by Blue Saffire
Did I mean it?
Hell yes I did.
I think.
No… I’m very serious. No way in hell am I staying here. Not if my integrity is going to be challenged, my talent used to dirty the world instead of helping make it more transparent. Not if my word isn’t good enough. My beliefs. The lines I draw in the sand.
Even though I want to throw myself across the desk, snatch back the words, this is the right thing to do, my heart and gut knows that at least. But there’s also a part of me — the part with gray matter and in-depth knowledge that security is important — is hoping that the pencil dicked man before me will be the one who throws himself across the desk, that he’ll beg me for forgiveness, beg me to stay.
After all, I’m one of the hardest working journalists at this newspaper. I’ve won awards, for goodness sakes. Sure, they were local and state awards, but I’d been the one who freaking won them... because I research the shit out of assignments and make sure my sources are sound. While I realize we’re not The Wall Street Journal or the Times, we’re well respected by New Yorkers…
No. That isn’t true. Once upon a time, we’d been well respected by New Yorkers. Not anymore.
Lifting my chin, I stare at Russ, who is staring right back. “Fine,” he says without even blinking his eyes. He leans back in his chair. “You know, if you’d be a little bit more…” his eyes flick to my mouth, “nice, we’d be able to work something out. Licking balls is always better than breaking them.”
I stiffen. It isn’t the first sexual reference the prick has tossed in my direction, but it’s certainly the most overt. I’ve been called a man beater, man hater, and my favorite, the ice queen. That’s just fine. I’d much rather be thought of as icy than some warm, ooey gooey pile of doormat.
“I’m reporting you to human resources.”
He laughs and leans forward, picking up his phone and punching a button. “David…” he says to the HR Director and punches another button for the speaker phone. “I’ve got Caroline Murphy here. She wants to report me for harassment.”
A chuckle comes over the speaker, and I pat my pockets, searching for my cell. I’m going to record this conversation. I’ll get proof. I need proof. This asshole is going down.
Then David chuckles. “I told you to stay away from her. You’ll get frostbite on your prick.”
Russ raises an eyebrow to me and smirks. “Yeah. She’s currently hunting for her phone, I think. If she finds it, I’m betting she’ll try to record our little conversation. Want to bet? I’ve got ten dollars for it.”
David chuckles again. “Keep your money. It’s a sure thing. Just let me know if she finds it. I prefer to keep these types of conversations in the he-said, she-said realm.”
With an internal groan, I stop searching because I know my phone is on my desk, still in my bag. I hadn’t thought to grab it prior to storming in here. Apparently, my realization is evident in my expression because Russ leans forward. “I think we’re safe. Just wanted to warn you that she’d be in to see you soon… one way or another.”
Without a word, I stand and turn away.
“Well, you and your sweet ass will be missed,” Russ says, David still on the line. “The place won’t be as pretty now that you’re gone.”
The verbal punch in the gut is tremendous, and if my lips hadn’t been pressed together, air would have probably whooshed out of my lungs. I swallow hard, pushing down the panic and insecurities, the disappointment. The anger. I know how this works. I did an article a couple years ago on why women didn’t report this type of harassment. Not a single source would allow me to print her name.
Now I know why.
I’ve heard other people say it, but I’ve never thought it would pertain to me. And not just the harassment. They say that it didn’t matter how much effort you put into a job, or even how well loved you are to your co-workers or even bosses, that you’re just a number and your dead body wouldn’t even be cold before you were replaced.
It’s true.
Still silent, and with as much grace and dignity as I can muster, I walk out of the door. I could throw a fit, stomp and scream and curse. They’d just laugh, I know. And I hate being laughed at. More than anything, I hate that.
I will not cry. I will not cry.
The words become my mantra as I walk past my fellow journalists, the people I’ve worked with for eight years. I’d been with the Gazette since I graduated New York University, the ink barely dry on my journalism degree.
At first, I was given small stories in the lifestyle section, but within a year, I’d proven myself worthy of bigger assignments. Intensely curious, I pounded the sidewalk as hard as I pounded my keyboard, letting nothing stop me from getting the story.
I’ve been happy.
Hell, I’ve even passed up better offers with bigger newspapers because I’d felt some foolish loyalty to this damn place. The past owners had taken the chance of taking on a newbie, teaching me the ropes. I stayed and stayed… until…
Until my small newspaper was bought out by a bunch of morons a year ago, and they slowly began turning it into a gossip rag.
And the meeting this morning had been the last straw.
“Caroline…” Russ said during this morning’s assignment meeting, his dark eyes fastening on me. “There’s rumors that Justin will be in town to meet up with Selena. Need you to follow up on that, get pictures. You know the ropes.”
Seriously? My stomach churned, the acid that had been building up over the past twelve months threatening to either burn a hole in it or burst from my throat. And I was sure, as mad as I was, that if it was the latter, it would be pea soup green and my head would immediately twist around on my shoulders. I was so angry, the “Exorcist” priest wouldn’t have come within a mile of me.
“You seriously want me to track the whereabouts of two pop stars?” I’d asked, my fingers nearly breaking my pencil in half, unable to believe it. There was so much going on in our world — politics, human trafficking, natural disasters, missing children, murders — and this was what he wanted us to care about?
