Or Snotengaham for you history buffs whose world view is lodged in the 7th Century. Those who allow their gaze to drift a bit further into Merry Olde England's storied past will recall that it was not always thus. Nay, nay.
Old timers knew the place as Tig Guocobauc, meaning “the place of the cave dwellers” in Brythonic, or Old Brythonic if you're a stickler. (Neanderthals?1) Then along came a Saxon chieftain named Snot. No, really, you can't make this stuff up2. The new name meant, literally, “the homeplace of Snot's people.”
Vikings intervened, hammer and tong, and held on to about half of the British Isles, from 800 C.E. or so, for about three hundred years, back and forth, back and forth, until William the Conqueror permanently relieved the Danes of their homestead in 1066.
By the 11th Century the Anglo-Saxon peoples inhabiting the place evidently wearied of being referred to by their neighbors as “snotty,” thence never invited to the best holiday parties, and dropped the S. Naughty people did get invited, as is true today.
None of the above has anything directly to do with what follows, but given the sad state of history teaching these days it is always uplifting to spend a bit of time looking back, seeking a deeper understanding of original sin. Moreover, it permitted me to use “Not” in the title, no small thing for an author in search of a plausible motif.
Tanya, as her name surely suggests, is neither Celtic, nor Norman, nor Anglo, nor Danish by birth, the name being a hypocoristic3 of Tatania. Yes, a Slav who self-mockingly some-times refers to herself as a Slav to fashion. Being able to laugh at oneself is a sure sign of maturity and savoir faire, is it not? Now our Tatania has savoir out the ying-yang, you can trust me on this.
(Tat4 is editor of a far left-wing English language magazine whose name you would instantly recognize but which must remain unmentioned here due to alarums raised by this publisher's legal team. The current author's books never generate much cash flow and the possibility of courtroom hijinks and payment of large settlements has a numbing effect on the practice of free speech. I have been advised by counsel to refer to the periodical as “X.”)
X is a very respected progressive publication and Tat is, for purposes of this story at least, a senior editor at the tender age of 37.
The editorial thrust of X is to “eat the rich,” or in more practical terms, to tax them heavily and redistribute wealth via a guaranteed annual income, construction of affordable housing, full funding of free public education through four years of college, and universal single-payer health care. As any self-important corporate CEO will tell you, this sort of stuff is so off the charts as to exist in never-never land, or Sweden. Or Denmark.
As our story unfolds Tat has just opened a 9”x 12” manila envelope containing the manuscript of a long anticipated investigative story. Why the reporter, one Forrest Sherwood, elected to send along a paper copy in 2020 is a mystery. We're living in a digital age, no?
We all know that Mr. Sherwood composed his magnum opus on a computer, do we not? For that matter, at 25, he is young enough that he may have written the entirety on a smart phone (tiny computer), using only his thumbs. (It's been done.)
Then he'd have had to transmit the file to a printer via Bluetooth® or WiFi, head to an office supply shop to purchase the aforesaid manila envelope, next on to a U.S. Post Office where he'd hope to find a working ballpoint pen at the customer counter (slim chance), locate the mailing address (again on his phone), and then stand in line for close to half an hour, given that he'd arrived just as two of three clerks went off duty and the lunch crowd of patrons flooded the place.
This represents a sad waste of precious resources as well as Mr. Sherwood's time and effort. Worse yet, it required the previous two paragraphs of explanation, wasting my time writing and your time reading. It really is inexcusable.
Tat sighed. Of course the X editorial office “owned”5 software which theoretically would convert a scanned manuscript into a digital format, but it hadn't been working for months. Being a respected progressive publication, there existed virtually no budget for tech repairs. She could red-pen the MS and mail it back to Sherwood for a rewrite, but the monthly cutoff loomed. Like most young reporters he was as relaxed about deadlines as he was enthusiastic about “getting the scoop”. Explaining edits over the phone was a non-starter, which meant that if she wanted to get the thing back to him in digital form it had to be retyped.
Thank goodness Tat had an intern (unpaid, another fixture of respected progressive publications), though that opened another container of wiggly worms. Marion, recently graduated with a B.A. in English literature, was thoughtful, bright, energized, reasonable, task-oriented and etc6. but a terrible typist. Which meant that the intern's transcription was apt to be only an approximation. Marion made mistakes. That was a given.
