“Where are you with it?”
“Still chasing sources.”
“What’s the timeline? Stuart wants to know.”
Stuart is the bureau chief, which means he has a hand in everything that comes out of our bureau and he decides who gets to propose stories to the editors in New York. He’s uptight, demanding, and only friendly when a great story is on the line.
Of course he’ll want to know the timeline for the Zumalife story. I knew what Jeremy meant the first time, but I don’t have an answer.
I also know that I need to come up with something concrete before Stuart asks me himself. Jeremy is kindly letting me know I need to get my shit together and come up with a realistic timetable for delivery. Preferably before Stuart gets to work and I get embarrassed for not having answers to his questions. He’s considerate that way.
Stuart is not a person I’d want to invite over to dinner. He’s snarky and prickly and rarely interested in what I have to say. I know that sounds like I’m being overly sensitive. When I hear people say their bosses hate them, I always think they’re exaggerating or looking for sympathy. I don’t think Stuart hates me. He just doesn’t deal with me, which feels almost the same.
“Stuart doesn’t like people. He likes stories,” Jeremy once told me after Stuart berated me in front of the whole newsroom for spending three days in a row at my desk instead of going out in the field to drum up new angles on a story.
In addition to only liking stories, Stuart only seems mildly happy when he’s editing something one of us has written, deleting whole paragraphs, and rewriting it seemingly just because he needs to feel needed. That’s not to say my work doesn’t benefit from a strong edit. I just think Stuart enjoys slashing through my words a little too much. As assistant chief, Jeremy does an equal amount of editing but with a lighter touch and I much prefer working with him.
After assuring Jeremy that I’d have a firm timeline for Stuart and a good story for the paper, I walk toward my desk and park my coffee on the rubber Starbucks coaster that came free with a gift card purchase. I hear a soft drone of news from the flat screen monitors which gives the bureau a steady hum of noise that provides a backdrop. And a lot of pressure.
I’m pretty much always stressed, always feeling like I’m behind the eight-ball, one step away from missing a big story. I probably swallow more Tums than the average person, but I justify it because they boost my calcium intake, and you never can be too careful about osteoporosis.
Jack is hunkered over his desk with his back to me, listening to a message on his voicemail, which he always insists on doing over speakerphone. He claims it’s so he can be handsfree and type up his call log. But with the Bluetooth option available, it’s a thin argument. I am fairly certain he does it so everyone around can hear how many messages he has from important people.
But with him facing away, I take the opportunity to slide into my chair and stash my laptop bag under the desk, so I can look industrious when he turns around. Maybe he’ll think I’ve been there for a while.
He doesn’t buy it for a second. Like a bird of prey with an instinct for a nearby kill, he spins around in his chair.
“Nice of you to show, Sandoval,” he says, hitting the button on his phone to kill the voicemail playback.
“Morning, Jack.” My tone is casual, like he just caught me in the middle of what I’ve been sitting here doing for ten minutes. But we both know it’s a charade.
“Wasn’t sure if you were gonna make it. Or whatever. So, I went through the feeds,” he says, tossing a stack of printouts at me. “Pauline’s already on her merger story and I know about my companies, but there are a few others in there that look important. But you’d know better. Since it’s your wheelhouse.”
It would be my wheelhouse if he hadn’t beaten me to the office. And now I’m in a crappy mood because Jack just rubbed my face in it.
“Thanks. You really didn’t have to go through the feeds for me.”
“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for the paper because it needs to get done. You might want to go through everything yourself. In case I missed something.” He sneers, daring me to think I could possibly catch something he missed.
“Sure. Of course. I plan to go through everything. It's my job. That's why I’m here.”
Early. And I am early. The newsroom is empty, and no one else seems upset that I haven’t put little FYI notes in their in-boxes, letting them know what companies have been putting out on the feeds all morning. They’re not even here to know differently.
“I just thought… never mind.”
“What?”
“I just figured since you didn’t care enough to get here on time, you might not be in the mood to do your actual job.”
“Well, you figured wrong. Why are you such a dick?”
“Excuse me?”
Oops. Was that not in my inside voice?
He stands up and leans on the partition between our cubicles, looking down at me with an amused smirk. His dimples twitch and his eyes sparkle and it annoys me that I notice. I catch a whiff of the aftershave he wears, and I wish I could stop myself from inhaling a little deeper when I do.
“You think I’m a dick?” he asks.
I feel my face flush in what I’m pretty sure is an awkward shade of fuchsia and I immediately start to sweat. Why can’t I learn to hold my tongue? My temper is not one of my better qualities and I don’t need to give him more reasons to think less of me. He looks like he’s enjoying every moment of my misery.
“Actually, yes.”
Again, not editing very well.
But I can’t help it. It’s all I've wanted to say for months now, but I always hold my tongue because the last thing I need is to add the appearance of a temper to the long list of issues he seems to have with me. Until today. Apparently, today’s the day I’m working extra hard to get myself fired.
“Well, okay. Thank you for your honesty. I’ll try a little harder not to be so dick-like.”
“Okay, great. If you don't mind, I'd like to get to it.” I swivel my chair away from him and start to look through the pile of pages he handed me. But I can tell without turning around that he’s still looking my way.
“Can I just ask you something? I've never quite been able to get clarity here and maybe you can help me understand.”
I turn back toward him. “Sure, I guess.”
“If you’re able to get here twenty minutes late every day, why can’t you just leave twenty minutes earlier? Seems like you could fix the whole situation.”
I exhale my frustration with the conversation. “I don’t know, Jack. Maybe I’ll try that. Thanks for the suggestion.”
He shrugs and goes back to his phone, dialing up a CEO who loves to give him dirt on other companies and chatting him up like the bros they seem to be.
“Burt, how was the weekend? Yeah, I got my fair share. You never have to worry about me.”
He laughs and I can only imagine what the bros are discussing. Probably something sexist and demeaning. “Well, if you're hearing that, I gotta believe there's some truth to it…” More laughing. “When’s your next free lunch?” Even a cubicle away I can hear the smile in his voice. He has a way of charming people. “Okay, I’m gonna hold you to that. I want the full story.”