Mike burst out laughing, but I didn’t crack a smile. “Oh, really?” I said, staring down at the big stack of proof sheets on my desk and shuffling the pages around. “Then you should have worn your flannel bra.”

Mike laughed even louder, but Mario turned quiet and put on a long face. He could make ’em, but he couldn’t take ’em-and I knew he wouldn’t rest until he’d made me pay for the comeback, lame though it was. “What’s that you’re reading?” he soon asked, wrinkling his bumpy nose and pointing toward the pile of proofs in my hand. “A new Paige-Turner?”

This was another of Mario’s typical routines. Whenever he couldn’t think up something funny to say, he called attention to my funny name. And my funny career goals.

“These are the proofs for the next issue,” I said with a sniff, deciding to ignore the name game and play it straight. “Take a look at the production schedule. We’re up against an urgent deadline. You have to do the cover, and I have to do the backyard paste-up. Today.”

“Oh,” Mario said, at a momentary loss for words. He didn’t like it when I talked seriously about work. There was a brief lull in the conversation, and then-frantic to regain control of the situation-Mario turned himself around, lifted the hem of his overcoat up over his rear end, and thrust the seat of his gray flannel slacks in my direction. “Hey, baby! How’s about pasting up m y backyard instead?”

Now, really! I ask you! Was this any way for a full-grown man-a City College graduate, a married Catholic, a successful professional in the field of illustrative and commercial art-to act? And how was I-a well-educated but decidedly dirt-poor twenty-eight-year-old widow trying to make her own way in the perilous male-dominated world of publishing-supposed to respond?