LJIdol: Feckless
“You son of a bitch.”
“Calm down --”
“That was my story,” I spit. “You stole my story you feckless piece of shit.”
“I did not --”
“You know damn well that you did. Almost word for word --”
“You’re hysterical,” he says. “Is it your time of month or something?”
“I came to you with this article yesterday,” I seethe, ignoring his sexist jab. “And you told me you weren’t going to print it.”
“And I didn’t print it.”
“You made a few changes and printed it under your byline,” I spit.
He sighs and sits back in his chair, looking at me smugly. “Your work wasn’t good enough,” he tells me. “As usual. Honestly, sometimes I don’t know why Marcia keeps you on.”
“Gee Vic, if she fired me, who would you steal your work from?”
“Cute.”
“Marcia is going to hear about this.”
“Plagiarism is a very serious charge,” he says smugly. “I certainly hope you have evidence to back it up.”
“I have my original story.”
“Which as I said, wasn’t good enough. And as the lead editor, it is well within my discretion to make that call. But go ahead. Go to Marcia and accuse me of plagiarism,” he taunts me. “See what happens.”
We all have an arch-nemesis in life. We all have that one person who seems to delight in tormenting us, revels in our misery, and does everything within their power to prop themselves up while keeping us down.
Vic Sheldon is my arch-nemesis and has been since high school. And he’s every bit the piece of shit today that he was back then.
“Now, if there’s nothing else, you are dismissed,” he waves me off.
I stand my ground, glaring at him. If looks could actually kill, Vic would be dead a hundred times over. He just looks at me with that smug smirk on his face and I’m nearly overcome by the urge to murder him myself. Maybe even write the story on it.
“That means you may go,” he sneers.
“I’m going to talk to Marcia.”
“Good luck with that.”
I stay where I am for another minute. “You’re going to regret this, Vic.”
I leave his office, slamming the door behind me on the way out. I see all of the eyes in the news room on me as I huff my way back to my cubicle. I turn and glare at the people staring at me and they quickly turn away, suddenly finding something on their desk infinitely fascinating.
I’m the only reporter assigned to the town’s crime desk. The problem with a small town newspaper like this is that the vast majority of our column space is dedicated to bar fights and the occasional acts of vandalism. Once in a while, we get a particularly nasty domestic violence call. But very rarely, do we get a bona fide murder in town -- and when we do, it’s a big story. The kind of story that can help build a career.
I sit down in my cube and wake up my computer, calling up my email program with every intention of emailing Marcia with my complaint. But I stop before I even begin typing. As much as I hate to admit it, as the lead editor, Vic has the power to spike any story he sees fit. And I can’t make a plagiarism charge stick because all he has to do is what he said -- claim it didn’t meet standards.
The bastard changed just enough in the piece he published to make it adequately differ from mine that my claim of plagiarism won’t hold water.
“You okay?”
I look up and see David looking down at me from over the wall of my cube. He’s worked for the paper since before I was even born and knows how things work around here. He has a sympathetic smile on his face, having seen plenty of guys like Vic filter through over his tenure at the paper.
“Yeah. I’m good,” I tell him.
“Don’t let him get under your skin. He rides on the coattails of real journalists because he doesn’t have the chops,” he says. “He’s gonna wash outta this gig long before you do. You got it in your veins. He’s just a poser.”
“Thanks David.”
“Hang in there, kid” he says, giving me a nod before he walks away.
Journalism is a competitive field and you have to be on top of your game at all times. It’s even harder for a woman. Oh we like to pat ourselves on the back and pretend we’re making progress on sexual equality in the workplace. And sure, some progress has been made. But if you really believe there isn’t still a massive disparity in the opportunities for men and women, you’re either high or not paying attention.
That’s why as a woman, I have to seize every opportunity that comes my way. Like this murder. Doing good work on it could help not only raise my profile but add to my portfolio of clippings -- a necessity in this game.
My plan ever since I was a kid was that after getting my degree in Journalism from Virginia Tech -- go Hokies! -- I came back home to get some experience at the local paper. I know if I’m going to catch on at a reputable national paper, I need a solid base of clippings to show a potential editor.
