Page Four

Listening hard feels like suffocating. I removed my shoes and stockings and dragged my wastebasket to my listening place. And perching again between the wall and file cabinet, I raised myself nearer to the level of the vent overhead, scraping along the wall’s tiny rough bumps, my cheek warming. There was just enough space for me to slide an earring off.

Sam despised me.  If Sam ever saw me coming, he would pull the elevator gate shut rather than share space with me. He treated having to visit my desk as a horrible ordeal, which prompted me to deliberately misspell his name on documents every so often. I heard him now, barking, “Doll! Closer!” He was saying it was nearly one o’clock. I heard Judy’s voice. Then, the electric heater clicked on and the growing hum sealed over the sounds from the room.

It was then my backside slid down the cabinet. I fell hard, sitting down, but suspended an inch above the floor, my knees pinned against my chest, my shins against the wall. I was wedged there! Not daring to scream for help—if I even could have drawn a breath deep enough to do so—I made a silent, sad struggle to pry myself from the trap before the men returned to find me there with reddened bare legs and a raw ear.

[CONTINUED]

You are viewing page four of "Edith/Judith," a fashion photostory whose accompanying text draws inspiration from pulp magazine stories.

CREDITS  Models: Tonya Smith, Carmine Leighton; Hair: Corrie Horacek; Clothing by Sartorial Splendor; Photographs, text: Tom Seiler.