Misleading the Choir

My morning commute into downtown LA was arduous to say the least. It was two buses and an hour of my time, just to sit where I only occasionally wanted to be. I’d spent my first two months at my current job driving in and hating myself for it, before I realised it was much quicker to simply hop on a couple buses and let someone else get road rage at all the incompetent drivers about, while I stuck my nose in a book. That’s not to say it didn’t have its downsides. In my own car, I didn’t have to put up with incessant B.O.. In my own car, I didn’t have to avoid the lecherous, or the infectious. In my own car, I didn’t have to pay for the privilege of annoyance.
Am I coming across bitchy? I’m not, I swear. I’m downtrodden, bruised and broken as any 28-year-old with a steady paycheque could be. I had a roof over my head, a small pool of savings and I didn’t despise my own work. I was utterly first-world dissatisfied. I had no family to speak of, but I had my friends and we got along great. Something, however, remained elusive, detaching me from what should have been a happy existence and making me bitter.
I stepped off the bus into the sweltering July heat and rushed to the closest Starbucks, air-conditioned heaven greeting me when I opened the door. Every day I stood in this line, every day I pondered the meaning of throwing my money at what was essentially an over-priced drug designed to keep me complicit, and every day I still walked out with a Venti something-frappu-crappu-ccino. I suppose being self-aware didn’t allow me the privilege of detaching myself from my own hypocrisy. I didn’t mind, it gave me something to be bitter about.
A loud, frustrated, more than just annoyed groan forced itself from my lips as I felt some sort of liquid (one can assume coffee) dripping down my front. The man who the coffee belonged to stood back from me, somewhat dumbfounded. He stood only an inch or so taller than me, his eyes covered in a large pair of aviator glasses, his messy hair similarly covered in a grey beanie.
“Shit,” he hissed. “Shit, I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” He waved a Blackberry in front of my face, implying that he had been otherwise occupied on the device, doing nothing for my mood. I glanced down at my shirt, brushing off the liquid that remained beading on the surface. The day was never off to a good start when some asshole stranger walked into you with his coffee. I was grateful, however, that whatever the fuck he had in his cup wasn’t scolding and that I had at least worn a black blouse for work today. The mint green shirt that had been all but on my body this morning, was still safely in my wardrobe and I wasn’t going to show up at work looking like the girl who had lost a fight with a coffee machine. Silver linings.
“It’s fine,” I responded, waving him off. I didn’t need apologies. I needed coffee and to get my ass to work before the morning could get worse. “World of my own too.” The space between his eyebrows (that I could see above his sunglasses) creased, something resembling a frown crossing his face at my words.
“You sure?” He asked, somewhat hesitantly. I nodded, forcing some sort of smile-cum-grimace onto my face. “Can I at least get your drink? An apology.”
“No need. You’ve apologised, that’s as much an apology as I need.” He hesitated, glancing at his own cup and realising he hadn’t in fact spilled as much of it over me as he thought, before offering another ‘you sure?’ to me, almost asking me to accept the offer. “I’m good. I swear.” I moved up a step in the queue, less than half a meter closer to my goal than I had been before this interruption.
“Well, uh, okay.” His now spare hand (his Blackberry firmly tucked into his pocket now) rubbed the back of his neck, somewhat confused by the encounter. “Again, I’m sorry. Thanks for not being an asshole about it.” I smiled once more, all but telling him to leave. He did, quite quickly, and that was all I needed to relax. My own Blackberry made its way from my bag to my hand as I checked the day’s emails so far, as was my custom when the line was as long as it was today. I wasn’t concerned, and wouldn’t be for a while, by the backlog of emails I had to respond to. I was adept at sending non-committal responses to colleagues in a timely manner and each and every one would be dealt with before the end of the working day.
The remainder of my journey to work was happily uneventful and I made it to my desk, still sipping slowly on my drink, which was quickly boosting my ability to deal with others. My desk buddy (more frequently referred to as Ashley) was already at her desk, typing away at a furious speed, by the time I sat myself down and turned on my machine.
