Dibk Morgan is a Portland writer. The Qaeen of Acrofad will be published by Three Sisters Magazine out of Georgetown University, Washington, D.C. CIhe ueen ACROFAD bc/big dipper studio By Dick Morgan Suddenly one balmy spring Tuesday evening, the six o’clock newscaster, new at her job as co-anchorperson and dinner hour blossom, found that she could not keep abreast of the constant gurgitation of the news teletype. Just as she began to reword the news of the latest Semite skirmish or the last update of the Panama negotiations, the machine would begin ticking and humming, automatically outdating her labors. She had worked under pressure just a moment too long; before anyone on the news crew quite knew what was happening, Jenny Jenkins had gone on camera, her face flushed, her eyes glazed, wisps of her blonde gilded locks sticking to her forehead. Before millions of viewers within the eastern metropolitan megacity, she began to speak, quite involuntarily, only in acronyms as if in a glossolaliac trance. “GEFAN,” she said, and smiled, a bead of perspiration poised in the hollow of her upper lip like a skier on a jump. She had meant to say, “Good evening, friends and neighbors,” but could not. “ ITWONT.” she said, and paused, listening. The news director began stamping his feet and moving a finger across his throat to the cameramen. The cameramen were passing a small, lumpy, tapered cigarette back and forth, and zooming in on Jenny’s panic-stricken face. “ I got it,” said camera one. “ In the world news today. Dynamite!” "THE ARISLEDS MEYA TO DARLIMS,” Jenny said. Camera one zoomed on her closed eyes. Camera two plugged in a remote microphone and finished the roach. "The Arab and Israeli leaders met, ah. sometime yesterday I think in the afternoon to discuss arms limitations between the major Middle East nations,” camera two said into the mike. “ SUBSUM, COPU US104’s ITS, BONG PLATOCONDIS, BUT W1TSLEMONDI,” Jenny said. But she was conscious enough to wonder how she was going to meet the payments on her flat on Central Park now that she was seconds from being fired. Her Arrid failed her. Camera one grabbed the remote mike while camera two lit another strange cigarette. “Subject of the summit was, ah curtailment of the purchase and use of U.S. built F104 fighter-bombers. It seems both government leaders, ah, plan to continue disagreements, but wish to spend less money doing so,” camera one said. The news director had frozen in mid-finger slash. He routinely became flustered when things didn’t progress exactly like clock gears, but this was different. He was unabashedly confused and intrigued as he watched the monitor. Jenny’s beautiful platinum waves of hair had straightened and fallen forward past her ears, causing her face to appear exceedingly narrow and receded. “ INWET,” Jenny wavered, thinking about the laughter of her friends, “PRESSCART AGTOFITITAB CON- REST OF PANCAN TO REPAN.” “Easy,” said camera two, breathing out a ball of green smoke and switching On the mike. “ In Washington early today, President Carter agreed to a final timetable concerning the restoration of the U.S. Canal Zone to the Republic of Panama,” he said, smiling. Jenny stared at the man behind camera two through the film under her grey-blue contacts, wondering how he formed words so effortlessly. She wanted to retire to the powder room with the worst kind of urgency. “ PRES AGRICONG TO TRANSOWN PANCANZ ONEFATH PER- YR. BEGIDEP FATFIR,” Jenny said stiffly. Camera two exhaled a lung-full of smoke, smiled and said into the mike, “The President agreed with Congress to transfer ownership of the Panama Canal Zone one fathom per year, beginning with the deepest fathoms first.” Jenny was totally unaware of her pronouncements, nor did she register the printed sheets in front of her. Something inside her burnt-out cranium shifted into glide. She thought of her latest lover, a school teacher who often orated about the demise of the beauty and precision of proper language. He had the peculiar habit, when he was angry, of spitting as he spoke. She was aware of mentioning NATO, SEATO, and OPEC even though there was no current news about them and imagined large ghibles of spittle sliding down her cleavage. — . “SKIRM IN ZAROIRHAR AND BROFAM,” she heard herself say. “MOMUMENT.” Camera one giggled. “Skirmishes in Zaire. Rome, Ireland, Harlem, and within the British royal family. More news on these and other puzzles in a moment.” The red lights on both cameras flicked off together, and the monitor projected a man with a bottle of mouthwash. Jenny let her face slump forward onto the desk. The news manager paced to the desk and rapped her on the back of the head. “Okay,” he sighed. “ I give up. It’s some kind of publicity stunt, isn’t it? Or maybe a union wage ploy. You can tell me. I’m your friend,” he said, wiping a sleeve across his bald pate. His cigarette, clamped down between his clenched teeth, had gone out. “What are you doing, Jenny, dear?” “DONK.” she sobbed. “She doesn’t know,” Camera two said. “You’re fired. Get off the set,” the manager said. “Get the backup newsface in here. Fifteen seconds to go.” Jenny stood up' and wiped the hair from her eyes, then began automatically to walk toward the door. The cameraman whistled and clapped. “How 'bout a date in an hour?” Camera two said. “GO FLAK.” Jenny answered, and walked out the stage exit. “Beautiful. Perfect." camera one said. “You can go fly a kite, Arnold.” Jenny stumbled down the Broadway sidewalk, wondering how many of her friends had seen her, and now would laugh unmercifully at her for probably at least a year. Maybe no one watched the news tonight; maybe everyone was getting ready for dinner, or a date, or a dance at the Disco — but it was Tuesday. Everybody in the world stayed home and watched the news on Tuesday. Maybe she could apply for a job as a librarian in the classic literature section of the college library; not many literature students watched the news. All she would have to do would be to walk around and say, “Shhh, no talking.” She gave it a try. “SNOT.” she said. Good God, maybe her affliction was permanent. She needed a drink — a double boilermaker, and maybe a screwdriver for a chaser. Jenny thought of an object for her wandering, her favorite pub. The White Horse Inn. She paused outside, reflecting how she had always preferred to ignore the cozy candlelit tables. She loved to straddle a bar stool under the lights, laugh and pretend to be “just one of the guys.” She felt at ease among the bottom rungs and the slow-risers of the insurance and corporate circuits and had always found these younger less concerned set of bearded and mustached men much more interesting than the management types she always ended up interviewing. But that was to be no more. Maybe she should just quietly marry the first broad- shouldered smile that greeted her, have his kids, stay home in Brooklyn... She braced herself; they might snigger, or spit. She would try one of the dark tables in the back. Before Jenny's eyes had adjusted to the dim light inside, a voice shouted, “ It’s her!” She let her hair fall in front of her face again, and waded through the bodies toward the rear. She avoided the eyes of the men who slapped her back and carressed her shoulders. "Aych-Tee, bupers,” someone said. Slap. “Gee - Tee - Ess - You." another said, grinning. Caress. Jenny was crimson in the candle light. “DINWI ME.” a dark moustache said. “GELASH." Jenny said loudly, and bit her lip. The moustached mouth froze, and a voice behind him giggled. “She doesn't want dinner with you. She said. ‘Get lost, asshole.’” Everyone clapped and cheered. “Hey, B.T.. a GLAFEV!" someone shouted, and everyone crowded to the bar for their glass. Jenny found a small table in the corner. A new girl appeared carrying a 30
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