So while I’m sitting at my desk, twirling my ponytail around my pen, and pretending to read emails, I’m really wondering what it would be like to sit in the open offices across the hall, where all the writers are, pursuing something with passion.
I look at Candace, the ambitious assistant that I share with classifieds girl, and tell her I’ll be right back. I gather up my courage and head down the hall to my boss’s office. My courage isn’t for her, it’s for who I know I’ll have to talk to after.
Her glass door is open so I knock on it lightly. “Lucy?” I say, and open it to see her peering at me over the top of her computer through her large glasses.
“Hey Kayla,” she says. “What’s up? How was Margarita Monday?”
“Didn’t happen,” I say. “Just went to the usual bar for a bit.” I’ve become somewhat known for Margarita Mondays. I don’t even like the taste of tequila all that much, but I love fruity cocktails and Mexican food, so for the last few years, I’ve been going out every Monday to a Mexican restaurant. Sometimes Steph and Nicola go with me, sometimes people from work, sometimes a guy I’m screwing. But obviously since I made the decision to abstain from dick, I haven’t been out lately.
“Listen,” I continue. “I have a friend who has this apartment complex in SOMA and he’s renting the units out to people in need. You know, affordable housing. But he’s fronting the bill all himself because he can’t get any investors. I think he just needs a bit of extra help. I was wondering if maybe someone, one of the writers, would be able to write about it. Give it some publicity. It’s a worthy cause and I think it’s something the city really needs.”
Lucy shrugs. “I’d help if I could. Unless he wants to put in an ad. You’ll have to ask Joe. Maybe he can find someone.” She shoots me a quick smile. “That’s really nice of you to want to help the cause.”
I nod and roll my eyes at her before leaving her office and stalking off down the hall. Why is everyone so surprised when I try and do something nice? It’s not like I’m one hundred percent pure evil. Just like forty percent. That’s less than half.
Taking in a deep breath, I seek out Joe’s office, which is located at the end of the floor, between all the different departments. I’ve only been in there a few times, and Joe is pretty much the stereotype of your disgruntled, ornery editor. You would think I’d know how to work him a bit better because of that, but maybe we were too much alike.
His door is closed and I can hear him yelling at someone inside, so I wait a few minutes. I watch some of my colleagues in their cubicles. Some are furiously typing while wearing ginormous headphones, others are on their cellphones while talking and transcribing notes, others are just staring blankly at their screen. Then there is my friend Neil who is running a file over his nails, his expertly arched brows furrowed in concentration.
Every one of the writers—Neil excluded—looks invested, involved, and dedicated to what they are doing. It stings, just a bit, knowing I don’t have that in my own life.
Finally the door opens and Mia, a writer I know, scampers away with her eyes down, papers in her hand, her cheeks flush with either anger or humiliation.
Oh great. So he’s in a bad mood, too.
Before I can change my mind, I knock on his door and call out, “Sir?”
“What?” he barks, and I take that as a sign to come on in.
Joe sits at his desk, dress-shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows, showing off the ape-like quality of his hairy forearms. His hair is slicked back which only accentuates his crazy widow’s peak, and it looks like he has some kind of food stains on his collar. His office is a mess of loose papers, copies of the magazine, and discarded paper coffee cups.
“Oh, you,” he says, derisive. He barely looks at me. “You work with the ads. Why are you here?”
I step in, just a foot, in case I get sucked into his vortex of mess, and say, “Actually, I have a story idea and Lucy told me to run it past you.”
That makes him pause. “Story idea? You? Let me guess, you want to make your margarita Mondays into a column?”
How the hell did he know about that?
“No, wait,” he goes on. “Something about dating in the city and what a drag it is.”
I frown. I have no idea how he knows about my dating woes either. Maybe I’m more of an open book than I thought.
“No,” I say slowly, crossing my arms. “It’s actually for a charity of sorts.” I go on and explain about Bram’s project, hoping that by the end of it he’ll be somewhat impressed.