Ache With Me
Workin' 9 to 5
My slippered feet made barely any noise on the industrial carpet as I walked down the hall. I could hear the dull roar of the Culture department from the elevator. I took my last breath of quiet air before I flung open the door.
The Seattle Times’ Culture department was well known for its noise and frank reporting. Zina Jacobs, the editor of the section, ruled with an iron fist and a bedazzled glove. She kept us focused, but also gave us the creative reign to report on and photograph the cultural aspects of our beautiful city as we chose. I called out my hello’s as I made my way to my desk, tossing my jacket and purse in the cubby underneath it.
As soon as I booted up my computer, I saw that I had an email from Zina that only said, “Come see me.” I checked the rest of my messages to make sure there was nothing urgent, then rolled my chair back and made my way to Zina’s office. After I knocked on the frosted glass door, I heard her high musical voice call out, “Come in!” I sat down on one of her mismatched chairs and surveyed my boss. She had fire engine red hair that was currently being held back with a large white flower. She was only about 35 and probably weighed 110 pounds soaking weight. She looked a bit like a redhaired fairy. I would be lying if I said half the office, male and female, didn’t have a bit of a crush on her, myself included.
“What’s up boss lady?” I asked, crossing my legs.
“I’ve got an assignment for you.” She slid an old newspaper clipping across the dark wood desk to me. “Name ring a bell?”
“Max Brooks? Yeah, isn’t he like a big up and coming artist?” I scanned the article quickly. This was about his very first gallery show, when he was only seventeen years old. “What about him?”
“He’s got another gallery opening soon and I want you to go interview him about it, get the scoop on him. Think you can do it?”
I gave her a look. “Have you ever known me to not live up to your expectations, O Highest One?”
“Never, my minion. Now get a move on, the interview is in two hours.” She shooed me out of the office and I started clacking away at my computer, getting ready for the interview.
Zina had given me the address for a small coffee shop that was close to the Times’ building. The storm from over the weekend had finally blown over and it was brisk, but not freezing as I walked down the block. The belt hanging around my hips jangled jauntily as I walked, in a way that was both fun and irritating.
The lovely smell of coffee flooded my senses as I pulled open the door to the shop, surveying it for the blond artist I was supposed to be meeting. I spotted him over in the corner, nursing a tall cup and flipping idly through a magazine.
“Max Brooks?” I asked as I approached the table. He looked me over slowly, eyes trailing from the skulls on my flats to the sunglasses perched on top of my head.
“That’s me sweetheart, and you are?” He said. I could hear the English accent in his voice and remembered the article mentioning he was from London.
“Lily Ashworth, I’m from the Seattle Times.” I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. His full lips curled into a smirk as I settled in, taking out a voice recorder and my camera. “Smile!” I said as I held up the camera. His face stayed the same, a look of cool arrogance plastered across it. If he didn’t look so full of himself, he’d be incredibly hot, with all that messy blond hair and striking blue eyes.
“So shall we begin? I’m a busy man.” He took a sip of his coffee and I took a deep breath. I was a professional and I’d dealt with some unpleasant people before, I should be able to handle this.
“How do you feel now that your art is getting more attention?"
"Unsurprised, really.” He smirked at me. “Of course it's getting noticed; after all, I am the best.” It took every ounce of my self-control not to roll my eyes. I’d seen his art, and while it was good, I was expecting at least a little token modesty.
“Do you-” I trailed off when I realized his attention was focused somewhere else. “Max?”
“Yes love?” His eyes snapped back to mine, before they dipped down to the black fabric stretched over my chest. I flushed and shifted uncomfortably, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I was asking if you enjoyed being in the public eye.”
“Yeah.” His attention again wandered elsewhere and I stifled a sigh. He was visibly disinterested in this interview; in fact, I would bet my next paycheck that he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the paper or what it said about him. Every answer he gave me was either half-assed or self-congratulatory. As the interview went on, I got progressively more frustrated. I finally couldn’t take it anymore and blew up.
“Look, I get that you think you’re the fucking greatest and that the sun shines out of your ass, but could you give me ten minutes of your precious time and let me do my job so I can be on my merry way and never have to see your conceited face again?” I made no attempt to keep my voice down. He looked caught off guard at my outburst; I was probably the only person who’d ever called him on his shit. For the briefest moment, I thought he was going to listen to me and shape up. Then that infuriating smirk broke lazily over his face, washing away the sincere look. It was the last straw for me. I started throwing things haphazardly into my bag and with a final death glare, sailed the fuck out of the coffee shop. I was so spitting mad I didn’t even go back to the office, just texted Zina that I was going home to get straight to work on the article in the privacy of my loft.
The walk home burned off a lot of my rage, as it was a lot farther than I had expected. I wanted a glass of wine and a hot shower to settle my frazzled nerves, in that order. Once I’d bundled myself into comfy clothes and poured myself a mug full of wine, I settled in to write. I crossed one booted foot over the other, the pom-poms dangling from them smacking my legs. They were possibly the ugliest pair of boots ever, but they were fur lined and comfy, so I wore them inside the loft. And occasionally to do laundry.
By the time midnight rolled around, I was exhausted, but the article was done. I’d somehow managed to paint Max in a positive light, even though I wanted nothing more than to wring his skinny little neck. I sent it to Zina attached to an e-mail that said, “You owe me.” Then I fell into bed, passing out almost immediately from a combination of sleepiness and stress.
