"Hustler"

My phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but I answered anyway. Reluctantly.

"May I speak to Cliff Redding?"

I thought it was a bill collector.

"You've got him," I answered.

"This is 'Patrick,' and I'm calling from LFP," he continued, "a little while ago you responded to an opening we posted for a features editor. You still interested?"

I was relieved at this point, because I really didn't want to be talking to any bill collectors. Not now. And I really wasn't in the mood to go through the whole "when will you be able to make a payment" back-and-forth.

"Patrick" and I spoke for a few minutes, him asking me what I was doing workwise. This pre-screening went well, since he said that I would be hearing from someone in HR within the next couple of days, when I would then firm up an appointment for an interview. I couldn't, however, recall applying to any outfit named "LFP." So I asked.

"Excuse me, Patrick, but I don't remember applying to any outfit named 'LFP.' Can you enlighten me?"

He chuckled.

"Larry Flynt Publications. Are you familiar with it?"

"Yes, of course," I answered, although a touch embarrassed.

"Would you have a problem working with adult content?"

"Of course not. I'll be looking forward to hearing from your HR department. Thanks for calling," I said. Then, I hung up. All I could think of was me working for Hustler magazine. Hustler. Even though Larry Flynt Publications produces about 23 different magazines, I could only think of Hustler. So I went online to learn a little more about LFP. I mean, I'd seen the movie "The People vs. Larry Flynt," but I didn't really know too much about the company as it stands today.

When I got to 8484 Wilshire Blvd. in Beverly Hills a week after speaking with "Patrick," the sun was shining and being just off the Miracle Mile, I felt like, well, like I was in Los Angeles. Like one of those big shots I'd seen on the big screen. Cliff in Beverly Hills, heading to the ninth floor of Larry Flynt Publications. My shoes were shined. I had a nice, blue suit on and I was wearing a white, 100-percent cotton shirt with a button-down collar. No tie. And my Ray-Bans topped it off. I was ready.

I met "Marty" on the ninth floor, a few minutes early for my 2:00 appointment, but not too much earlier. I didn't want to appear desperate.

To tell the truth, I really didn't know what to expect when I entered the lobby of the building. I'd spent about a half-hour or so looking at the outside of the place, thinking about what it might be like to work inside. The distinctive steel-and-glass structure was so modern, so cool looking. So California. Especially with the statue of John Wayne astride a horse that's outside the building.

The security guard in the lobby stopped me in my tracks, however. He was no rent-a-cop, I'll tell you that. I'd no sooner gotten into the place than the ominous-looking guard approached me. He had a radio in one hand and the other near his waist. I could have sworn the man was packing. But I tried to blend in, diffuse the tense situation with my pleasantness.

"May I help you?"

"I have a 2:00 appointment with 'Patrick,'" I tell him, smiling and taking off my shades at the same time.

Once he'd verified my appointment, he motioned me toward the elevator. He wasn't smiling.

I went up.

"Marty" met me in the reception area. I'd just closed my mouth from having had my jaw drop after I got a look at how the place was decked out.

Gaudy. Gaudy. Gaudy.

The lobby was innocent enough, but once I stepped off the elevator and onto the ninth floor, I couldn't help but to think about a bordello in the Old West. Huge, ornately framed mirrors, throne-looking chairs. The place reminded me of "Deadwood." Or Miss Kitty's place on "Gunsmoke."

I wanted to see how far all this would go, so I fought off the urge to chuckle. I had to be serious. Professional. I mean, if you didn't know this was where Hustler magazine was produced, you wouldn't know it. Eight-thirty to 5:00, Monday through Friday, with every other Friday off. The hours alone made the possibility of working at the "adult entertainment" magazine worth looking into.

"Marty," who, with his graying long hair, sandals and denim jacket and jeans, reminded me of a Deadhead showed me to what he called the job candidate room. I was to fill out some forms, complete a job application, sign some releases and get ready for the next step in the interview ... on the 10th floor. After he got me settled in, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

It seemed like only 10 minutes had passed before he reappeared and asked me if I was OK. I told him that I was and he mentioned that "they" were waiting for me upstairs. I picked up the pace.

About 10 or 15 minutes later, I'm on the 10th floor, meeting with the man who would be my boss and a female member of his staff. The view from the office was gorgeous, looking out toward the Hollywood hills and the sun was just beginning to set.

Beautiful. For a little while, I was in another world.

I told "Mr. Davidson" that although I didn't read Hustler on a regular basis, I could see a difference between now and when I last picked up a copy ... six years ago. He took credit for the "improved look" of the magazine. (He said he took over about the time I'd last seen the magazine.) He asked me if I had a problem working with adult content.

"Of course not," I told him.

The woman had a smile her face. "Mr. Davidson" did not. He really wasn't that impressed with me, despite what he called my "impressive" resume. Then he started talking about what Hustler meant to him and what his vision was for the magazine. The woman looked a little bored at this point. Perhaps because she'd heard this spiel more than once. I was thinking, "Check ME out, sitting at Hustler interviewing for a job!"

The me from college might have been extremely excited. He might have even bragged to his friends a little. But the present-day me could only imagine the conversation between my mother and some of her friends from church.

"Lucille, your oldest son is in California, right? Now where was it you said he was working...?"

This job wasn't going to happen. Not that day, anyway. The vibe was there. "Mr. Davidson" wasn't feeling me. I wasn't really feeling him. He asked me if I'd done any writing and when I told him I had, his eyes lit up. He said he wanted to see some samples, so I pulled out my Scandisk flash drive. But he said, "Oh, you ... just, uh, just e-mail them to me when you get a chance." Then he suggested I should take a few recent copies of the magazine home with me to look over, and if I had any thoughts or if I wanted to pitch him any story ideas ... I should get in touch with him.

"Thanks for coming in," he then said.

I thanked him and his fellow staff member and I left. I stopped at the Starbucks across the street from the building, e-mailed a thank-you note, attached several samples of my writing, articles I'd published, then I headed for the Amtrak station and home.

On the train, I opened the large plain envelope containing the Hustler issues that I had been given almost an hour earlier. And I gasped. Then I felt grungy.

When I got home, I had to take a shower.

—30—