My fellow journalists had stirred in their seats but had said nothing. Like me, they were concerned by the direction the newspaper was being taken. Like me, they’d sat back and said nothing as we slowly raced toward the finish line of true news and entered the new race of trashy entertainment.
“Yes. Rumors of their reconnection is trending. I want us to be the first to upload something… pictures, quotes, whatever… online, then we’ll keep the front page open for print.
I’d gaped at him. “What about the nursing home fire?”
The bastard had only shrugged. “They’re old. Irrelevant. People will be sad for about three full seconds, then be clamoring for the latest gossip. Remember, in this new social world, our readers are searching for a distraction from real life. That’s our job. Give them what they want.”
“Says who?” I’d countered.
He’d pierced me with a hard glare. “The man who signs your paycheck.”
For the rest of the meeting, I’d seethed. Grinded my teeth. Then, when it was over, I’d marched my pencil skirted clad ass to his office. And… that hadn’t worked out very well.
Now, I’m tossing what few personal belongings I have in this damn place into a box.
“What happened?” Marvin asks, pushing his glasses up on his nose.
I toss a picture of my cactus into the box. “What does it look like?” I know I’m being an ass to the older man, but if I give up on this badass façade, I’ll break down into an ugly cry in seconds.
“It looks like you quit,” Marvin says, picking up my stapler. “Can I have this?”
I bark out a laugh. Everyone is constantly borrowing it, and it had become a running “where’s Caroline’s stapler today” joke.
“Sure. Just think of me kindly each time you slam your hand down on it.”
He sticks it in the pocket of the cardigan sweater he’s wearing. This one is
blue. Marvin has exactly five sweaters and wears them on a rotating basis, like clockwork. Even in the summer, he wears one in the air-conditioned office, only taking it off if he has to step outside.
Monday is brown — shit day, per Marvin. Tuesday is burnt orange. Wednesday yellow. Thursday green. And Friday — today — a bright blue. If I ever forget what day of the week it is, I’d only need to glance at Marvin’s desk.
I’ll miss that.
I’ll miss him.
As the most senior journalist on the team, Marvin took me under his wing more than anyone, always pushing me to ask harder questions, investigate more. I’ve seen the brightness dim in his eyes over the past year, but he’s just another year away from retirement. I can’t blame him for sticking it out even as his soul is being sucked out of his body, assignment by lowly assignment.
“So, you’re really leaving,” he says, handing me the paperweight I received in lieu of a plaque when I won the readers’ choice award for a piece I’d written on human trafficking.
I toss it into the box, which has pitifully few mementos. “Yeah. I can’t take another minute of this.”
He scratches his head and then pushes his glasses up his nose again. “You sure, Caroline? There aren’t many journalism jobs available these days. As much as I hate to admit it, print is in the intensive care unit with nobody willing to officially pull the plug. Yet, but it’s coming. You might want to re-think this.”
Marvin is wise. I know that. I’ve witnessed his wisdom in action many times. But he is also at the end of his career while I’m still in the blossom of new. Well… if you can call eight years as a journalist new. If thirty really is the new fifty, then I’m officially more like a toddler. And the knowledge that I’d need to trade my dreams for nightmares for the next thirty years makes me want to vomit in my utilitarian trash can.
“I’ll find something.” Kissing the older man’s cheek, I squeeze his hand and grab my box. I look around the room, the place I’d practically lived in these eight years. “I promise I’ll be okay.”
2
Caroline
I’m so not okay.
As I flip through my bills, it’s obvious. I’m screwed, and Marvin was right… print is only alive because a few billionaires holding respirators are breathing for it. The journalists with good jobs are holding on to them with both hands and their teeth, and new positions aren’t opening up.
I’ve been a good girl my entire life, and I’d religiously tucked money away until I had three months of living expenses saved up for rainy days like this. But as the bills begin to come in for the fourth month, what had started as a sprinkle is quickly turning into a torrential downpour with lightning strikes and a tornado on the horizon.
Dropping my face in my hands, I give myself exactly sixty seconds to wallow in my pity party before booting up my computer and checking the freelancing site I joined two months ago to see if I’d gotten any new jobs.
There’s one! Excited, I click the link.
Need a three-thousand-word article on the importance of wrapping pipes prior to winter. Pay is thirty dollars.
With a groan and deep gratitude that none of the journalists I once worked with are here to witness my shame, I click “accept” and then buckle down to research. I’ve lived in a maintained apartment building my entire life and have zero idea as to why pipes need to be wrapped. But hey, a dollar is a dollar, and thirty of them will buy a few groceries even if it won’t pay the rent.
As I begin the research, my Google alert pings. A job! I abandon the article and click over, praying it will be something good.
Oh my gosh. Glam magazine is in search of an experienced writer to write for their “world” section. I’m breathing hard by the time I finish reading the job description.
I’m so perfect for this job.
Within seconds, I’ve submitted my resume, my letters of recommendation, and the sex trafficking article I wrote that earned me the paperweight.