“Hey, sweetie,” she smiled, looking up from her monitor briefly as she greeted me. I suppose, in some weird way, the fates had made Ashley and I ‘work besties’, to put it in a remarkably juvenile way. She wasn’t the sort of person I would have chosen as a friend outside of the office, being much to bubbly and bright to suit the vast majority of my moods, but at work it just, well, worked. She stopped me from being a consistent sour puss, and I stopped her from being annoyingly chirpy. Some might say she had the better effect on me, but I could say without a doubt, that she had been a source of irritation for many a hungover office worker before in her life. I had proof, testimonials from those who had worked with her before me. So, yes, I was a good influence. Kind of.
“Morning,” I smiled back, thankful I’d ingested enough sugar to be more than civil to her. She took it to heart when I snapped. “How was the big date?”
“Boring,” she shrugged. She had been gushing about her date with the guy she had been flirting with for months at the coffee cart outside since he had finally asked her out. I’d expected more than a single word in response. I expected more gushing. “I thought he was mysterious and aloof, turns out the only mystery in his life is where his brain scarpered to.” I snorted softly at her words, knowing she would never have described a date so two years ago. Okay, so maybe my influence wasn’t all good. “You seen the meeting scheduled?” I shook my head as my machine finally loaded my emails fully. For some reason my calendar invites weren’t coming through on my phone, a source of irritation that I didn’t need.
“Any idea what it’s for?” I asked, skimming through the attached email and confirming it to load it into my calendar. “It’s not like Alan to pull us in so impromptu.”
“Showbiz drama, apparently,” she responded, returning her own attention to her screen. “Some musician has confirmed his divorce or something. He’s annoyed he didn’t get that scoop, but that’s all I know.” I rolled my eyes, taking another drink. Alan, our boss, had a tendency to chase drama and gossip mongers with more tenacity than a bored housewife. Gossip columns were the magazine’s bread and butter, so I dabbled, but I was more prone to exclusives that meant something. My additions were rejected more often than not, but my occasional scoop on this celebrity scandal or that kept me in work. I didn’t like it, but that was what paid the bills. The sight of my name in print next to something worthwhile occasionally made it worth it.
Until the morning’s unexpected meeting, I continued to look into my emails and check in with a few of my sources to see if I had anything for the week’s column or not. I, of course, had a piece focused on the development of the poverty line and where that fell within our culture, discussing the way perspectives became skewed the closer you got to it and the further away. However, that would be unlikely to make print, considering it targeted our middle class, white audience who didn’t like to be challenged about their own world view. So, I needed a scoop. Badly. Some sort of exclusive I could take to Alan and make myself look shiny in his eyes. I was coming up short.
Sighing, I removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes. I was getting bogged down. I’d written fluff pieces to sit alongside paparazzi pictures of celebrity couples on dates, but that put me nowhere near safe from Alan’s wrath. I needed something big and soon.
“Coffee, Ash?” I asked, grabbing my mug from my drawer. “Meeting in five, so I need one right about now.” It was true. My blood was all but black from the coffee I drank, and my body was more caffeine than anything else at this point, but I still continued to consume in order to deal with everyone else’s nonsense.
“Please. Alan came in when you were oblivious and he doesn’t look happy.” She smiled weakly, offering me her cup, both of which were a bad sign. I pushed back a groan, grabbing her cup and making my way to the small kitchen area that housed the coffee machine. I took a breath as I waited for the machine to heat (having, of course, found it completely empty and uncleaned. Which summed up our office), closing my eyes and allowing myself to relax. Whatever this meeting ended up being about, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world and I’m sure I would scrape through until something came up. Something always came up. I’d been here two years, and something always found its way into my inbox. I’d send some feelers out after the meeting and see what I got.
By the time I got back with our coffee, I could see Ash in the conference room, two notebooks and pens in front of her, and made my way in immediately. It wasn’t wise to keep the boss waiting when he was in this mood. I passed her the mug, taking my notebook and pen from her also.
“You all fucked up,” Alan snapped as he shut the door behind him, storming into the room. We all remained silent, waiting for the tirade to start. “You all have your fucking fingers in the wrong fucking pots. How did you not get this?” He threw the latest copy of our competitor’s magazine onto the table in front of us, telling me that this was indeed to do with some celebrity divorce. “Chad, I thought you had someone in the Oakland courts?” Chad’s eyes widened as we all looked at him. We’d been waiting for some confirmation or scoop of some sort about Billie Joe Armstrong and his divorce since the rumours started that he and Adrienne had separated. Rumours. We had no evidence. We still had pictures of the two of them out to lunch, going into the house together, all that bullshit. We thought it was going to come to nothing. All of us did.
