I'm up early today for a conference call. Nothing new, nothing I haven't heard before. I'm really tired of these boring stories buried deep inside the paper, or "online-only!" which is code for "This isn't even important enough to make it into our original product."
While trying to set up my recorder (who uses these anymore, anyways?) I spilled coffee all over it. Just my luck, the call is about to begin. Here's to hoping I can record this.
It recorded all of it, thank god.
I write my recap in record time, but with only five minutes of conversation what is there really to even report? I send it to my editor who promptly emails me back, "Charlotte, can you run the city desk for a few hours today?"
See, the beauty of a conference call is I don't have to leave my warm, cozy bed. But now I have to decide. Do I leave my bed cuddled up with my cat Anderson and commute to the other side of the city to sit at my tiny cubicle in the newsroom? Or do I tell her I'll take the helm from home today?
While trying to set up my recorder (who uses these anymore, anyways?) I spilled coffee all over it. Just my luck, the call is about to begin. Here's to hoping I can record this.
It recorded all of it, thank god.
I write my recap in record time, but with only five minutes of conversation what is there really to even report? I send it to my editor who promptly emails me back, "Charlotte, can you run the city desk for a few hours today?"
See, the beauty of a conference call is I don't have to leave my warm, cozy bed. But now I have to decide. Do I leave my bed cuddled up with my cat Anderson and commute to the other side of the city to sit at my tiny cubicle in the newsroom? Or do I tell her I'll take the helm from home today?
Anonymous
The phone rings twice and a deep voice answers. I recognize it, but I can't put my finger on ... oh! It's the man from earlier. The one I nearly knocked down with the flyers. \n\nHe doesn't tell me much. That is until I ask him about the strange email. He tells me her boyfriend owns a bar in the city. He told me he was a great guy with a clean record and big heart. \n\nBut it doesn't add up. It just doesn't. \n\nBut then, what he tells me next changes everything. \n\nThis is it. This is my chance to shine. \n\n
The subway station is three blocks from my apartment. \n\nI can do this. I'm already late and have missed three calls from my coworkers, so really, what do I have to lose? \n\nIt's nearing lunch time, so the streets are busy again with professionals dressed in fancy suits. Here I am full-on sprinting like a hot mess. \n\nI see it. My destination is in sight. I'm so close and BAM! \n\nI nearly plow into an older man passing out a flyer on the corner right near my subway entrance. \n\nFlyers scatter everywhere. \n\nRemember when I told you I'm not THAT lazy?\n\nI stop and help him pick them up. What's a few more minutes? \n\nI don't even look at the flyers. Is that bad? \nThe man, dishovled, hands me a flyer and says "please help?"\nI half smile at him and extend my arm, snatch the [[flyer|Flyer]] and go. \n\nRight before the esclator to take me down sat a trash can. I don't have time for this, so I crumble it up and throw it [[away|Subway]].
