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Natalie
Iknow I’m supposed to be listening to whatever garbage this asshole is saying, but I can’t. I’m too distracted by the printout of one of their recent articles behind him. The tag reads, “Busty or Rusty: Voters Decide if These Cans Can’t or Can”.
I’d like to die now please.
I’m in some super low-rent NYC rag of a paper. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. That’s not the only favorite article pinned to the wall.
There’s some shit about Dressing for Success: ‘From Bedroom to Boardroom’, and another rating the women featured on the cover of Times by most boneable. This includes Margaret Thatcher and Malala.
“Now, Natalie, tell me a little bit more about why you want this,” the chief editor gestures toward himself and gives me a knowing frat boy stare.
“I beg your pardon?” I ask as politely as I’m able.
“I mean the job,” he laughs, too loudly. “Of course.”
I don’t laugh. I’m still horrified by my surroundings. The chief editor, ‘Bucky’, stands up, his gut brushing against the table, which lurches from the impact. I’m forced to throw my hands on the table to keep our coffee from flying off.
“Easy, tiger,” He winks as he straddles the chair next to me. My hackles are officially raised, but I sit tight. “So how do you feel, Natalie?”
I hate how he uses my first name. We’re not friends, asshole. Far from it.
“How does it feel to be in the throes of my humble paper? I can’t imagine what it feels like to have the entirety of the publishing world turn its back on you.”
I clench my teeth to keep from smacking that smug look off his face.
He’s taunting me. In a fucking interview. In an interview I’m way overqualified for, by the way. It only makes this even more humiliating. What am I doing here?
Oh, that’s right, I’m fucking desperate.
“Well there’s no such thing as bad press, right?” I try to smile and Bucky laughs, too loudly again, taking the opportunity to scoot closer to me.
“Usually, I’d say the same, but this…” He reaches over to me, getting far too close to my personal space. Grinning near my mouth, he finally pulls back with a copy of the tabloid. There I am again, splayed across the cover.
“This is something else.”
He whistles as he fondles the photo. “You know, I’m a big fan.” he says, eyeing me over the top of the paper. “In fact, I made sure to buy up quite a few of these. Ya know, just in case they get ruined from overuse.”
He winks, and I’m ready to hurl. If only I had thought to record this conversation, I could put this asshole on blast.
“I’m not sure if you’d work out here though, as an editor…” he sighs as he folds the paper. “Besides, it looks like Blake Western has been making noise about buying us out.”
My face grows hot, but I keep my expression icy.
I’m not gonna let this shithead get to me. I don’t give a fuck about this job, and only need to wait for a useable exit from this god-awful verbal assault.
“However, if you could see your way into demonstrating what these pictures showcase… maybe I will consider giving you a junior job; writing copy or something like that.” He takes this moment to lean forward, his hand reaching closer to my breast.
In one fell swoop, I pick up the coffee and toss it in his face. He howls in pain and surprise, and goes flying backward from his chair, landing flat on his back. Serves him right for saying something earlier about liking his coffee “hot” before wiggling his eyebrows at me.
“Security!” he screams from the floor. Serves him right for straddling the chair like a toddler, too. He’s turtled on his back and can’t manage to get up.
“Security!” he shrieks again, and a dumpy-looking gentleman throws open the door, doughnut in hand.
“Whoa, boss, what happened!” He chokes through a mouthful of doughnut.
“Get her outta here!” Bucky shrieks. I grab my purse and stand up.
“Yes, please,” I smile and squeeze past him to exit.
