlist! I grabbed the little nub, shoved it in my ear and began singing along with Prince. The look on Evil’s face was a cross between repugnance and disgust. I was still singing when the elevator doors slid open, the earbud popped out of my ear and Evil rushed out. At that point I realized I had missed a golden opportunity. I had been practically toe-to-toe with the most famous editor in the world and I had failed to pitch my novel. But it was Saturday night; I guess that makes it all right. I wonder what Dr. Dick will say.