“Not so far, no.”
“Can you be ready with something today?” he asks.
“Possibly. Depends on whether I can get someone at the company to talk to me today,” I say, trying not to let Stuart know how unlikely that seems, based on how they've blown me off so far.
He smiles. “Great. Let’s try to get something on the afternoon schedule.”
I return his smile, before looking down at my notepad and writing down the words, Zumalife, afternoon sked, like I need to remind myself of it for later. Inside, I’m cringing because there’s no way I’m going to have this story unless I can get someone at the company to talk to me. And they’re stonewalling.
Stuart turns his attention to Pauline’s merger story, and she assures him she’ll have front page news to report all week long. His smile goes wide, several inches worth of happy that my half-baked attempt on Zumalife could never elicit.
Tyler reports in on a couple things breaking on his beat. More smiles from Stuart. Jeremy is involved in something about processed snack foods that will take months to report and will likely take him to South America in the process.
Then there's Jack. Stuart saves him for last because he’s the closer, always guaranteed to have something fabulous Stuart can carry off to his bosses like a ceremonial offering.
“Burt’s got a merger cooking. I can tell. I talked to his golfing buddies and he’s been a no-show two weeks in a row. That only happens when he’s working a deal. I expect him to announce something by the end of the week.”
“Which means we’ll have it…?” Stuart asks, hoping the answer will be today.
“I’m meeting him later. My guess is I’ll have it wrapped up after that. No one else’s getting this.”
“I want you to ping me after the meeting. If we can put something out tonight in the digital edition, even better.”
“Yup, I can make that happen.” Jack leans back in his chair and casts a look around the room, sizing up the rest of us, daring us to be as good at our jobs as he is. I look away, not wanting to see the judgment in his eyes.
I want to be better, just so I can wipe the satisfied look off his face.
When did doing my job well become about him?
Well, whatever it takes. Maybe a good, healthy dose of competitiveness is a positive thing.
Either that, or it will do me in.
5
Linden
I should have stayed in bed. I should have feigned illness or made up a family emergency or just quit my job. Any of those things would have been better options than the way the rest of my day unfolds.
First, Jack brings some awful-smelling vegan crap from the food truck downstairs and eats it at his desk for lunch. The smell of broccoli wafting over the cubicle wall actually ruins the taste of my vending machine-bought granola bar, because my brain somehow combines the smell and the taste into one garbage concoction in my mouth. No, I can’t leave the office and buy something better for lunch. I’m lucky to have five minutes to hit the machine in the hallway.
The rest of my day is a complete clusterfuck. Despite leaving four messages, I can’t get ahold of the publicist at Zumalife. I realize I don’t have any actual sources in the surf wear industry who can give me some inside knowledge of what Zumalife is up to, and it’s too late to curry favor with people I don’t already know well. After leaving yet another voicemail for Zumalife’s publicist, I actually feel tempted to drive to the company’s headquarters, an hour away in Irvine.
Then I worry that I’ll lose valuable time if their doors are locked or the people I need to speak with are locked up in a corporate meeting. I can’t risk the two hours on the road for a maybe.
Instead, I take the circuitous route and call analysts to see if they’ve heard any rumblings of company news. Nothing.
Starting to feel desperate and casting about for ideas, I call several Zumalife retail stores and ask the salespeople some questions, not letting on that I’m a reporter out of fear that they might hang up. I corner one, a nice-sounding guy named Ian, when he has a few free moments between customers. “I’m really looking forward to seeing the new line. When’s it expected?” I ask.
“Don’t know. Probably next season,” Ian says.
“So, do you have a lot of excess stock in the store from this season? Is it all still being manufactured downtown?”
“We have a normal amount of stock. And, I dunno about the other part. I’m not sure where they make the clothes.” I start to second guess my strategy when I realize Ian doesn’t know anything about the company, other than how to ring in sales on an iPad.
I spend a good part of my day circling the drain, knowing Stuart will be making his way to my desk to find out where I’ve landed with my reporting. He’ll expect a well-reported story. I’ve got squat.
By five in the afternoon, I’m coming to the realization that I’m not going to be able to deliver anything resembling a newsworthy story. I convince myself it’s not the worst thing to have to tell Stuart. In the meantime, I start looking through feeds again, knowing most big announcements get made in the morning, so I’m not expecting to find anything revelatory. Still, it’s part of my job to stay on top of whatever’s breaking.
That’s when I see the headline from the New York Times, an exclusive story about Zumalife’s chief executive buying back all the company’s shares and taking it off the stock exchange. He’s going private.
It’s a big story. It should be my story.
And I don’t have it.
It’s only a matter of minutes before I hear Stuart’s door slam. I don’t have to look up to know he’s striding to my cubicle to find out why the Times has the story and we don’t. I haven’t got a good answer for him.
“How did we miss this?” Stuart asks, his voice ten decibels louder than it needs to be for the entire news bureau to hear him.
“I’ve been trying to get them on the phone for weeks. I—"
“Trying? And then what. Giving up?”
“No, I—"
“This is not good. The Times shouldn’t have this before us. Why are they giving an exclusive to the Times?”
“I’m going to get to the bottom of it. I’ll make sure they give us their next exclusive—"
Stuart isn’t interested in my attempt to turn this around or in any of my excuses, and I’m running out of them. He holds a hand up. “You need to do better. This is a relatively small company that no one particularly cares about. Until another paper beats us, of course. Then, we care.”
I nod. It’s pointless to try to defend myself anymore. I know he’s right. And he’s actually being nice, admitting that the company isn’t crucial to the order of the universe. But that doesn’t take away from my colossal screw-up.
“Get them on the phone. Find a follow-up angle. Something the Times doesn’t have. We can still do something good here. We’ll run a perfunctory piece tonight, parroting what the Times has, and tomorrow we do better.”
“Yes, will do. I’ll stay late and set it up. I promise.”
Stuart nods, catching something on one of the TV monitors and already moving on to the next item on his agenda.