A couple weeks ago, Seeded Grapes walked into my empty classroom almost in tears. She had taken a job copy editing for an oil and gas magazine, but between that and teaching full-time she felt like she couldn't hold it down. She knew I was into writing and science and energy policy, so she asked if I wanted it. I felt bad that she was having a hard time of things, but thrilled for the opportunity.

She gave me the contact info of the editor, and I called her up and started a few days later. The office is by Войковская, one stop over on the circle line and three up on the green. From the metro station, you have to take a marshrutka to the office. Marshrutkas are vans that hold about a dozen people, which come according to no particular schedule and leave whenever they're full. Whoever's sitting closest to the driver collects everyone's 20 rubles, makes change if people need it, then gives the wad of cash to the driver. People get on and off whenever they feel like it--at red lights, in the middle of traffic jams, at the actual stops...

To get into the office complex I have to give my passport to a security guard in a little booth, who records my passport number and the time I arrive. I think my crappy Russian has made me memorable, so now they just wave me through.

The magazine's office has two floors. On the bottom floor are Алексей, Петр, Александр, Татияна, Ольга. Алексей and Петр are the layout guys. Петр is a tall, kindly older guy with flyaway gray hair, a stuffed Ice Age squirrel perched on his Mac computer, and a badass collection of Russian 80s pop. Алексей is shyer, and divides his time between tweaking the layout and firing darts into the dartboard upstairs by my desk with deadly accuracy. Александр is younger, grew up in Azarbaijan, and speaks perfect English. He sounds even more American than I do. I asked how his accent got so native-sounding, and he said he had Joey and Chandler to thank. He learned English entirely by watching Friends and Simpsons over and over, with English subtitles, analyzing what every line meant and repeating it.

Upstairs are me, the editor, Ягмур, and Лена. Ягмур and Лена write articles, they get sent to a very mediocre translation agency, come back in English that sounds like this:

"Visual demonstration was really impressive proving that minimum 50 bcm of gas is flared in reality with about 24 billion falling to Khanty-Mansiysk Autonomous District (KhMAD,Yugra) alone in 2006"

and I have to make it sound like English that people would actually want to read.

The articles range from the fairly dull (Volvo just released a new machine that lays pipeline), to pretty interesting (the government is saying you have to use the natural gas you find in oil fields, you can't just torch it all and release all that carbon), to the rather fascinating (an interview with an oil exec about his company's environmental practice...2 pages of masterful dodging, optimistic jargon, and comments bespeaking his paternalistic approach to his employees). I have to understand every sentence so I can reword it more readably, which is making me learn a ton about the industry.

My first day on the job, I saved my edited version of an article to my desktop instead of a network folder. The next day, I saw Seeded Grapes in school and she asked me, did the editor get ahold of you? I said no, and Seeded Grapes said You better call her... I did, and she let me have it. Where did you save that article? You just cost us 6 hours of work. I hired you to make things go smoother, and this is setting us back. You need to follow procedure. We can't have this kind of messing around. And so on. I apologized and explained what I did, hung up, felt bad for a while, then realized the absurdity of costing her 6 hours of work by working for 3 hours, saving it to the desktop of a computer that sits 2 feet away from her, and then being within constant reach by telephone.

Being around the office for another week showed me that that's how she often deals with her employees, by talking to them the way I don't think I'd talk to someone unless I was pretty sure I could never forgive them. According to Лена, a smart and softspoken woman from Belarus, it often costs her employees. Her loudness on the phone upstairs can be interesting, though..."Well, I think a man should go. It can't be me. I think you're the guy for the job. You can carry this off in Russian, right? That'll throw him a little....Yeah, bring him along too, that'll take some of the heat off you. He can push the tape recorder button in his pocket...Well, I know, but this isn't America, is it..."

I'm going to talk to her about going full time (I tried yesterday, but got a huge earful about catching her at a bad time). I'm enjoying the work, I like the staff, and I think I can handle her explosions. Plus she's clearly more interested in publishing my work than in getting laid.