I switch trains and am in the home stretch. The newsroom is only a few blocks away from the terminal. \n\nOn my final train I'm people watching. Glancing at the guy with the tattoo on his lip, I can't help but wonder what his story is. Or the woman who looks exhausted and is trying to entertain her three kids during the ride. All of these people have a story that lead them to where they are now. I guess that's what I love about journalism. \n\nAs the train brakes hard, I rock backward and am snapped out of my daydream. I walk off the train clutching the flyer in hand. \n\nSuddenly, something came to me. \n\nI don't know what made me think of it at all. It just kinda came. \n\nI want to find this missing man. I am going to find him. \n\nThis is my story, my chance to shine. This is my chance to finally get what I want. What I've worked for all my life. \n\nI scurry to the office, ride the elevator and almost run to my desk. \n\nThis is going to take a helluva lot of work, but I want it. \n\nI grab a pen, some paper and the flyer. I'm going into this one with no support, no OK from any editor, nothing. I'm nervous, yet thrilled. I can do [[this|Interview]]\n\n
The flyer reads:\n\nHELP ME\n\nMY FRIEND'S GIRLFRIEND WENT MISSING. THE POLICE ARE TRYING TO BLAME HIM. HELP US FIND HER SO WE CAN PROVE THEM WRONG. \n(304)867-5309\n\nUmmmm, OK. Sorry sir, but I just don't have time for [[this|Sprinting]]. \n\n
I'm an expert at covering up laziness with professionalism in emails. I keep telling myself this is why I don't get any big breaks, but this is the last time. I promise. \n\nI email my boss apologizing for not being able to make it in to work today. I'll manage the assignments, angry emails complaining about mistakes and any tips or ideas that come our way. All from the comfort of my home office AKA my bed. \n\nMaybe I'll finally paint my white walls. Or maybe I'll spend my day at home organizing my shoe pile that's clogging up my "living room" area (which by the way, I haven't used in ages). But, my bed is calling my name. \n\nI promise I'm not lazy. See, I'm just frustarted. I work in an industry where if you don't know anyone, you're a nobody. I came here from a small town in West Virginia. Everyone back home thinks I'm "living the dream" in NYC under the bright lights. Truth is, I hate it here. I have a passion for journalism, and I really want my chance in the spotlight. But no matter how hard I work, no matter how fast I sprint and how many hours I dedicate, it's not happening. \n\nMy [[email|email]] notifcation "dings." And before I can even click on the icon, it does it again.
I switch trains and am in the home stretch. The newsroom is only a few blocks away from the terminal after I'm off the second train. \n\nOn my final train I'm people watching. Glancing at the guy with the tattoo on his lip, I can't help but wonder what his story is. Or the woman who looks exhausted and is trying to entertain her three kids during the ride. All of these people have a story that lead them to where they are now. I guess that's what I love about journalism. \n\nAs the train brakes hard, I rock backward and am snapped out of my daydream. I walk off the train in a hurry.\n\nI walk the block to the newsroom, and it's started to rain. I feel like rain fits the kind of day I'm having. \n\nI slide into work, trying to go unnoticed. \n\nI felt the eyes on me as everyone stared while I walked to my desk. I felt like the hungover sorority girl in college walking back home the morning after a night of partying and other things. I was that person who was late. \n\nI sit at my desk and ruffle through my brown paper bag and pull out my turkey sandwich. \n\nJust as I take my first bite, the email "ding" goes off on my computer. And so work [[begins|email]]. \n\n
I'm up early today for a conference call. Nothing new, nothing I haven't heard before. I'm really tired of these boring stories buried deep inside the paper, or "online-only!" which is code for "This isn't even important enough to make it into our original product." \n\nWhile trying to set up my recorder (who uses these anymore, anyways?) I spilled coffee all over it. Just my luck, the call is about to begin. Here's to hoping I can record this. \n\nIt recorded all of it, thank god. \n\nI write my recap in record time, but with only five minutes of conversation what is there really to even report? I send it to my editor who promptly emails me back, "Charlotte, can you run the city desk for a few hours today?"\n\nSee, the beauty of a conference call is I don't have to leave my warm, cozy bed. But now I have to decide. Do I leave my bed cuddled up with my cat Anderson and <<nobr>>[[commute|Commute]] to the other side of the city to sit at my tiny cubicle in the newsroom? Or do I tell her I'll take the helm from [[home|Bed]] <<endnobr>> today? \n\n\n
I'm tired of just doing the same small stories that nobody cares about. I want my chance to shine. Make it on the front page, become an editor. These are my dreams, and I'm trying to convince myself they'll only come true if I get myself out of bed. \n\nBut not before I watch one more episode of Law & Order It's Anderson's favorite show after all. \n\nIt's nearing 10 a.m. Just about everyone from my building has gone to work already. It's weird knowing I'm the only person on this floor. I turn up the volume on Netflix to drown out the noise of the Cooper's stupid dog who barks all the time.\n\nYou see, this, this is my happy place. I slowly melt into my down comfoter and doze off. \n\nI wake up in a daze, glance own at my phone and see I have three missed calls. Crap! I told my boss I'd be in at 11, and it's almost noon. \n\nI rush around my apartment to get ready. Somehow I managed to bruise my thigh on my oak vanity table, knocking over all of my makeup. I really don't have time to pick everything back up. \n\nI guess I'm going after the "homeless" look today. \nI scrounge together an outfit from my closet, well, I try to at least. Of course my washer and dryer are broken (much like the rest of this dump) and I don't have any clean clothes. I grab my bottle of Febreeze and the shirt and skirt I wore weeks ago, spray my clothes with it, put them on and head out the door. \n\nAaaaaaand I forgot my lunch. I can't afford to eat out in the city, so now do I run back up to the 12th floor to <<nobr>>[[get|Panic]] it? Or do I [[starve|Sprinting]] <<endnobr.>> today?\n\nI hate being an adult.
