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“What the fuck?” I whisper to myself.
The article — which is supposed to be about a Town Hall meeting in which several people running for City Council answered the public’s questions — goes on the same way, full of light misogyny and very purple prose.
I get through two paragraphs before I stand up and make my way over to Ned Tucker, the author of this… thing.
“Ned,” I say, standing behind him. I can see his computer monitor perfectly. He is, at least, working in a Word document, not playing Solitaire.
“One second,” he says, and finishes typing something, then turns, relaxing in his chair as he looks at me. “What can I do you for?”
Ned is one of those middle-aged men who thinks he’s rakish and isn’t. He needs a shave and a haircut, he needs to not take his shoes off in the office, and he needs to not act like the two of us are buddies since I’m now in charge of his work.
“I have some concerns about this article you wrote about the City Council race,” I say, holding it up.
“Do you, now?” he asks, both eyebrows rising comically.
He’s making fun of me. I’m not an idiot.
I am going to ignore it, though.
“Yes,” I say. “For starters, you use some extremely sexist language in the lede. I’m sure you know that the verb harangue has a lot of negative connotations and is almost exclusively used about women?”
“Huh,” he says, as if I’m a dog that’s done a mildly interesting trick.
“Yes, it’s true,” I say, and manage to sound only slightly sarcastic. “In addition, do you realize that this is supposed to be a three-hundred-word summary about last night’s Town Hall meeting, not a discussion of the various candidates attractiveness levels, don’t you?”
He gives me that smile that I’m sure he thinks is charming, reaches out, and takes the papers I’m holding.
“Sorry about that, boss,” he says. “I’ll work your edits in before I leave.”
“Thanks,” I say, and head back for my desk, where I sit, hands on my keyboard, and stare at my empty desktop.
It’s a small mercy — maybe the only one I’ve gotten today — that my desk is the last one before a blank, windowless wall, and my monitor faces it. It’s still in view of anyone who walks past, of course, but not of anyone and everyone in the newsroom at any given time.
I sit there, and I remind myself that the first day on any job is fraught, and difficult, and filled with problems that feel insurmountable. It’s hard to get used to a new workplace culture, new coworkers, a new way of doing things.
Was that fight where Natasha called John a stupid son of a bitch and he called her a haggard old lesbian just a new way of doing things? I think. That’s two days in a row you’ve seen people shouting in here, and it’s only your first day at work.
That is, admittedly, not great, but maybe I’m starting at a rough time for the Herald-Trumpet. Of course, there was also Mike, a reporter who informed me that he “doesn’t do” meetings when I asked him to attend ours; Edmund shouting on the phone in his office on two separate occasions; Nancy, the Lifestyle editor who literally turned her back on me when I introduced myself and offered a handshake; and now Ned, who I’m fairly certain is trolling me.
I’m not going to let it get to me. I’m going to do my job well and not involve myself in any of the toxic drama that clearly goes on here, and it will still be worth it.
I wonder what Levi’s doing right now.
The thought’s almost physically painful, a dull stab to my sternum, so I instantly pull up the project management software the paper uses to track stories, and set about trying to learn it.
I’m finally getting the hang of it an hour later, when Ned drops by my desk again.
“Sent you back that article,” he says. “Really thought you made some interesting points, so I took all the edits worth taking. Have a good one!”
“Thank you,” I say, but he’s already walking back to his own desk, where he grabs his coat without missing a beat, puts it on while walking and heads through the door.
It’s 4:15.
Is he coming back?
He just went out to smoke or something, right?
I open the file he’s sent me.
It’s exactly the same. Apparently, all the edits worth taking were zero, and I’m now totally sure that Ned just left work for the day.
I close my eyes and count to ten, taking slow, deep breaths.
When I open them, Natasha — who is, judging by the pictures on her desk, a lesbian, but who is not haggard — is leaning over the short partition between our walls.