“I do,” he spluttered. “I checked in with him this morning. I got nothing. They must have filed somewhere else.” I frowned lightly. I couldn’t imagine having to go to all that trouble just to keep my life my own. Filing in a court that wasn’t on my doorstep so I could deal with my break up alone seemed preposterous. I’d hate it.
“Well, you need a new fucking source. This is bullshit.” He started to pace in his anger and we all waited to see who he would attack next. He was going to play the blame game until he found someone who couldn’t worm out of it. “Have we had any confirmation of why? This fucking rag doesn’t say shit.”
“I’ve called in all my favours,” Ashley piped up. “No one has heard anything or is willing to say anything.” Alan’s frown deepened and he stopped pacing, placing his hands, palm down onto the table and leaning onto it. I could all but hear the gears turning in his head.
“Anyone else have bad news for me?” The room remained silent as he looked us all over. I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, knowing all my music related sources had been disturbingly quiet on the matter since the rumours first started to circulate. He had been spotted going into another house for the night not even a month ago, but he’d popped back up at his family home not even two days later. “Gabby.” I froze, moving my eyes up from my notebook at the sound of my name. I could feel everyone else’s eyes burning into me as I looked at Alan, not daring to say anything. “Have you still got that friend at tonight’s awards show?”
The nervous teenager I’d buried inside me wanted to stutter and ruin the reputation I had built for myself over the last couple of years, but I pushed her back down. Instead, he got a simple, “Yes.”
“Good. Rumour has it the entire band is going to be there tonight. You need to get in.”
“And what am I supposed to do once I am in?” I was bordering on snapping, unsure what exactly he wanted from me. I hated it when he schemed and didn’t bother to tell us what his plan was. I felt Ashley tensing next to me at my tone, but ignored her. Everyone in here knew I wasn’t the one to be walked all over.
“Have you looked at yourself lately? Your dark hair, your dark make-up, your dark fucking personality. You’re perfect for this.” I scowled, no closer to uncovering his intentions, but I didn’t appreciate his discussion. I had a typical ‘alternative’ look, which threw most people off and allowed me my peace and quiet. My hair was dark brown naturally, with a pale complexion, and my teenage angst still seeped into my clothing every once in a while. Whether it be in a pair of ripped jeans, combat boots or something else entirely. It made its appearance. Honestly, I was looking pretty normal today: black shirt, grey skinny jeans and a pair of ballet pumps. I was normal looking. “Don’t give me your annoying ass face. You know I’m right.”
“I still don’t know what you’re getting at.” He sighed, frustrated, and I could feel the tension in the air. Everyone was still staring at me (I’m assuming, also not getting it), but I was too busy waiting for clarification to check on their reactions.
“You really need me to break this down that fucking far? You’re going to go to the awards show, you’re going to find Billie Joe Armstrong, flirt like it’s going out of style and get me that god damn exclusive. I don’t care how you get it, just fucking get it.” I stared at him for a moment, processing his words. So, now my morals were being dragged through the mud? I was expected to give up my fucking integrity for this shit? No.
“Nope. No, no, no, no, no. Not happening. Sorry.” I wasn’t sorry. Not remotely. I wasn’t going to prey on some god damn divorcee just to find out his dirty little secrets. It wasn’t my style and it never would be. The man went to great lengths to keep this to himself, I wasn’t going to go out and trick him just because Alan was in a fucking huff.
Alan turned his glare to me and only me. While before he had been alternating between me and the others, now it was just me. The silence was killing me, lingering for almost a minute. I wanted to say something, but I was busy standing my ground and I wasn’t going to back down.
“Let me get one thing straight,” he said, finally. I almost let out a sigh of relief as the silence was broken, but I knew that relief was going to be the last thing I felt after he was done speaking. The malice in his voice was nothing new, but that only meant I knew it wasn’t going to be a happy ending for me right now. “You’re replaceable. You don’t bring in shit week after week after week like some of the other guys. You’re skating on by. You’re going to do this. You’re going to get me my god damn exclusive, or you’re out on your fucking ass. Alright?”