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“Carpe Diem, people. Rise and shine!”
There’s a collective groan of dissent around the office as our Editor-in-Chief, Rob Willis, appears in his office doorway, clutching his perennial mug of coffee with the immortal words, ‘To cut a long story short,’ blazoned across the front.
There must be something juicy on the horizon because he never calls his morning meetings before seven a.m. His favorite diner doesn’t start serving his favorite Asiago bagels until six thirty, and he’s fastidious about starting the day on a full stomach.
“Carpe Diem, people,” he rumbles again, as people slowly emerge from behind their desks and cubicles, blinking back late nights and the aftereffects of teething babies. “The news doesn’t wait for the hungover and the underpaid.”
“You got that right,” mutters Ivy from the desk opposite, continuing to speed type as she rises from her chair. “There, it’s done.” She brings her finger down on the ‘send’ button like it’s the mother of all condemnations. “Nothing says, ‘we’re over’ more than a hastily written email with seven typos before breakfast.”
“What did Chester do this time?” Grabbing my pen, notebook, and folder, I balance them carefully in one hand, leaving the other free to tip caffeine down my throat at warp speed.
“He ‘forgot’ last night’s dinner date with his mother, who, incidentally, makes Kris Jenner look like Matriarch of the Year. I had to sit through two hours of lectures about the dangers of pre-marital sex over cold carbonara and a glass of red wine that tasted like something had curled up and died inside it along with my soul. Did I mention that she’s a close relation of Ebenezer Scrooge?”
“Sounds hell.” I give her an eye roll of female solidarity, though I know she’ll have forgiven Chester by lunchtime. By evening, she’ll most likely be wearing her engagement ring again. She and her fiancé have the kind of relationship that gives onlookers whiplash.
“We need to move.” Marching straight past my desk, she beckons me to follow. “No one wants to be blamed for causing Rob’s fourth heart attack in four years.”
“I’m coming,” I mutter, bombing after her in my scuffed black Chucks, trying not to think about the half an espresso that I’m wearing down the front of my white shirt, or how I’d fooled myself into thinking my hair didn’t need washing at five a.m. this morning in my sleep-deprived, delusional state of mind.
In short, I look a mess, but I’m amongst kindred spirits here, except for Ivy, who’s immaculate as always in a navy-blue pant suit and neon pink heels.
I started as a junior reporter atThe New YorkEaglefive months ago, and Ivy was the first to take pity on me. We bonded in the copy room over our mutual love of Fleetwood Mac and Pumpkin Spice Lattes, both of us bemoaning the fact that they should be an all-year thing instead of a Winter tease.
She’s been atThe Eaglefor a couple of years, and she’s already a fully-fledged reporter—a post I can only dream about as I drown in fact-checking, cold calling, and coffee runs all day. She also has a wicked sense of humor, looks like a pint-sized supermodel with spiky blonde hair, insists on setting me up with disastrous dates who never call me again, and can’t understand why I have an apartment on the East Side when everyone knows West is Best.
What’s more, she has a twin sister with lupus, so she always knows the right words to say when I’m extra tired, my body’s extra sore, and I’m stressing about my latest bloodwork. My flares are becoming more regular, and I’m running a low-grade fever most days. I keep postponing appointments with my rheumatologist because I know what she’s going to suggest we try next, and I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with that kind of treatment right now.
“How are you holding up, Miller? You quitting on us yet?” Rob grins at me as I squeeze past to enter his office. For anonymity reasons, I used my mother’s last name when I signed my employment contract, and he refuses to call me anything else.
He’s as wide as he is tall, with more hair on his face than on his head, and I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about him. He’s been in the business for over fifty years, covering everything from the Fall of the Berlin Wall to the aftermath of9/11, which makes him a certified god and legend around here.
“Not today,” I say with a breezy smile, carrying on a joke that’s been ping-ponging between us since the beginning. “I figured I’d see how the week goes and make my decision on Friday.”
“Don’t leave it too late, eh? Human Resources like to clock out dead on time for the weekend.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
Hovering at the back of the room with all the other juniors, we wait for the seats around the oval glass meeting table to be filled. They’re reserved for reporters and various editors, and those whose annual paycheck actually dribbles over thirty thousand a year.
Rob takes his usual place at the head and sizes us all up, one at a time. “Okay, folks and yolks, let’s get cracking.”
A dramatic shift in the Midterm polls takes immediate precedence. Responses are discussed, and interviews mooted for Page One potential. WhileThe Eagleis pretty low down on the New York newspaper popularity list, we have a solid reputation for breaking political bombshells and reliable digital content to back it up.
When it comes to filling the rest of the pages, we’re a tenacious group. Well, we don’t have much of a choice with our budget... Rob has a thing about making weak leads newsworthy, especially when it comes direct from a source. “No smoke without fire and poor monetary incentives,” is one of his favorite sayings, so he has me interview and background check every caller, no matter how crazy they are.
Once all the current affairs stories are distributed around the table, wedwindle down to the rumors and gossip and the human interests that make up the rest of the pages. That’s when Rob’s shrewd gray eyes are seeking me out again.
“Miller! Whatcha got for us? Anything good on Twitter with strong traffic? Any cats stuck up trees on Park Avenue?”
There’s a ripple of amusement at this.
“No cats this time, I’m afraid,” I tell him cheerfully. “But that ‘dog that looks like it’s owner’ thing is trending again.”
More ripples as one of the editors asked Rob if he has a neutered pitbull.
I used to hate speaking in public, but there’s no room for self-consciousness here. Like Ivy’s always telling me, I need to step out of my comfort zone to be taken seriously in journalism, especially as a woman. A paper is a team, and I don’t want to get sidelined.
“Anything else?”
