It Was Only a Job - Elizabeth Weld Nolan

She narrowed her eyes against the cigarette smoke curling in front of her face and pointed to the typewriter on the desk at a right angle to hers. Her face was creased from the sun and her expression was amused and slightly cynical.

``That’s yours, Missy. All yours. Go on over there and we’ll get started.’’ I pulled the chair up to my new machine and waited. I was the new summer assistant to the women’s editor on our local newspaper. She leaned over and handed me a pile of papers.

``First thing is to go through all these weddings and write them up. You might want to talk to the bride for details. Any questions, just ask.’’

I rolled paper into the sturdy black Remington and looked at the first paper. It was a form with wedding information, filled out in a round, childish hand. Rebecca Martinez and Amadeo Rodriguez. Gown: white with tulle skirt and veil, strapless. Bridesmaids: blue off-the-shoulder dresses cocktail length. Where: At the St. Francis Cathedral, Saturday, June 13, 3 p.m. Phone number: 741.

First I called the bride, then I wrote: ``The bride looked dashing in her strapless white gown sprinkled with silver sequins and long gloves. Her tulle veil flowed romantically back over her long black hair, falling to the hem of her dress like a magic cape. The seven bridesmaids surrounded her like summer flowers in their deep blue dresses cut off the shoulder and cocktail length. The bridegroom, surrounded by his groomsmen in black tuxedos, stood sturdy and tall beside the bride and her attendants.

The couple followed mariachis through the streets to the welcoming adobe walls of La Fonda where the reception began with delicate cheese puffs and gaily sparkling champagne, and progressed to a splendid banquet of New Mexican food laid on a lace tablecloth. The bride removed her veil and the mariachis played for the couple’s first dance in their newly wedded bliss as all the guests applauded and threw their hats in the air before they joined in the dancing.

The couple will live in Santa Fe.’’

Granny, as all the newsroom called her, raised her hooded eyes from my story and reached for a cigarette and a pen. She began slashing at my sentences.

``Not bad, Missy. A little over the top. You’re going to do all right in this work. But don’t get too fancy about weddings. Remember, it’s not literature. It’s only a job.’’