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Besides, I’m about to be in a newsroom again for the first time in months. This is where the magic happens: the relay of information, the fight to find the truth, the tireless efforts to keep the public informed, everything that the fourth estate is and why it matters.
I push the door open.
Someone is screaming.
That’s not exactly true. He’s shouting very loudly, but I’m surprised and shocked enough that I stop for a moment, nearly tripping over my own tasteful black pumps, my briefcase swinging hard into my leg.
“What the hell do you call this?” a gray-haired, sweater-vested white man with gray hair is shouting, holding up a few printed pages in one hand. “It’s a city council race, for God’s sake, cover it like it. You think you’re Langston Hughes? You think you’re Maya fucking Angelou?”
The whole office is open-plan — no cubicle walls, just low dividers that don’t even come as high as the computer monitors. Beyond the shouting man, someone’s playing Minesweeper, not even looking back at the commotion.
“You’re not,” the man says, flinging the papers on the floor very dramatically. “You’re here and you’ll cover this goddamn race like we tell you to cover it or you will be out of a job, am I understood?”
Sitting in a chair in front of him is a young man who can’t be older than me, the first black person I’ve seen since coming to South Dakota. I don’t hear his response, but apparently, it’s good enough to get the other man out of his space because Sweater Vest walks away, muttering.
“Are you here for the interview?” a woman’s voice asks, and I’m jolted out of my eavesdropping, though to be fair I literally couldn’t help it.
“Yes,” I say, standing up straight and trying to recover. “It’s supposed to be with Edmund Sanderson and Adrianne Pickett?”
“Right,” the woman says, and half-smiles. She’s middle aged, her black hair streaked with white and in a no-nonsense bun, and she gives me a feeling, knowledgeable look. “Adrianne’s office is right there. She’s probably expecting you. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I say, and follow where she’s pointing: an open door to an office. It’s got windows. It’s relatively bright and cheery, and when I knock on the open door, the woman behind the desk stands and gives me a wide, heartfelt smile.
“You must be June. I’m so glad you could make it,” she says, extending a hand. “I’m Adrianne, the Managing Editor. Edmund will be here in a few minutes. Please have a seat. Can I get you water, coffee, anything?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I say, incredibly relieved to have finally found a normal person.
“How was your trip?” she asks, sitting again.
I give her the polite highlights of a boring day. I compliment Bluff City. I mention that it’s my first time in South Dakota, and she tells me that if I get a chance, I should visit Badlands National Park even though it’s a little chilly this time of year.
It’s nice, normal small talk, until finally she looks up as someone else comes through the door.
“Ah, Edmund,” she says, still perfectly cordial. “This is June, our interviewee for Metro Editor.”
The man in the sweater vest stands there. He gives me a thorough up-and-down look, and only once he’s done looking does he extend his hand.
“Good to meet you,” he says to me, then turns to Adrianne. “Why aren’t we in my office?” he demands. “We should be in my office. Why the hell are we in here? What must she think?”
He gestures at me.
“I think my office is fine,” Adrianne says, and sits behind the desk. “Now, June, I was going over your clips and I couldn’t help but be impressed by…”“Sure,” Edmund says to Adrianne, slouching in the chair next to mine, arms folded over his chest. “Yeah, she seems fine.”
Adrianne has her hands laced together on her desk, and she smiles at me apologetically.
“June,” she says. “I’m so sorry, could you give us a moment?”
“Of course,” I say, getting to my feet and gathering my bag. “No problem. Thank you. It was nice meeting you both.”
They both watch me — Adrianne smiling, Edmund not — as I close the door to the office, then stand there, once more not exactly sure what’s going on.
A few people glance over. The woman with the bun nods at me once. The black guy who was being shouted at has earbuds in and is steadily typing away. Whoever’s playing minesweeper in the back corner has switched to an episode of The Office, right there, in the middle of the newsroom.
Maybe they’re on lunch break, I think.
That was the weirdest job interview I’ve ever had, and I’ve been to plenty of job interviews. I’ve been to interviews where the people doing the hiring tried to test me. I’ve been to interviews where at least one person clearly wasn’t paying the proceedings any attention. I once had a job interview where one of the interviewers insulted my shoes the moment I walked in, and then after they offered me the job, told me that he “just wanted to see how I handled it.”