I have to take two trains to get to work. It takes 30 minutes. It's already noon. I call my coworkers and say I'll take the late shift today. Mainly to impress someone, anyone, but also because I feel bad that I'm so late. \n\nI'm waiting in the dark terminal for my train to arrive. There's not many people here, just a group playing music and few people standing around them. \n\nMy train should be here any second. Sure enough, the lights flash to signal it's on its way in. As soon as it stops and the doors swing open, I realize it's oddly empty. I've never seen a train so empty before. I sit down in an empty seat next to a stack of newspapers. Mixed in with the flyers is, of course, another flyer. It's the same one from before, I can't seem to [[escape|Ignore]]. \n\nBut, maybe I'll keep it. I could at least head into the office with a story [[idea|Office]]. That could make up for being absurdly late. \n\n
Those words are engrained in my head. \n\n"HELP ME."\n\nJust as I pick the phone up I get another email. Don't ask me what made me decide to look at it. And most certainly don't ask me what made me open it. The sender's name was "Penny Loafer."\n\nSurely this was spam, right? \n\nBut its [[message|Message]]. That got me. \n\nI pick up the phone and dial the number. Here goes something. I just don't know [[what|What]]
The email from "Penny Loafer" read:\n\nThey think I am dead, but I am indeed not. \nThey think my boyfriend killed me, but he did indeed not. \nHELP ME. \n\n\n------\n\n\nThere it was again, "HELP ME."\n\nIs someone playing a trick on me? What is this? Now, I'm [[intrigued|Interview]]. \n
Untitled Story
Good god, I'm out of shape. Twelve stairs just about killed me. \n\nI scan my tiny rectangular kitchen for my brown bag lunch.\n\nOh my god. Where is it? I KNOW I packed it. I hear the clock ticking like I'm on some sort of game show, counting down the seconds until I win the prize. Except my prize is a crappy lunch and a trip across Manhattan to go to work. Lucky gal. \n\nThere it is! Naturally, it's on my counter under a pile of notes (which lucky for me, I just remembered I needed to take to work today).\n\nNow I've got my lunch, my notes and I'm ready to go.\n\nBack down the stairs and all the way [[across|Sprinting]] the city. \n\nAwesome.
I open the first email. Spam.\n\nThe second. Something that was meant to be sent to the Charlotte working in the advertising department. \n\nThe third. This was odd. \n\nHELP ME. \n\nMY FIREND'S GIRLFRIEND WENT MISSING. THE POLICE ARE TRYING TO BLAME HIM. HELP US FIND HER SO WE CAN PROVE HIM WRONG. \n\n(304)867-5309.\n\nThis seems weird. Maybe I have a hard heart, but dude, I really think your friend is guilty here. \n\nBut this could be a story. Maybe I'm overreacting. I'll give him a [[call|Interview]]. After all, I feel like I can't have the day I've had and have absolutley nothing to show for my time "working."\n\nI don't expect this to be extrodinary, but who knows. I can't hide from this story or put it off any longer.
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