Page 3 of Pictures in Blue
“I don’t want an article about the family. News is straightforward. It’s not that hard.”
Itishard though because he is completely and utterly wrong, which he would know if he actually understood how a newspaper runs. I don’t think he sees the potential this newspaper has. It could be so much better if he allowed it to be. But I am not about to tell him that. He wouldn’t hear what I had to say anyway.
“Tim wrote an article worthy of the paper.” Of course he did. “And Jason’s photo of the actual fire will run with the story. Next time, if you’re going to go to an emergency that comes across the scanner, cover the emergency.”
He tosses the papers in my direction, turns to his computer and begins typing. I guess that’s his way of dismissing me. I gather my things and head back to my desk, tamping down the gnawing feeling in my gut that I don’t belong here anymore.
Charlotte is leaning against it with her hands curled around a cup of coffee. She takes a sip and turns to my desk to grab a second mug with a pink donut on the side covered in sprinkles with the wordsI do-nut give a fuck,scrawled around it. Charlotte, unlike me, has no hesitations about bringing her profanity mugs to work. She also has a thing for puns on mugs. I don’t think there is a mug in her house without some kind of pun scrawled on the side.
“When he yelled your name, I figured I’d return the favor,” she sympathizes, extending the mug to me.
I set the marked-up papers on my desk and grab the mug from her. “Thanks.” I don’t bother keeping the disappointment out of my voice. I don’t know why I even tried with the article. I knew he wouldn’t run the story I wrote no matter how much work I put into it. I should have listened to my intuition on that one.
“For what it’s worth,” she continues, grabbing for the photograph I discarded. “Jason’s photos are great, but this,” she holds up the photo. “Thisis newsworthy. And I’m sure your article was too.”
I let out a long sigh. “I don’t know why I tried,” I said, voicing my thoughts. “I knew he wouldn’t publish it, but I just can’t help it. I’m so tired of writing about bad things. There's a fire today, a robbery tomorrow, and a car crash the next day. I just wanted to write about real people with real stories and take pictures of happy moments. Preserve them in time. I’m over reporting about all the bad things that happen.”
“I may not have been here long, but I get it. Stuff like this gets to you when all you see every day is tragedy. Even though I do features, I’ve had experience with breaking news reporting and it was never my thing.”
“I wish he’d just let me do features, but even then, he doesn’t believe they should even have a place in the paper.Fluff pieces aren’t newsand all that, he says. Such bullshit.”
Charlotte scoffs and waves her hand like she’s trying to wave off the essence of James around us. “Ignore him. I’d much rather read a story about a Christmas tree farm than another breaking news article about someone’s home burning down.”
“A Christmas tree farm?”
“What?” she exclaims. “They exist! I grew up about twenty minutes away from one. We always went as a family when we were kids and picked out the weirdest tree.”
“Not the perfect cookie cutter one found in every Hallmark movie living room?”
“No,” she laughs, taking a sip from her mug. “My mom always wanted to save the trees no one else picked. She said the ones that were different deserved to be loved too. Those were the ones that often needed it the most.”
An ache in my chest reminds me how much I wish my mom could have been like that. Could have loved me the way I needed, instead of the way she wanted. “She sounds wonderful.”
She looks down with a sad smile. “Yeah, she was.” Her features change, not allowing the sadness to linger. She straightens and steps closer, “Anyway, don’t listen to James. Your writing is great and so are your photos.”
“Thanks, Charlotte. I appreciate it.” I reach out and give her arm a squeeze.
“Anytime.” With that, she makes her way back to her desk, leaving me to figure out what to do about a story for tomorrow’s issue. Without James using my article on the fire, I’m going to have to come up with something different before I leave for the day or I am going to be subject to yet another office visit that I don’t think I can handle.
I’d end up quitting on the spot, which may be much better for my mental health if I am being completely honest. But like everyone else in this world, I have bills to pay. If I quit, I’ll be late on my rent, end up homeless with nowhere to go, and my mother will be right. She always said I would amount to nothing and most of the time, I feel like I am worth the same.
I’ve been at this paper, at this job for five years. I took it when they offered because I wasn’t sure what else to do at the time. I had no other options and I already had mounds of debt to pay off. Thank you to the education system of America. I never really wanted to be a news reporter, but it was a job. I’d much rather write stories that interest me over breaking news, but with the job that it is, I’m stuck with what I have, no matter how hard I have tried over the last few months to break out of it.
But, I’m tired. I’m tired of hearing the bad things that happen every day and writing about them. I hate knowing the way people feel while they read my articles. No one feels happy when reading about someone who got shot a street over from their house or a car crash that ends in someone’s death. And if they do, well, that’s a whole other problem I don’t want to think about.
My work ends up in the recycling the same day people pick it up to read. If I wrote important stories, memorable ones, my articles wouldn’t end up with an empty jug of expired milk in the recycling bin. They’d end up on someone’s fridge or in a folder with other collected feel-good stories. They would be the source of someone’s smile that day rather than the reason for their tears or their heartbreak. One day I will tell those stories.
Today is not that day though. Today, I have a story to write for an unfair boss who inherited this paper from his unfair father in this unfair life.
CHAPTER TWO
AVERY
Afew weeks pass without any other visits to James’ office. The news never sleeps and most of the time neither do I. I started to seriously question what I am doing with my life weeks ago. And since then, I haven’t been able to get a good night’s sleep. Half the time, I end up just getting out of bed and going for a run with my camera to catch the sunrise and take some photos. Running has become my own form of therapy over the years outside of my actual therapy sessions. I used to hate it when I started, because I was doing it for all the wrong reasons. I was doing it because of my mother. Her not-so-subtle comments of me gaining weight or needing to exercise. I was never good enough unless I was small enough. But over the years, I learned to look at everything differently…with the help of my therapist. She reminded me that my worth isn’t tied to my weight and running should be a form of stress relief in a way. The end goal shouldn’t be to lose weight, it should be to feel healthy and to make my body stronger, not skinnier.
The only good thing to come out of the last few months is my growing friendship with Charlotte. Shortly after she started at the paper, we bonded over our mutual dislike for our boss and my ex which then turned into a lot of wine nights. Movie nights quickly followed and focused on fawning over the men in the main roles, discussing just how many hours it would take in the gym to grow a physique like theirs.
Unlike me though, Charlotte actually likes her job, even if James comes with the territory. She enjoys writing features and compliments my introverted personality with her bright colors and sunny outlook.