And reporting on hard-hitting scandals like high school students filling the school pool with Jello, or a group of drunks spray painting penises on a church wall with slogans like, “Waiting for the Second Cumming,” isn’t going to get me noticed or taken seriously.
Sometimes, making a name for yourself in this game is a combination of hard work, dedication, and pure dumb luck. But sometimes even that’s not enough and you have to make your own luck.
Vic has his eyes on Marcia’s job when she eventually moves on -- or is forced out. But he’s trying to get ahead on the backs of other people. He wants to be the top of the totem pole so he takes credit that he doesn’t deserve.
And it’s going to bite him in the ass eventually. I’m going to see to it if it’s the last thing I do.
******
I stand behind the yellow caution tape, the blue and red lights strobing, cutting through the darkness. It looks like every cop in town is here tonight. The squawk of the police radios and the buzz of conversation from all the people standing behind the yellow tape is louder than the hum of the generators powering the lights.
The red Prius sits alone in the lot, the shadowed figure of the occupant visible in all the lights from the activity going on around it.
He was drunk and had problems at home. Lots of pressure on the job. Couldn’t take it anymore. Killed himself.
This is why I’m great at what I do -- I care enough about the story to not buy into the rumors and get actual details. The man behind the wheel of the car didn’t drink. He had no pressures at work. His marriage was picture perfect -- he and his wife were very much in love. And contrary to the rumors burning through the crowd like wildfire, the man was far too narcissistic to ever consider killing himself.
I watch the EMT’s pushing the gurney loading the body into a black body bag. The crowd fell silent, gawking at the grim spectacle. Billy Hamilton -- a pot smoking burnout back in high school turned town cop I dated long ago -- walks over to me. He looks down at the press badge hanging on the lanyard around my neck, the tape recorder in my hand, and gives me a smile.
“I guess you’ll be gettin’ a promotion at work,” he grins. “Looks like your boss put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger -- sorry, I guess I should say your old boss.”
“That’s horrible,” I say.
He shrugs. “Not for an upwardly mobile woman like yourself. Besides, it ain’t as if you liked the guy.”
I give him a rueful grin. “I guess sometimes we’re blessed with a stroke of luck then,” I say. “And sometimes, we make our own luck.”
“Calm down --”
“That was my story,” I spit. “You stole my story you feckless piece of shit.”
“I did not --”
“You know damn well that you did. Almost word for word --”
“You’re hysterical,” he says. “Is it your time of month or something?”
“I came to you with this article yesterday,” I seethe, ignoring his sexist jab. “And you told me you weren’t going to print it.”
“And I didn’t print it.”
“You made a few changes and printed it under your byline,” I spit.
He sighs and sits back in his chair, looking at me smugly. “Your work wasn’t good enough,” he tells me. “As usual. Honestly, sometimes I don’t know why Marcia keeps you on.”
“Gee Vic, if she fired me, who would you steal your work from?”
“Cute.”
“Marcia is going to hear about this.”
“Plagiarism is a very serious charge,” he says smugly. “I certainly hope you have evidence to back it up.”
“I have my original story.”
“Which as I said, wasn’t good enough. And as the lead editor, it is well within my discretion to make that call. But go ahead. Go to Marcia and accuse me of plagiarism,” he taunts me. “See what happens.”
We all have an arch-nemesis in life. We all have that one person who seems to delight in tormenting us, revels in our misery, and does everything within their power to prop themselves up while keeping us down.
Vic Sheldon is my arch-nemesis and has been since high school. And he’s every bit the piece of shit today that he was back then.
“Now, if there’s nothing else, you are dismissed,” he waves me off.
I stand my ground, glaring at him. If looks could actually kill, Vic would be dead a hundred times over. He just looks at me with that smug smirk on his face and I’m nearly overcome by the urge to murder him myself. Maybe even write the story on it.
“That means you may go,” he sneers.
“I’m going to talk to Marcia.”
“Good luck with that.”
I stay where I am for another minute. “You’re going to regret this, Vic.”
I leave his office, slamming the door behind me on the way out. I see all of the eyes in the news room on me as I huff my way back to my cubicle. I turn and glare at the people staring at me and they quickly turn away, suddenly finding something on their desk infinitely fascinating.