The Seattle Times’ Culture department was well known for its noise and frank reporting. Zina Jacobs, the editor of the section, ruled with an iron fist and a bedazzled glove. She kept us focused, but also gave us the creative reign to report on and photograph the cultural aspects of our beautiful city as we chose. I called out my hello’s as I made my way to my desk, tossing my jacket and purse in the cubby underneath it.
As soon as I booted up my computer, I saw that I had an email from Zina that only said, “Come see me.” I checked the rest of my messages to make sure there was nothing urgent, then rolled my chair back and made my way to Zina’s office. After I knocked on the frosted glass door, I heard her high musical voice call out, “Come in!” I sat down on one of her mismatched chairs and surveyed my boss. She had fire engine red hair that was currently being held back with a large white flower. She was only about 35 and probably weighed 110 pounds soaking weight. She looked a bit like a redhaired fairy. I would be lying if I said half the office, male and female, didn’t have a bit of a crush on her, myself included.
“What’s up boss lady?” I asked, crossing my legs.
“I’ve got an assignment for you.” She slid an old newspaper clipping across the dark wood desk to me. “Name ring a bell?”
“Max Brooks? Yeah, isn’t he like a big up and coming artist?” I scanned the article quickly. This was about his very first gallery show, when he was only seventeen years old. “What about him?”
“He’s got another gallery opening soon and I want you to go interview him about it, get the scoop on him. Think you can do it?”
I gave her a look. “Have you ever known me to not live up to your expectations, O Highest One?”
“Never, my minion. Now get a move on, the interview is in two hours.” She shooed me out of the office and I started clacking away at my computer, getting ready for the interview.
Zina had given me the address for a small coffee shop that was close to the Times’ building. The storm from over the weekend had finally blown over and it was brisk, but not freezing as I walked down the block. The belt hanging around my hips jangled jauntily as I walked, in a way that was both fun and irritating.
The lovely smell of coffee flooded my senses as I pulled open the door to the shop, surveying it for the blond artist I was supposed to be meeting. I spotted him over in the corner, nursing a tall cup and flipping idly through a magazine.
“Max Brooks?” I asked as I approached the table. He looked me over slowly, eyes trailing from the skulls on my flats to the sunglasses perched on top of my head.
“That’s me sweetheart, and you are?” He said. I could hear the English accent in his voice and remembered the article mentioning he was from London.
“Lily Ashworth, I’m from the Seattle Times.” I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. His full lips curled into a smirk as I settled in, taking out a voice recorder and my camera. “Smile!” I said as I held up the camera. His face stayed the same, a look of cool arrogance plastered across it. If he didn’t look so full of himself, he’d be incredibly hot, with all that messy blond hair and striking blue eyes.
“So shall we begin? I’m a busy man.” He took a sip of his coffee and I took a deep breath. I was a professional and I’d dealt with some unpleasant people before, I should be able to handle this.
“How do you feel now that your art is getting more attention?"
"Unsurprised, really.” He smirked at me. “Of course it's getting noticed; after all, I am the best.” It took every ounce of my self-control not to roll my eyes. I’d seen his art, and while it was good, I was expecting at least a little token modesty.
“Do you-” I trailed off when I realized his attention was focused somewhere else. “Max?”
“Yes love?” His eyes snapped back to mine, before they dipped down to the black fabric stretched over my chest. I flushed and shifted uncomfortably, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I was asking if you enjoyed being in the public eye.”
“Yeah.” His attention again wandered elsewhere and I stifled a sigh. He was visibly disinterested in this interview; in fact, I would bet my next paycheck that he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the paper or what it said about him. Every answer he gave me was either half-assed or self-congratulatory. As the interview went on, I got progressively more frustrated. I finally couldn’t take it anymore and blew up.
“Look, I get that you think you’re the fucking greatest and that the sun shines out of your ass, but could you give me ten minutes of your precious time and let me do my job so I can be on my merry way and never have to see your conceited face again?” I made no attempt to keep my voice down. He looked caught off guard at my outburst; I was probably the only person who’d ever called him on his shit. For the briefest moment, I thought he was going to listen to me and shape up. Then that infuriating smirk broke lazily over his face, washing away the sincere look. It was the last straw for me. I started throwing things haphazardly into my bag and with a final death glare, sailed the fuck out of the coffee shop. I was so spitting mad I didn’t even go back to the office, just texted Zina that I was going home to get straight to work on the article in the privacy of my loft.
The walk home burned off a lot of my rage, as it was a lot farther than I had expected. I wanted a glass of wine and a hot shower to settle my frazzled nerves, in that order. Once I’d bundled myself into comfy clothes and poured myself a mug full of wine, I settled in to write. I crossed one booted foot over the other, the pom-poms dangling from them smacking my legs. They were possibly the ugliest pair of boots ever, but they were fur lined and comfy, so I wore them inside the loft. And occasionally to do laundry.
By the time midnight rolled around, I was exhausted, but the article was done. I’d somehow managed to paint Max in a positive light, even though I wanted nothing more than to wring his skinny little neck. I sent it to Zina attached to an e-mail that said, “You owe me.” Then I fell into bed, passing out almost immediately from a combination of sleepiness and stress.