Errand girl
That's me, at least today. I was visiting Emerson to check up on an old professor of mine, and since I'd mentioned the visit to Jasmine last night on the phone (she doesn't have anything new on Preacher Nicholas; I'm ready to drop it, I swear, but what to tell Daniel? Anything? Anyway-), she naturally asked me to run by the school paper's office and talk to a prospective intern for her. Now, Jaz and I go way back, of course, but . . . oh, whatever, I just agreed. I'm too nice for my own good.
The kid wasn't even there, and I ended up chatting a bit with the girl at the reception desk instead. The "newsroom," such as it was, brought back old times, at least. Ah, memories.
And Sabitha emailed back, and I shouldn't have sent my email, and to hell with it. She sounds a little stressed; I know I am. As long as things are cool, though, I'll not worry.
Ha. I need to get back a nine-to-five job, don't I? Must talk with Stephanie, soon.
6/8/2005
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Emerson Times Office
The Apocalypse has indeed come, and it has landed right here in the middle of the Emerson Times office. Or so it seems, at least, amidst the utter chaos, hustle and bustle that is the one-room central hub for meetings, writing, proofing, compiling, and yes, even printing.
On first entering one is greeted by a small reception table with information on advertising. Close at hand, toward the center of the room, sits an oval table that could seat about twenty--but only quite cozily. Amassed about it are numerous desks with all sorts of individual personalities, both in clumps and singly. Fully half the room, in spite of all this clutter, is absorbed by printing and distribution equipment. A fixture almost as permanent as the furniture is Jake MacKenzie, the notoriously overzealous editor.
--
No Horseman of the Apocalypse, she, but Leah does appear to be a woman on a mission: she moves into the office with the ease of one long familiar with such chaos, though the occasional tug of wistful half-smile at her expression as she glances around suggests that the familiarity is past, alas. So, she hovers around the reception table like a proper visitor, eyeing and fingering the material there, instead of rambling through the paper's creation like one of their own.
Today it's Rose's turn at the reception desk, though at the visitor's entrance the slightly harassed looking teen doesn't immediately look up from her laptop, at which she's typing furiously. It's a busy day at the Emerson Times, to judge by the bustling atmosphere and the various temper-strained shouts called across the room from time to time. Indeed, a few of the calls seem to indicate they're late to press--again. That's probably why, when the young receptionist does finally raise her eyes, there's a startled cast to them. "Oh! Sorry, didn't hear you come in." The irony in her tone is unmistakable. After a pause, she seems to remember to wonder, "Ah, anything I can help you with?"
--
Rose
Bright green eyes gaze out from beneath a layered crop of brighter red-gold hair, which cuts short just an inch or so below a slightly pointed chin. Thin, though not skinny, this young woman looks to be hovering right around her early twenties, and is of an average height but seems rather smaller. This effect is primarily due to the fact that she's delicately muscled, boned, and featured. In spite of a certain natural prettiness, she's wearing unusual amounts of makeup, and a particularly close look would show that all exposed skin is covered in concealer. There's also a noticeable smell of perfume lingering about her.
Rose wears a light red tunic-like shirt that hangs to about mid-thigh, with an embroidery along the bottom in yellow and blue. Over that is a white collared oxford, left unbuttoned both at her wrists and along the front. Beneath is a simple pair of black pants that tops casual close-toed black shoes.
--
"Actually, yeah, if you've got time." Leah's pitching her voice to try to get it under the noise, not over it. Her qualification seems entirely genuine: oh, the life of a busy student! She pulls a folded piece of paper from inside her suit jacket and starts puzzling out the scribbles on it. "I was looking for -- hell, I think it's a Kenny Jackson? Or maybe Lenny." She returns a frazzled gaze back to Rose. "A friend sent me by to find him about an internship he applied for at the _Post_. I said I'd be in the neighborhood, so . . ." What a sucker she is.
If that wistful glance at her screen before she abandons the laptop to the desk is any indication, Rose probably doesn't have time. But the occasional glances that editor is sending her seem to suggest she's expected to be, well, a receptionist, so with a shrug the student peers over at that paper. "Jackson? Well, um, I don't think he's in right now..." a frantic sweep of the room with half-hidden green eyes betrays a certain ignorance that the visitor lacks. "Would you rather wait? Or, or have me go looking for him?" Another look is slung across the room to that editor, as though wondering whether she's on the right track.
