by Bruce E. Stoker 2002
‘Twas the night before deadline, when all through the plant
Not a sound was there heard, save the desperate rant
Of editors scrambling to find photos and text,
In hopes, come next cutback, they would not be next.
The presses were sitting all prepped for the run,
Of course that’s assuming the layout is done.
And the pressmen were sleeping, the platemakers, too.
Knowing, come morning, it would just be a zoo.
When down in typesetting there arose fluent cursing,
I ran down the hall, my apologies rehearsing.
Away from his computer he arose with great spite.
I could see over his shoulder that the page was still white.
“The text that you sent me,” he began, at first slow,
“Was nothing but gibberish.” I thought he might blow.
“And then,” he continued, prolonging his snit,
“I found, in amazement, the illustrations won’t fit.”
“Relax,” I responded, wiping spit from my face.
“You don’t have to worry, we have plenty of space.
The specs were all changed at a last-minute meeting,
But I’m sure you can fix it, even if time is fleeting.”
“Get Arial, Helvetica,
Times Roman, and Goudy.
Shift margins. Add white space.
It’s easy; stop pouting.
Drag the photos up here.
Split the column right there.
If you do as I say,
We’ll have time to spare.”
As the mouse flew on-screen, dragging stuff ’round the page.
I could suddenly sense his diminishing rage.
So back to the layout, the typesetter slumped.
And into the column, the text he just dumped.
And then in an hour, I had my first proof
Just dropped on my desk, the designer aloof.
As I sat down to check it, to make marks in red,
He gave me one warning: “If you change it, you’re dead.”
From the look on his face, I could tell he wasn’t jokin’.
I knew right away that my fingers would be broken.
So I quickly responded, “Hey, it’s great! I sure love it.”
“Just sign it,” he barked, “And while you’re at it, just shove it.”
His eyes were all bloodshot. His lips he was licking.
I knew he was dreaming about my butt and its kicking.
His quivering hands grabbed the proofs with a jerk.
And he stalked down the hallway and went back to work.
The sweat that was pouring, as I sat with clenched teeth,
Encircled the collar of my shirt like a wreath.
I began to relax and took a deep breath,
Knowing full well I had just escaped death.
As I paused for a moment, regaining composure,
I saw that the photos suffered from over exposure.
A blink of my eye and a twist of my head,
Soon gave me to know this is just what we dread.
He spoke not a word, as I crept up behind him.
Perhaps I should call Maintenance to come down and bind him?
But laying the proof sheet down on the table,
I started to speak, my voice barely stable.
“I sure hate to bug you,” I started to say.
“Then don’t,” he responded, “And you’ll live through the day.”
So I nodded quite meekly, then started to sprint,
Shouting over my shoulder, “We’ll wait till reprint!”