I stare at the screen, although ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine nine percent of my brain knows I won’t hear anything. Not today, at least. Probably not tomorrow either.
Placing the laptop on the cushion beside me, I jump up from my little couch and stride into the kitchen, adrenaline and hope making me practically hop. I need something to drink besides coffee because I’m jittery. I’ve also gained twelve whole freaking pounds since I quit the Gazette. If I’m going to work at a fashion magazine, those suckers need to disappear.
Grabbing a glass of water, I fill it with slices of lemon and ice before pouring water from my filtered pitcher all the way to the rim. I down it, pour another and begin to sip.
It’s a start. Today is my “get ready for my new job day.” I need to get a haircut, my nails manicured, and… holy crap, I need to find something to wear.
Although the logical part of my mind knows I might never even get an interview, my hope filled mind is in overdrive.
Ping!
Taking my ice water with me, I race back to the sofa. Disappointment oozes out of every pore as I realize it’s just a notification that I have bonus bucks available at the local pharmacy. Awesome. A buck is a buck, and I’m running low on aspirin. And antacids.
I’ve got to calm down. I finish the water, then chew on an ice cube before berating myself and spitting it out. Since I don’t have health or dental insurance any longer, I’m living on the edge as it is. No need to add the possibility of a broken tooth to the mix.
Damn Russ. Damn David. Damn men.
Angry again, I sit down and get back to work on the water pipe article, forcing my mind away from everything else. If I get an email or phone call about the magazine job, then I’ll do my research before going through the trouble of worrying about what to wear. Now, I need to earn my thirty dollars so I can go buy loads of celery and carrots to thin my ice cream enhanced hips.
It doesn’t take long to understand the science of the pipe problems of the world.
Cold freezes water, making ice. Ice expands and bursts pipes. Cover up your pipes, people, or else you’re left with an expensive mess. That’s the gist of the article, although I manage to make it a fairly interesting three thousand and two words long. I send it off and wait for my cha-ching.
And there’s still no word from Glam.
Damn.
An entire day passes, and I write an article on weatherproofing your windows. Another thirty dollars in my pocket.
Another day goes by, and I score a five-thousand-word article that is actually interesting. It’s about taking care of your indoor plants during the winter. As I research and type, I shoot a guilty glance at my pitiful looking little cactus sitting in the window, the only thing on earth that needs me to keep it alive.
At four forty-seven that afternoon, I submit the article, happy for the fifty bucks coming my way. I still don’t have rent money solved, but I’m getting there and refuse to give up.
Ping!
“What’s next, Pete?” I mutter to the cactus. He’s named after my ex, who was a prick. “Think they’ll want a five-thousand-word article on how to survive the guilt of killing your houseplants?”
Through bleary eyes, I look at my screen. Oh my gosh. It’s from Glam!
Inhaling deeply through my nose, I click the email. Thank you for your submission. Yada. Yada. Yada. I breeze through the part where they spout all the wonderful things about themselves and get to the good, or bad, part.
It’s good! They want to get to know me further. Would I be available on Thursday at two p.m. for an interview?
My fingers fly over the keyboard then hover over the “send” button.
If I send it right now, will I seem too eager? In a city where fashionably late is king, will I look like the court jester trying to people please?
I force myself to wait half an hour then click send, spouting out a little prayer for it to have safe passage. Then force myself to get up and do something productive instead of stare at the screen for hours.
Close to weeping, I pull out my fat skirt with promises to sew my lips together if it doesn’t fit.
It does. Barely. It curves around my ample butt just on the right side of decent. I pull a white silk blouse off a hanger, then a red jacket over that. I look… like a flight attendant.
Disgusted, I pull the jacket off and then strip down to my underwear. I don’t even know what’s in fashion anymore. Heading back to my laptop, I do a quick search.
Oh dear lord.
Strappy pretty much sums it up, which would be fine if it wasn’t winter in the North East.
Going back to my closet, I find a birthday tank I bought myself years ago and layer it under a cream, hip length jacket — never would have thought about pairing them up but it works. After adding nearly every chain in my jewelry box, I decide I look fairly close to the picture. Deciding it’s too cold for sandals, I pull on a pair of knee high boots.
Scrutinizing myself in front of the mirror, I decide I look pretty good.
I look like a schoolmarm.
An old schoolmarm.
An old, out of touch schoolmarm and the bun I pulled my hair into only completes the picture. Even my manicure is wrong. When did pointy fingernails come into style? Don’t these women type? How do they avoid puncturing their eyeball when they sweep on their layers and layers of mascara? Or are those fake lashes crawling up to their eyebrows like spiders on their faces?
The interview goes… terrible. Well, the actual question and answer part goes well, but the woman who might one day be my manager’s eyes keep falling to the cascade of necklaces around my neck. With a frown.
“We’ll be in touch regarding the position,” Valerie says. “Thank you for stopping by.”
Oh god, I’m being dismissed.
“It’s been my pleasure.” Honesty is best, so I take a deep breath and spew it. “I know I don’t look the part of Glam… yet, but I hope you’ll give me the chance to learn from you regarding wardrobe and style as I focus on enlightening our readers, giving them the balance of brains and beauty.”