Leah shakes her head. "No, no, it's okay. Just . . . tell him he needs to call Jasmine at the _Post_; she's the one reviewing applications, and she wants to talk to him." She hesitates, gauging the girl more closely, then shrugs, smiles a bit. "It's not worth broadcasting around the room, you know? I know you guys are all busy; I used to do this myself. Got a new issue going out soon?"
Looking distinctly relieved that she won't have to actually get up and brave the havoc behind her, Rose leans back in her chair with a tentative smile to match Leah's. "Right, I'll try to find his mailbox," with a nod toward the one box-covered wall, "and get that too him." A quick note is soon jotted and left in what must be her to-do pile, a roll of her eyes suppressed even as she does so. "Supposed to go out yesterday. Not sure myself why we're behind," she explains before the question might crop up, "just got pulled in her recently by a friend to help out." And then, with unusual curiosity for a receptionist, she hazards, "Are you a, well, reporter or something? For the _Post_?"
Leah rests her hands, fingers interlocked, on the desk and rests a little forward. Long day, obviously, already. But at least she's not trying to get an overdue issue out the door! "Damn," she offers in quiet sympathy. "Maybe it's just a little thing, and it'll get resolved once the editor's ranted and raved enough. Some of them do like that. As for me? Oh, I used to be." She makes a little shrug happen, but doesn't seem disinclined to talk. "Back in the Nineties, anyway. I worked on the metro desk, and tried not to get sucked into the tabloidism of it all, but do actual journalism, just like I learned in school." And she snorts, eyes dancing, for /that/ ideal.
Rose's smile does a funny little half twist, and she remarks, after a quick scan to make sure MacKenzie's attention isn't still directed her way, "'Fraid we're out of luck there. He rants and raves off and on every half hour, pretty regularly." So saying, she checks the wall clock as though to see whether he's still on schedule. Though the laptop still merits an occasional glance, something about Emerson's visitor catches enough of her attention that she forgets the workload for a bit in favor of a few more questions. For someone Rose's age, after all, the Nineties are relatively far away, and "actual journalism" a very real ideal. "But you're not anymore? Thinking about going back if the, um, tabloidism clears up?"
"No, I quit the paper years back and went into television." Leah grimaces back to her little twisted smile. "More fool, me, as it turned out, though eventually I got my crap together and started bringing in money. Had to go freelance in the end. Maybe I'll beg for a job at a paper again--" her eyes trail over the crazy room again "--'cause there's something about this energy, isn't there? Ah, well. Are /you/ in j-school, or did you just get tapped by your friend to cover this desk as a friendly outsider?"
Rose sends a curious, more interested look at the woman across her desk, as though trying to figure out whether she recognizes Leah. "Hmm." That doesn't seem to be the case, though, so she brings her mind back to the conversation. "Yeah, actually, I'm doing some summer classes right now. I hadn't joined the paper before because, you know, work and settling in and all that kind of stuff. That friend of mine, though, decided I should get some experience--and cover her when she misses a deadline." Just as the young journalist wraps up her answer, one of the staff heads over, bends to murmur something, and hands her a small bundle of looseleaf. "Right, right, I'll get it done right away." Looks like she's a go-for on top of her day job. "Sorry," for Leah once more, "gotta run this downstairs. I'll make sure Kenny gets that note." A little awkward as she rises, Rose gives a sort of finger-waggling wave when she hurries out.
[Log ends.]
The kid wasn't even there, and I ended up chatting a bit with the girl at the reception desk instead. The "newsroom," such as it was, brought back old times, at least. Ah, memories.
And Sabitha emailed back, and I shouldn't have sent my email, and to hell with it. She sounds a little stressed; I know I am. As long as things are cool, though, I'll not worry.
Ha. I need to get back a nine-to-five job, don't I? Must talk with Stephanie, soon.
6/8/2005
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Emerson Times Office
The Apocalypse has indeed come, and it has landed right here in the middle of the Emerson Times office. Or so it seems, at least, amidst the utter chaos, hustle and bustle that is the one-room central hub for meetings, writing, proofing, compiling, and yes, even printing.
On first entering one is greeted by a small reception table with information on advertising. Close at hand, toward the center of the room, sits an oval table that could seat about twenty--but only quite cozily. Amassed about it are numerous desks with all sorts of individual personalities, both in clumps and singly. Fully half the room, in spite of all this clutter, is absorbed by printing and distribution equipment. A fixture almost as permanent as the furniture is Jake MacKenzie, the notoriously overzealous editor.
--
No Horseman of the Apocalypse, she, but Leah does appear to be a woman on a mission: she moves into the office with the ease of one long familiar with such chaos, though the occasional tug of wistful half-smile at her expression as she glances around suggests that the familiarity is past, alas. So, she hovers around the reception table like a proper visitor, eyeing and fingering the material there, instead of rambling through the paper's creation like one of their own.
