I know he's going to bring last night up. I just want to call out sick and sleep all day.”
“Then do it.” She eats the rest of her toast and throws her plate in the sink. Then, mouth full of crumbs, she mumbles, “I swear. I don't get your dilemmas, girl. Just follow your gut and take control of your life.”
Of course, it's not that simple. I have a house I have to pay rent on and an alcoholic sister who, despite her knowing every good decision for everyone else, has yet to make one good decision for herself. I'm constantly taking care of her and never myself. “I need the money. Plus, I’ve already used up all my sick days. It's out of my hands. I’ll just have to bite the bullet and face him.”
“Good luck,” she sings the words to me as I down my coffee. Lucky for her, she doesn't have a job that pays very well right now. Her job is to “stay healthy,” a task that's proving harder and harder to tackle. She owns the bar, but that’s more like a debt if anything.
When I finally do walk into work, I'm disheveled and frantic. I’m ten minutes late and Elijah is standing by the manager and staff, laughing wildly. He puts his hand on the manager’s shoulder when he sees me and they all stop in their tracks.
“Welcome, welcome. You're late,” Elijah says through a slight smirk. It's okay though. I've prepared for this encounter.
“Here’s my write up.” I drop a hard drive on the desk and sit down. “Alright, what do you got for me?” The perfect way to combat people like Elijah was to ignore the problem completely and remain professional.
“That was quick,” the writing manager says, glancing at Elijah. “Great job, Lena. Everyone take note. Lena Skye is slowly taking over your positions.”
I cough slightly, mostly because I feel awkward that he called me out like that. Even if it’s praise, it creates a tension in the office I’d rather not have to deal with right now. My story is on the speech given last night and the sacrifice our soldiers made. It’s a total feel-good story, ripe with trite cliché’s and overused rhetoric. I’m not a huge fan of it and since I wasn’t even there for the speech, I had to call around for quotes, but it’ll have to do.
“Fill me in, from the top. What stories do we have today?” I ask, looking around the room.
Peter Lerwalden, our Bureau chief, points at the board. “Lots to write about, people.” Let’s see what we got. There’s a sex scandal at a public high school, a shooting in downtown on Myrtle Avenue, and, of course, the biggest story of the century that took place in Kabul, Afghanistan.
“Alright. I think we should really look at the public reaction to these types of stories. People are outraged at the status quo. That much is clear. The question is what do they want to happen?” he asks us.
“That’s easy,” I say. “They want answers. They want to know someone is going to save them from all this misery. They look to government officials, religious leaders, and innovators. They want to feel like all of this will eventually change for the better.”
“Good. Yes, of course. They want to see the light. However, I don’t think we’re being useful to the American people by instilling a false sense of hope. No, today I want to create something different for this paper. I want to make an impact,” he says, holding his pen to his lip, in thought.
The thought of this paper actually taking a stand for once fuels me to no end. I feel a sudden rush take me over and I suddenly yell “Yes!” Of course, everyone turns to look at me and I let my body sink back into my chair.
He’s smiling as if he just got a bright idea in his head. “Yes, indeed. Look, we’re a small paper. But we have an inspired staff and that means all the difference in this day and age. I want real investigative reporting, real fact checking, and I want you all to dig as deep as you can go. Hell, go to the ends of the earth if you have to. Find that big
“Then do it.” She eats the rest of her toast and throws her plate in the sink. Then, mouth full of crumbs, she mumbles, “I swear. I don't get your dilemmas, girl. Just follow your gut and take control of your life.”
Of course, it's not that simple. I have a house I have to pay rent on and an alcoholic sister who, despite her knowing every good decision for everyone else, has yet to make one good decision for herself. I'm constantly taking care of her and never myself. “I need the money. Plus, I’ve already used up all my sick days. It's out of my hands. I’ll just have to bite the bullet and face him.”
“Good luck,” she sings the words to me as I down my coffee. Lucky for her, she doesn't have a job that pays very well right now. Her job is to “stay healthy,” a task that's proving harder and harder to tackle. She owns the bar, but that’s more like a debt if anything.
When I finally do walk into work, I'm disheveled and frantic. I’m ten minutes late and Elijah is standing by the manager and staff, laughing wildly. He puts his hand on the manager’s shoulder when he sees me and they all stop in their tracks.
“Welcome, welcome. You're late,” Elijah says through a slight smirk. It's okay though. I've prepared for this encounter.
“Here’s my write up.” I drop a hard drive on the desk and sit down. “Alright, what do you got for me?” The perfect way to combat people like Elijah was to ignore the problem completely and remain professional.
“That was quick,” the writing manager says, glancing at Elijah. “Great job, Lena. Everyone take note. Lena Skye is slowly taking over your positions.”
I cough slightly, mostly because I feel awkward that he called me out like that. Even if it’s praise, it creates a tension in the office I’d rather not have to deal with right now. My story is on the speech given last night and the sacrifice our soldiers made. It’s a total feel-good story, ripe with trite cliché’s and overused rhetoric. I’m not a huge fan of it and since I wasn’t even there for the speech, I had to call around for quotes, but it’ll have to do.
“Fill me in, from the top. What stories do we have today?” I ask, looking around the room.
Peter Lerwalden, our Bureau chief, points at the board. “Lots to write about, people.” Let’s see what we got. There’s a sex scandal at a public high school, a shooting in downtown on Myrtle Avenue, and, of course, the biggest story of the century that took place in Kabul, Afghanistan.
“Alright. I think we should really look at the public reaction to these types of stories. People are outraged at the status quo. That much is clear. The question is what do they want to happen?” he asks us.
“That’s easy,” I say. “They want answers. They want to know someone is going to save them from all this misery. They look to government officials, religious leaders, and innovators. They want to feel like all of this will eventually change for the better.”
“Good. Yes, of course. They want to see the light. However, I don’t think we’re being useful to the American people by instilling a false sense of hope. No, today I want to create something different for this paper. I want to make an impact,” he says, holding his pen to his lip, in thought.
The thought of this paper actually taking a stand for once fuels me to no end. I feel a sudden rush take me over and I suddenly yell “Yes!” Of course, everyone turns to look at me and I let my body sink back into my chair.
He’s smiling as if he just got a bright idea in his head. “Yes, indeed. Look, we’re a small paper. But we have an inspired staff and that means all the difference in this day and age. I want real investigative reporting, real fact checking, and I want you all to dig as deep as you can go. Hell, go to the ends of the earth if you have to. Find that big
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