Page 2 of Pictures in Blue
“Yeah, it’s his name around the water cooler,” I joke.
It really is though. Marly and Jason started calling him that the first week we all started at the Malibu Gazette five years ago. They did a huge overhaul of the staff when James took over, so we all came in at the same time and commiserated together over the mutual dislike of our boss.
“Fitting,” she says.
“We thought so,” I put my arm around her shoulders and give her a slight squeeze. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Always. You know me. I’m never down for long,” she responds and lifts up the pastry with half the blueberries missing. “I have a pastry and will feel better with fresh coffee and a new assignment to focus on. Thanks, Avery.” She stands and leaves me behind.
I look around the now silent conference room and remember the first time James reprimanded me for what he deemed to be “shitty writing”. It was literally his favorite phrase to describe any writing that wasn’t his own.
Who knows when the last time was that he put pen to paper. Or, I guess, fingers to keys. The point is, he doesn’t write. Ever. But he will never hesitate to take the credit. He’s the editor, so he thinks he owns everything we write because he’s our boss. And since his father owns the company, we’ve gotten used to being steamrolled. Especially if we want to keep our jobs.
He once yelled at me because I wrote a news article about a puppy who got stuck in a manhole when there was a horse running loose who ended up totaling a car. He thought the horse story was more newsworthy and would have gotten more views than the puppy, because, and I quote, “Everyone loves reading about car accidents.” I genuinely have no idea what I saw in him. He thinks he’s the rarest gem in the world when in reality, he’s just a common rock found on the side of a creek bed. Put him in a rock polisher and he’d still come out as a dirty clump of earth with no chance of coming out the other side smooth and pristine, shining with color. He will always be dull, rough around the edges with nothing shiny on the inside. Just a dirty, hard rock that no one wants.
The sound of the police scanner pulls me from my thoughts, and I rush out of the conference room to hear the end of the call. “. . . fire at 11 North Avenue. No injuries reported. Suspect is in a green Range Rover.”
So much for a slow news day, which rarely exists in Malibu anyway. The newsroom becomes a flurry of activity as Jason grabs his camera, Marly and I grab pens and notebooks, and we all head for the door. Before the elevators close, I see Charlotte grab her phone to call the fire chief to try to get a statement. News like this happens so often, we never know where the day is going to take us.
“Avery!”A sigh escapes my lips before I realize and I brace myself for what’s coming. After the fire emergency, the staff came back to the office to edit their photos and write their stories. Currently, I’m sitting at my desk, staring at the collection of pens and highlighters resting in the wooden organizer I bought from an ad I saw one night when I couldn’t sleep. I handed my work over to James a few minutes earlier and I would be lying if I said I’m not sitting here waiting for his feedback. Well, his criticism.
I straighten my spine, my features calm and collected, a state that is warring with the pounding organ inside my chest. Even with all my experience in the journalism industry, I never quite got the hang of being completely confident in my work. I went to school for journalism because I was good at writing and when I graduated, this job was there so I applied, knowing it was something I could do. Even if it was something I wasn’t entirely sure of.
I look up and James is standing just outside his door looking in my direction. Before I can say anything, he turns and goes back into his office. I guess he’s expecting me to follow. It would have taken two seconds for him to tell me what he needed but time is money and apparently those two seconds would have cost him.
My heart continues pounding like the fingers on keyboards clicking away around me. I know exactly why he’s calling me into his office. I did the jobIwanted to do, not the onehewanted me to do.
I take a deep breath, hold it for five seconds and exhale before lifting my chin up. A technique I learned years ago to help with my anxiety. I won’t let him phase me. At least, I won’t let it show on my face. When I open the door, he’s already seated at his desk, my article spread out in front of him and I don’t think there is one paragraph that hasn’t been violated by his red pen. There are lines scratched out, paragraphs rewritten in his indecipherable handwriting.
“Yes?” I say from my place at the door.
“Sit down,” he says without glancing up from the papers.
I sit in the chair on the other side of his desk and fix my gaze on the window behind him overlooking the city. A few minutes pass, the only sound is the papers being rustled as he continues to look through my article. Finally, he looks up.
“What is this?” he asks.
“The article on the fire,” I say, refusing to let my voice show how nervous I really am. The truth is, no matter how many times people critique my work, I have never gotten rid of the anxiety that comes with it. My hands are sweaty and my heart won’t stop racing, my anxiety rising to the surface. I remember the other techniques that I’ve learned and start to open and close my hands, squeezing them briefly into fists before opening them again. Repeat.
I know what he’s going to say, because it’s nothing he hasn’t already said to me a handful of times.
“No, this isyourarticle on the fire. This is not what you do. You are not a features writer,” he scoffs as if being a features writer was a piece of trash billowing in the wind on the city streets. “And you are fully aware of that,” he continues.
“I just thought readers would want to read what the family had to say about losing their home t—”
“No. Readers care about the facts. You talk to the chief, the firefighters, the police. You get the facts and you report those facts in your article and we publish it in the paper. Andyoudon’t take the photos. Jason does.”
“I know, but I just wanted—”
“I don’t care what you wanted,” he interrupts. “This ismypaper.”
It’s your daddy’s paper, I think and manage to stop myself before I roll my eyes.
“You will do thingsmyway. I don’t want your photos,” he holds up the photo I took of a firefighter that had been on the scene outside of the burning house. His profile is featured in front of the structure. His helmet is placed on his head and he has soot smeared on his left cheek, right arm wiping the sweat from his brow. I snapped the photo without even thinking, really. I just saw him and the look of pure exhaustion on his face and knew it was a moment I didn’t want to pass without documenting. I didn’t intend to step on Jason’s toes. He’s the best photographer I’ve ever met and his photos are always impressive. My idea was to convince James to run the interest article beside the breaking news article in the next day’s edition. But clearly, that is not going to happen, nor is it ever going to. At least not in this century; not with him running this paper.
“And,” he continues.
Perfect, there’s more.
