Not Safe for Work
A novel by
Michael Estrin
© 2021 Michael Estrin, All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The words in these pages are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Except for William H. Macy; the character who resembles him was entirely intentional.
To contact the publisher, visit www.slackernoir.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Not Safe for Work
Chapter 1: Lies
Chapter 2: How to write a fucking obituary
Chapter 3: Clean copy, dirty words
Chapter 4: Fuck-Whores 8
Chapter 5: Heywood Jablowme
Chapter 6: Merry fucking Christmas
Chapter 7: A very porno bankruptcy
Chapter 8: Real reporter shit
Chapter 9: Scoop, there it is
Chapter 10: Little people, big problem
Chapter 11: Burgers with a side of porn star
Chapter 12: Yellow journalism and hot Jewish chicks
Chapter 13: The fuzz
Chapter 14: 420 reasons
Chapter 15: A clusterfuck at deadline
Chapter 16: Timely fuck-whores
Chapter 17: What ad sales says
Chapter 18: Porn star karaoke
Chapter 19: Doing something wrong
Chapter 20: Too high
Chapter 21: Pissed off
Chapter 22: That’s what a hamburger is all about
Chapter 23: Civilians
Chapter 24: Supplies
Chapter 25: Last dance with Mary Jane
Chapter 26: Cheesecake leads
Chapter 27: Wrong Ron
Chapter 28: Dress for success
Chapter 29: Business bagels
Chapter 30: Margaritas & cocaine
Chapter 31: Interview with a shyster
Chapter 32: Go Fuck Yourself
Chapter 33: The Johnny Toxic Collection
Chapter 34: Blue Monday
Chapter 35: Typos
Chapter 36: Ain’t no thang but a gangbang
Chapter 37: Stupid questions about fucking strange men
Chapter 38: An MBA in suitcase pimpin’
Chapter 39: Fluffer piece
Chapter 40: The Other Ron
Chapter 41: Crossing swords @ the Rubicon
Chapter 42: Interview with a cocksman
Chapter 43: Exclusive!
Chapter 44: Fuck embargoes
Chapter 45: All fucking hell breaks loose
Chapter 46: Reservoir liars
Chapter 47: End of day
Chapter 47: Double Western Percocet burger
Chapter 48: Old-school newsman shit
Chapter 49: Killer assignment
Chapter 50: I love the smell of cocaine in the morning
Chapter 51: Life imitates bad art
Chapter 52: Big brother fucker
Chapter 53: Case closed, chucklehead
Chapter 54: Traffic
Chapter 55: The red carpet
Chapter 56: The Wizard of Oz
Chapter 57: Odds & ends
Dedication
For the denizens of the San Pornando Valley. I love you fuckers.
Acknowledgments
Several people deserve thanks for helping to make this book possible.
My wife, Christina, has been a relentless champion of my work and a kick-ass partner who believed in this novel even before I had written the first word.
Wattpad, where an early draft of this novel first appeared, has been a constant source of encouragement and community.
Dan Bigelow designed a cover that perfectly captures the gonzo vibe, irreverent spirit, and grotesque sensibility I tried to bring to the page.
Califia Suntree copyedited this manuscript. I am responsible for any errors, typos, or fuck-ups.
“Making eye contact during rough sex is roughly the equivalent of trying to read Dostoyevsky on a rollercoaster.”
—Jenna Jameson
“The technology is just going to get better and better. And it’s going to get easier and easier . . . and more and more convenient and more and more pleasurable . . . to sit alone with images on a screen . . . given to us by people who do not love us but want our money. And that’s fine in low doses, but if it’s the basic main staple of your diet, you’re gonna die.”
—David Foster Wallace
Chapter 1: Lies
December 23, 2011
There are two sides to every story. This is a lie, of course. But the interviewer and I have an unspoken agreement not to rock the boat on this one. Such is the nature of job interviews.
We have, it would seem, come to an understanding. He has the good sense not to mention the fact that I’ve been downsized from three newspapers in the first eight months of my stillborn journalism career. I have the good sense not to challenge him on his two-sides-to-every-story canard—a journalistic maxim as worthless as any other maxim.
I try to look my interviewer in the eye, but my gaze shifts to the wall just behind him. Above his shoulder is a patch of unfinished drywall—a gray splat against an off-white background. It looks like someone put a fist through the wall, and someone else was paid just enough to make the necessary repairs, without actually having to give a shit about aesthetics. Journalistic powers of observation aside, I might not have noticed the spot if it hadn’t been for the picture above it.
The picture is of a black private jet with gold text on the tail that reads, “The Daily Pornographer.” On the nose of the plane there’s an image of a wanton blonde woman fixed forever in a suggestive pose, her fire-engine red lips getting ready to suck, or blow, depending on your preferred verbiage.
“You have to be comfortable with adult material,” the man tells me. “I mean really comfortable. Really, really comfortable.”
He lets the concept of comfort hang in the air between us for a moment as he appraises me. I try not to flinch. I need this job. Or more precisely, my landlord needs me to get this job.
