Cover image for Slab rat : a novel
Slab rat : a novel
Heller, Ted.
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Publication Information:
New York : Scribner, [2000]

Physical Description:
332 pages ; 25 cm

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X Adult Fiction Central Closed Stacks

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Zachary Arlen Post, an associate editor at IT magazine, has his eye on a promotion. His mind, however, is more engaged in figuring out which of the two attractive women in the office he should pursue -- the sweet, earnest Ivy, or Leslie, a classy, English ice queen with a hyphenated last name. When Mark, an eager young man, joins the staff, Zack knows that he has met his nemesis. Mark works hard and plays the power game like a pro, demonstrating the all-important networking skills Zack has never mastered. Soon enough, Mark becomes Zack's boss and Zack knows that only desperate measures will save his own career. From fabricating a fabulous resume to back-stabbing with finesse, this deliciously wicked novel reveals what it takes to make it to the top of the masthead at one of the hottest magazines in the business.

Reviews 3

Booklist Review

Zachary Post is a scheming assistant editor at It, a high-gloss lifestyle, New York magazine. He is on the fast track to promotion until a new guy starts in the office, Mark Larkin, a Harvard man and new favorite among the higher-ups. As Post and his coworkers marvel at Larkin's quick ascent, they begin to plot against him. Post, meanwhile, is continually covering up for his fabricated history and resume. As his coworkers forge their plot, growing more and more mentally unstable, they realize that the only way to oust Larkin is death, and they hatch a carefully orchestrated modus operandi. However, Post and Larkin realize that they have much more in common than they thought, and Post begins to warm up and perhaps even like the guy. This scathingly funny, and (strangely) somewhat accurate look at office politics gives an inside look at one of the most fickle professions--magazine publishing. Sex, murder, greed, envy, gluttony--this debut novel is a fun trip into office politics in the 90s. --Michael Spinella

Publisher's Weekly Review

A satirical look at the glitzy world of New York magazine publishing by a young insider, Heller's debut novel charts the progress of Zachary (Zack) Post, an overqualified underachiever with a fraudulent past. Zack is at the low end of It magazine's corporate ladder, and he is desperate to move up. Both Zack and his "friend" Willie (read: least likely to take Zack's job) are beside themselves with the arrival and meteoric ascent of New Boy Mark Larkin, a contemptible brat who cannot even work a fax machine. Larkin's inexplicable promotions set Zack and Willie scheming to sabotage him. But Zack embarks upon a series of progressively ridiculous assignments, which, unbeknownst to him, are being orchestrated by Larkin to keep him away from the office as the new star consolidates power. He thinks that Zack has too many "friends" on staff, such as the New Girl intern, Ivy Kooper (daughter of the magazine's lead counsel), and Zack's strategic marriage interest, rich Brit Leslie Usher-Soames. And Zeke's still pining away for his lost lust Marjorie Millet (the sexpot art director whom he used to shtup in Stairway B and who is now alternately shtupping both Ivy's father and, of course, Mark Larkin). Meanwhile, masochist extraordinaire Willie stops sleeping, begins talking to the walls and buys a gun, swearing to do Larkin in. Ever the rat scheming in his concrete-and-glass slab, Zack plays all the angles he can, forging alliances with powerful enemies and alienating his unsuccessful friends as he tries to get Larkin's job. Like the 1994 film Swimming with Sharks, the novel cutely depicts the full-contact politics, false loyalties and colossal waste of the Great American Office. Heller's Machiavellian comedy is a reasonably entertaining (if unoriginal) first attempt, with special appeal for publishing types. (Feb.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Library Journal Review

If Dante were around today, hell would be measured not in circles but in cubicles. Heller's assured, darkly comic debut critiques the magazine publishing industry in much the same way that Jason Starr's Cold Caller (LJ 6/1/98) criticized telemarketing. Each magazine has one floor of a 60-story monolithic tower, and Zachary Arlen Post is a Gen-X cog in the wheel on one of these floors. Literally a self-made man--his curriculum vitae is a total fabrication--Zach has one sharp eye trained on promotion. When nemesis Mark Larkin confronts him, Zach gets caught up in office craftiness and begins to do things that even he at one time would have thought beneath him. The ensuing office warfare makes Antietam look almost mannerly, and Zach's just desserts, when finally served up, are properly Dantean. As one of his office pals might suggest for the headline of an article on this first novelist, the son of Joseph Heller--"Give 'Em (More) Heller." For all larger public libraries.--Bob Lunn, Kansas City P.L., MO (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