Tat would have to cross her fingers and have some faith in spellcheck. She had other work to do.
She stepped into the adjoining office waving the pages. “Marion, Sherwood sent in a printed ...”
The intern looked up from her cell phone, green pigs and Angry Birds® scampering across the screen. “Again? Okay, will do.”
Two hours later, at 4:30, after an editorial conference, three phone calls and a half-dozen text exchanges with sources both on and off the record, Tat heard her computer ding alerting her to a new file on the server. Marion's transcript. Tat commenced her edit.
Is the Sheriff nodding? Hmm? (Lose this title)
by Forest Sherwood
A four month investigation by [X] has rep/ealed a troubling
connection between the CEL/ of Western Tech Spec® and Sheriff
Rollin Hud (sp?), involving cash, gi/ns and prostitution …
This was going to be a tough one. She sighed. Another long night ahead. Tat shifted gears. Whereas her usual practice was to send corrections to writers so they could clearly see the suggested changes, make those changes themselves, and thereby assent to (or in rare cases, dispute) the edits, she was already weary, and the prospect of meticulously annotating problems with the story suggested she'd not get home before midnight.
She decided to simply make the changes herself.
Sheriff in Bed with WestTechSpec®?
by Forest Sherwood
A four-month investigation by [X] has revealed a troubling connection between the CEO of Western Tech Spec® and Sheriff Rollin Hood, involving cash, guns and prostitution. This might look like a purely local issue at first glance, but [X] has obtained documentary evidence implicating a U.S. Senator and a federal appellate judge in what is being characterized by two legal experts as a major criminal conspiracy. …
This was going to be a whole lot quicker, and sure enough, Tat was able to set the alarm and lock the entry door just after 8 p.m., having shot the revised story back to Sherwood for approval.
True to form he didn't reply the next day, or the day after, or the day after that. Exasperated she sent the story to production for layout and also to design. This had been slated as the cover story for the February issue, and deadlines are deadlines.
Five days later print copies arrived at the office, were already in the mail to subscribers and had hit local newsstands.
That evening she stopped off for a quick bite at Danny's ChowHound®, two blocks from the office, half-way to her building. The Hound House Salad®7 was pretty much her staple diet the last week of each month, until the upcoming issue was put to bed and shipped. The deadline rush didn't afford much time for Tat's home gastronomy. Dab hand cookery is inevitably slow.
When she arrived at the entrance to her building a man stepped out of the shadows.
Tat flinched before she realized it was none other than her wayward reporter. “Sher! What are you doing here?”
“You know, Tat. You know.”
“What do I know?”
“How could you? How on earth could you?”
“Could I what? What?”
“After all this time. All the stories we've worked on together. I thought better of you. How can you be such a snot?”
“Listen Sher, I don't know what you're talking about. Are you feeling okay? Do you have a fever?” She put her hand on his forehead, and he shook it away, but having stepped closer she could smell alcohol. He was drunk.
“For God's sake Tat. You owe me. Big time. You owe me an apology. Do you live in some sort of mental cave?”
“For what? What for? Owe you? How? Huh? Wha? Etc.”
“You misspelled my name8.”
1 On “Tippy Toe Lane?” More about this anon.
2 You can, of course, look it up, as I did on Wikipedia, a wonderful resource which surely deserves your financial support.
3 i.e.: nickname—see, you've learned a new word 6 grafs into the tale!
4 Another hypocoristic, used only by her very closest friends. And no, not an inky tat on Tatania's entire tanned torso, if you were wonderng.
5 “Had in its possession.” Pretty sure it's a bootleg copy, given the budgetary constraints of a respected progressive publication.
6 Also trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave and clean, falling short of Boy Scout® perfection in not being reverent, which Tat considers a plus.
7 Tuna on mixed greens with diced carrots, sweet onion, pickled beets and croutons, with a Hound House Dressing® whose secret will apparently die with Danny. He won't tell a soul. I've tried.
8 Hell incurreth no fury like a byline misformed.
This is the monthly version of my short story publication available to free subscribers. Paid subscribers (thank you very much) get a story each week, for better or worse.