“Are you comfortable with adult material?”
“Yes,” I answer, perhaps a little too quick and eager.
I look up at the blonde in the picture. She’s wearing an American flag bikini. Her sunglasses are perched low on her nose, just low enough to see her fuck-me eyes.
“Everyone is comfortable with tits,” the man explains, “because they’re tits.”
I nod, but he doesn’t notice.
“What we write about here, the industry we cover...it’s adult...really adult, you understand?”
“I understand. It’s porn.”
“We like to say adult entertainment, or just adult, for the sake of brevity.”
I think about the euphemism. Calling porn adult entertainment is like saying my journalism career has been sidetracked. Both statements are technically correct, but both miss the point entirely. I studied journalism to be a serious newsman. That was before the sky came crashing down on the profession and the economy took a shit on my generation. Which is why sidetracked would be the polite way of saying doomed, because the former implies that you’ll get there eventually, while the latter just means you’re fucked.
Permanently. Totally. Fucked.
“Let’s do a for instance,” the man says. “Because I need to know what you’re comfortable with, adult-wise.”
The man cracks his knuckles and leans forward, trying on his best poker face.
“You’re going to see people having sex,” he says. “I’m talking about hard-core sex. Graphic sex. Unconventional sex.”
I’m not sure what makes sex con
ventional or unconventional, but I’m reluctant to stop the man for an explanation.
“Are you comfortable with giant dildos going into someone’s ass, for instance?”
“Will it be my ass?”
“I’m talking about really big dildos,” he says. “Huge dildos. I’m talking about jamming really huge dildos into someone’s ass. Just jamming them in. There’s lube, usually. But these dildos are really huge. Almost too huge, but of course, there’s no such thing as too huge—not in adult. Are you comfortable with that?”
I start to say yes, but then it occurs to me that he’s not really looking for an answer. It’s an endurance test. If I can smile and nod while he waxes on about giant dildos and the orifices they disappear into, I’ll be fine.
The dildo talk goes on for a few minutes. I am comfortable with what the man tells me, but I am uncomfortable with how at ease he is in the telling. All things considered, this man seems to have an unhealthy preoccupation with dildos.
“Heywood, are you comfortable with that? The dildos and everything?”
I tell him yes for the final time. He stands up, and I do the same.
“OK, good to meet you, Heywood.”
He points me to the door, but we don’t shake hands. The interview is over. I ask for a business card, but the man says he doesn’t have one handy. This is strange, even in the context of a strange interview, because he is the publisher of The Daily Pornographer. He should have a business card, I think.
Then again, neither the editor in chief nor the owner of the company offered their cards, either. Routine business etiquette, it would seem, isn’t common in adult entertainment. So I thank him for his time and ask when they might make a decision about the reporter job.
“Probably in a few weeks,” he says. “After the holidays.”
I nod like I understand. It makes sense, but of course, it would be better for my student loan processor if I had a paycheck before Christmas.
“If you get a better offer before then...” the man says in a whisper. “Any offer, I’d take it.”
I leave his office and walk past the receptionist. She has ghostly white skin and a ratty black turtleneck sweater that’s two sizes too small.
“Merry Christmas,” I say.
She doesn’t respond.
***
I get in my car and turn right out of the parking lot, heading north on Van Nuys Boulevard. It’s a short ride back to my apartment, so I don’t worry about the gas light warning on my dashboard.
The Cake song “Thrills” plays on the radio and I turn it up because, at this point, I might as well get life advice from a rock band.
My phone buzzes, but I don’t even think about answering. Safety isn’t the issue; I can’t afford the ticket.
By the In-N-Out Burger, I fight the urge to turn the wheel. Maybe the burgers are overrated, but like any Los Angeles native, my craving is Pavlovian.
I pass under the freeway, grateful that I don’t have to stop at the light and ignore the homeless panhandlers. In a perfect world, I’d give them a buck, but in this world, seeing a panhandler feels like a sneak preview of my future. On the upside, I’m confident my signage would be top-shelf.
My phone buzzes again. I have voicemail.
I pass a car dealership overrun with cheap Christmas decorations. As I turn right onto Chandler, Santa’s faded smile is the last thing I see.
Chandler is a big street with a few elegant mansions and a green walking path down the middle. But after three blocks, Chandler Estates—a pocket of Sherman Oaks affluence holding strong in a sea of deep Valley decay—gives way to Valley Village.
The name is a half-truth. Valley Village is in the Valley, but there is no village to speak of. Just like with porn, Los Angeles real estate depends on letting euphemisms slide. Such is the nature of the San Fernando Valley, just over the hill from the rest of Los Angeles, and somehow a world away.
I find a spot on the street because I don’t pay enough in rent to merit a parking spot in the rear of the building.
I get out of my car and check my phone. The message is from Sunny Day, the editor in chief of The Daily Pornographer. I don’t want to listen. A call this soon after an interview can only be bad news. I’ve had a lot of interviews in the last year. They’ve all been bad news.