Chapter One Sleek, glossy art deco chrome, everything is sparkling silver and black and white. We're at a noisy restaurant downtown and I can see my reflection in everything -- the walls, the floor, the plates and food, even the wait staff. Grilled swordfish and lumpy potatoes for twenty-five dollars, nine-dollar shrimp cocktails with only four shrimp and at this swank place they make sure not to cut the little beady eyes off. About fifty of us sitting at long rectangular tables, fifteen people to a table. Willie Lister sits directly across from me, draining glass after glass of white wine, a film of sweat coating his long sloping forehead. From the brilliantly lit Important Table, a spoon suddenly clanks against a plate and then there is an abrupt hush. Nan Hotchkiss (endless legs but the face and ears of a bloodhound) stands up and makes a toast, holding the overstuffed Filofax that seems surgically attached to her left wrist. "Let's all drink to Jackie and wish her oodles of good luck," she says. We raise our glasses. Good luck, Jackie. Oodles of it. A few moments later, Byron Poole, the art director, and one of his androgynous assistants have put on wigs and lipstick. They sing a very off-key version of "Sisters" from White Christmas, Jackie Wooten's favorite movie. ("Which one's supposed to be Rosemary Clooney and which one's Virginia Mayo?" I whisper to Willie. "You mean Vera-Ellen," he whispers back. He's right.) Coffee and dessert are now being served. At the head of the Important Table, Betsy Butler stands up a bit woozily, adjusts her seven-hundred-dollar eyeglasses, and taps her spoon against a glass. The din is reduced to intermittent coughing. "As you all know," our managing editor says, "this is Jackie Wooten's last day with us...she's going on to bigger but hopefully not better things..." The short speech goes on and I cannot bear to listen to it and so I soak up every word. Jackie Wooten has been moved way, way upstairs, going from associate editor at It to senior editor at She, the equivalent of skipping from fifth grader to high school senior. It makes me feel like an absolute turd, this Bob Beamon-like vault of hers. Betsy continues: Jackie's been this, Jackie's done that, she means this much to us...blah blah blah. "So, Jackie, we all chipped in and we got you this..." Jackie stands up and takes a box from Betsy. It's half the size of a carton of cigarettes and is wrapped in light blue tissue. Jackie has worked with Willie Lister for about five years; they've been sitting across from each other all that time. Spitting distance. She's broomstick-thin and her lips are barely visible. She went to Mt. Holyoke and her father is a noted pediatrician who, from all I've heard, I wouldn't let within ten feet of any child. Jackie is thirty-one years old and headed big places. Willie and I are being left in her Chanel-scented dust. She tells us she would like to thank us one by one but time doesn't permit. Time does permit her, however, to thank the most important people: Regine, Betsy, Byron, etc. She opens the box and it's from's a gold desk plate that says: JACKIE WOOTEN, SENIOR EDITOR GODDAMMIT! It costs over $500. "I love it!" she says with an excited weepy voice that suggests if she does love it, she doesn't love it very much. I have nothing that costs over $500 except the apartment I live in. It's breaking up now. People are table-hopping or slumped over in their chairs, exhausted and full. Marjorie Millet slips her prodigious figure out the door alone and I wonder if I should follow but I know I shouldn't. And I don't want to anyway. Or maybe I do. "I'm going to miss you, Zeke," Jackie says when I hug her. I tell her I'll miss her too and that it's been great working with her. You do a great job, I say. My voice sounds, if not all choked up, then mostly choked up. "We'll have lunch sometime, right?" I say. She nods. Jackie Wooten feels like a skeleton when I hug her. The next day I'm at the office sitting with Willie...I'm on the empty desk facing him, formerly Jackie's. There's nothing there now, not the little round mirror she would look in every half-hour to check her makeup, not the always freshly polished silver vase she would look into every five minutes to check her hair. "Do we know who's replacing her yet?" I ask Willie. "Some guy named Mark Larkin...I think he's at She." "Mark Larkin? That name means nothing to me." Someone from the art department, a tall pale neuter type named Charles, comes over with a 10 x 13 manila envelope; we're supposed to open it, throw in a few dollars for the Tiffany present, check our names off, and pass the envelope on to the next person. By the time it reaches us, it's already pretty stuffed. "It'll be different without Jackie here," Willie says. He squeezes the envelope as if it were a plump giggling baby. "I hope I get along with this Mark Larkin guy." Willie has clear blue eyes, straight shoulder-length blond hair, a strong sincere face. I think he really does want to get along with whoever Mark Larkin is. I take the envelope and undo the red string. "Do you feel like having lunch out today?" I ask Willie. "Lunch would be nice. So would a new tie." I look into the envelope, a jumbo salad of fives, tens, and twenties. I take out two tens, pocket them, and pass the envelope to Willie after checking off my name. He takes out the same amount and reties the red string. "You know, I never really liked Jackie," he says. "No. Neither did I." Copyright © 2000 by Ted Heller Excerpted from Slab Rat: A Novel by Ted Heller All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.