I’m the only reporter assigned to the town’s crime desk. The problem with a small town newspaper like this is that the vast majority of our column space is dedicated to bar fights and the occasional acts of vandalism. Once in a while, we get a particularly nasty domestic violence call. But very rarely, do we get a bona fide murder in town -- and when we do, it’s a big story. The kind of story that can help build a career.
I sit down in my cube and wake up my computer, calling up my email program with every intention of emailing Marcia with my complaint. But I stop before I even begin typing. As much as I hate to admit it, as the lead editor, Vic has the power to spike any story he sees fit. And I can’t make a plagiarism charge stick because all he has to do is what he said -- claim it didn’t meet standards.
The bastard changed just enough in the piece he published to make it adequately differ from mine that my claim of plagiarism won’t hold water.
“You okay?”
I look up and see David looking down at me from over the wall of my cube. He’s worked for the paper since before I was even born and knows how things work around here. He has a sympathetic smile on his face, having seen plenty of guys like Vic filter through over his tenure at the paper.
“Yeah. I’m good,” I tell him.
“Don’t let him get under your skin. He rides on the coattails of real journalists because he doesn’t have the chops,” he says. “He’s gonna wash outta this gig long before you do. You got it in your veins. He’s just a poser.”
“Thanks David.”
“Hang in there, kid” he says, giving me a nod before he walks away.
Journalism is a competitive field and you have to be on top of your game at all times. It’s even harder for a woman. Oh we like to pat ourselves on the back and pretend we’re making progress on sexual equality in the workplace. And sure, some progress has been made. But if you really believe there isn’t still a massive disparity in the opportunities for men and women, you’re either high or not paying attention.
That’s why as a woman, I have to seize every opportunity that comes my way. Like this murder. Doing good work on it could help not only raise my profile but add to my portfolio of clippings -- a necessity in this game.
My plan ever since I was a kid was that after getting my degree in Journalism from Virginia Tech -- go Hokies! -- I came back home to get some experience at the local paper. I know if I’m going to catch on at a reputable national paper, I need a solid base of clippings to show a potential editor.
And reporting on hard-hitting scandals like high school students filling the school pool with Jello, or a group of drunks spray painting penises on a church wall with slogans like, “Waiting for the Second Cumming,” isn’t going to get me noticed or taken seriously.
Sometimes, making a name for yourself in this game is a combination of hard work, dedication, and pure dumb luck. But sometimes even that’s not enough and you have to make your own luck.
Vic has his eyes on Marcia’s job when she eventually moves on -- or is forced out. But he’s trying to get ahead on the backs of other people. He wants to be the top of the totem pole so he takes credit that he doesn’t deserve.
And it’s going to bite him in the ass eventually. I’m going to see to it if it’s the last thing I do.
******
I stand behind the yellow caution tape, the blue and red lights strobing, cutting through the darkness. It looks like every cop in town is here tonight. The squawk of the police radios and the buzz of conversation from all the people standing behind the yellow tape is louder than the hum of the generators powering the lights.
The red Prius sits alone in the lot, the shadowed figure of the occupant visible in all the lights from the activity going on around it.
He was drunk and had problems at home. Lots of pressure on the job. Couldn’t take it anymore. Killed himself.
This is why I’m great at what I do -- I care enough about the story to not buy into the rumors and get actual details. The man behind the wheel of the car didn’t drink. He had no pressures at work. His marriage was picture perfect -- he and his wife were very much in love. And contrary to the rumors burning through the crowd like wildfire, the man was far too narcissistic to ever consider killing himself.
I watch the EMT’s pushing the gurney loading the body into a black body bag. The crowd fell silent, gawking at the grim spectacle. Billy Hamilton -- a pot smoking burnout back in high school turned town cop I dated long ago -- walks over to me. He looks down at the press badge hanging on the lanyard around my neck, the tape recorder in my hand, and gives me a smile.
“I guess you’ll be gettin’ a promotion at work,” he grins. “Looks like your boss put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger -- sorry, I guess I should say your old boss.”
“That’s horrible,” I say.
He shrugs. “Not for an upwardly mobile woman like yourself. Besides, it ain’t as if you liked the guy.”
I give him a rueful grin. “I guess sometimes we’re blessed with a stroke of luck then,” I say. “And sometimes, we make our own luck.”