The message is brief.
“Call me back,” she says.
I open the door to my apartment. My roommate, Miles, has fled Los Angeles for Christmas, so I have the place to myself.
I sit down on the couch, taking a deep breath. Not being offered a job at a porn trade publication will be something of a blow to my ego, but then again, my brief career has been defined by similar low points. Such is the nature of journalism’s death rattle.
I press the callback button without thinking, and a second later I hear Sunny’s voice.
“I’ll make this quick,” she says. “We’d like to offer you the job, if you can start tomorrow. Can you start tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” I say.
“Is that a problem?”
“No. I just didn’t know you’d be open.”
“Porn news never sleeps,” she says. “But it does sleep around.”
Neither one of us laughs.
“I thought it was adult entertainment...”
“Huh?”
“Well, it’s just that...um...the publisher, I never caught his name, by the way. Anyway, he called it adult entertainment.”
“Blake,” she says. “Don’t worry about him. He was fired today.”
“Fired?”
“Right after he interviewed you.”
“Oh. Is that...? Did I...?”
“It was a long time coming,” she says. “Blake was a total disaster.”
“So why did he interview me?”
“Oz thought it would give him something to do today.”
Oz, short for Oswald, is the owner of The Daily Pornographer. My interview with him had been brief—so brief that we talked in the doorway to his office for about as long as it took for him to pick only one nostril clean with a barely disguised thumb-move. He had told me that choosing an employee was like picking a wife.
“You don’t want a whore, because they aren’t loyal,” Oz had said before asking if I was a whore.
Apparently, I wasn’t a whore. At least, not according to Oz, who I guess had instructed Sunny to offer me the job.
“So can you start tomorrow?” Sunny asks again, this time a little annoyed.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
“Great,” Sunny says. “Be here at nine.”
Chapter 2: How to write a fucking obituary
December 24, 2011
The drawers to my desk don’t open. Sunny isn’t sure why, but she says that in porn it’s usually a good idea not to ask too many questions. I nod politely, like I understand.
“Get settled, come on back, we’ll assign you a story,” she says.
There’s nothing to really settle, so I could follow Sunny back to her office immediately, but that seems a little too eager. So I stall by placing my copy of the AP style guide on my desk, trying it out in a few positions. I decide that upright against the wall looks the most professional. I swivel in my chair and get a look at my office-mate’s desk. There’s no AP style guide, but there is a small shrine to a well-endowed porn star named Mary Jane.
I give it a few more minutes and walk back to Sunny’s office. It’s a windowless space big enough for two desks placed side by side, with just enough space for one person to pass between. Sunny sees me through the glass door and waves me inside. The fluorescent light makes the place feel like you’re in one of those antidepressant commercials, before whatever drug they’re peddling turns the world into a shiny, happy place.
“This is Dean, our layout editor,” Sunny says.
I look for an empty chair. But the chairs in the office are covered with stacks of magazines. At least they’re our magazines. Even if the magazines look
like a porn site threw up on a tabloid, it feels good to be part of a newsroom again. That’s what I tell myself as I study last month’s issue, which dares to ask what the industry’s leading pornographers are thankful for. The cover art depicts a dozen half-naked women sitting around a Thanksgiving table. The women made up to look like Native Americans are topless. The women dressed as Pilgrims are also topless, but they wear bonnets instead of feathers, and one of them is about to swallow a drumstick. It’s in poor taste, but the production quality is surprisingly good.
“Just throw one of those stacks on the ground, dude,” Dean says in a casual SoCal drawl.
I offer my hand to Dean, but he doesn’t take it.
“Dean’s a germ freak—phobe!” Sunny says, catching herself because apparently she’s been warned more than a few times about calling Dean a freak. The quick correction earns her a toothy SoCal smile from Dean.
“Occupational hazard—one of many, dude,” Dean says.
I spot a half-empty bottle of hand sanitizer on his desk. Dean has a beach-bum tan and a thick shock of faded blonde hair combed straight back.
“Times, huh?” Dean asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Briefly.”
I’m about to tell Dean that all I ever did at the LA Times was—literally—have a cup of coffee before they told me the position I was hired for had been downsized, but he cuts me off.
“You ever write an obituary?”
“No. Not yet.”
“They’re easy,” Sunny says. “We got one.”
“We need clean copy on the dead dude, dude,” Dean chimes in before telling Sunny to warn the other reporter about typos.
Sunny hands me a press release. I scan it quickly.
“They sent out a press release?”
“Hopefully you’ll have better questions than that,” Sunny says. “Now make sure—and this is really fucking important—that you confirm he’s actually dead. I don’t want another obituary fuck-up.”
I decide not to ask about the previous obituary fuck-ups because it seems like a sore subject and instead focus on the issue of credibility.
“People lie about obituaries?”
“Pornographers lie about anything.”
“And everything,” Dean says without looking up from his computer. “If they think there’s an advantage to lying, they will. They’re masters at shaking the shit-machine, amigo.”