Today it's Rose's turn at the reception desk, though at the visitor's entrance the slightly harassed looking teen doesn't immediately look up from her laptop, at which she's typing furiously. It's a busy day at the Emerson Times, to judge by the bustling atmosphere and the various temper-strained shouts called across the room from time to time. Indeed, a few of the calls seem to indicate they're late to press--again. That's probably why, when the young receptionist does finally raise her eyes, there's a startled cast to them. "Oh! Sorry, didn't hear you come in." The irony in her tone is unmistakable. After a pause, she seems to remember to wonder, "Ah, anything I can help you with?"
--
Rose
Bright green eyes gaze out from beneath a layered crop of brighter red-gold hair, which cuts short just an inch or so below a slightly pointed chin. Thin, though not skinny, this young woman looks to be hovering right around her early twenties, and is of an average height but seems rather smaller. This effect is primarily due to the fact that she's delicately muscled, boned, and featured. In spite of a certain natural prettiness, she's wearing unusual amounts of makeup, and a particularly close look would show that all exposed skin is covered in concealer. There's also a noticeable smell of perfume lingering about her.
Rose wears a light red tunic-like shirt that hangs to about mid-thigh, with an embroidery along the bottom in yellow and blue. Over that is a white collared oxford, left unbuttoned both at her wrists and along the front. Beneath is a simple pair of black pants that tops casual close-toed black shoes.
--
"Actually, yeah, if you've got time." Leah's pitching her voice to try to get it under the noise, not over it. Her qualification seems entirely genuine: oh, the life of a busy student! She pulls a folded piece of paper from inside her suit jacket and starts puzzling out the scribbles on it. "I was looking for -- hell, I think it's a Kenny Jackson? Or maybe Lenny." She returns a frazzled gaze back to Rose. "A friend sent me by to find him about an internship he applied for at the _Post_. I said I'd be in the neighborhood, so . . ." What a sucker she is.
If that wistful glance at her screen before she abandons the laptop to the desk is any indication, Rose probably doesn't have time. But the occasional glances that editor is sending her seem to suggest she's expected to be, well, a receptionist, so with a shrug the student peers over at that paper. "Jackson? Well, um, I don't think he's in right now..." a frantic sweep of the room with half-hidden green eyes betrays a certain ignorance that the visitor lacks. "Would you rather wait? Or, or have me go looking for him?" Another look is slung across the room to that editor, as though wondering whether she's on the right track.
Leah shakes her head. "No, no, it's okay. Just . . . tell him he needs to call Jasmine at the _Post_; she's the one reviewing applications, and she wants to talk to him." She hesitates, gauging the girl more closely, then shrugs, smiles a bit. "It's not worth broadcasting around the room, you know? I know you guys are all busy; I used to do this myself. Got a new issue going out soon?"
Looking distinctly relieved that she won't have to actually get up and brave the havoc behind her, Rose leans back in her chair with a tentative smile to match Leah's. "Right, I'll try to find his mailbox," with a nod toward the one box-covered wall, "and get that too him." A quick note is soon jotted and left in what must be her to-do pile, a roll of her eyes suppressed even as she does so. "Supposed to go out yesterday. Not sure myself why we're behind," she explains before the question might crop up, "just got pulled in her recently by a friend to help out." And then, with unusual curiosity for a receptionist, she hazards, "Are you a, well, reporter or something? For the _Post_?"
Leah rests her hands, fingers interlocked, on the desk and rests a little forward. Long day, obviously, already. But at least she's not trying to get an overdue issue out the door! "Damn," she offers in quiet sympathy. "Maybe it's just a little thing, and it'll get resolved once the editor's ranted and raved enough. Some of them do like that. As for me? Oh, I used to be." She makes a little shrug happen, but doesn't seem disinclined to talk. "Back in the Nineties, anyway. I worked on the metro desk, and tried not to get sucked into the tabloidism of it all, but do actual journalism, just like I learned in school." And she snorts, eyes dancing, for /that/ ideal.
Rose's smile does a funny little half twist, and she remarks, after a quick scan to make sure MacKenzie's attention isn't still directed her way, "'Fraid we're out of luck there. He rants and raves off and on every half hour, pretty regularly." So saying, she checks the wall clock as though to see whether he's still on schedule. Though the laptop still merits an occasional glance, something about Emerson's visitor catches enough of her attention that she forgets the workload for a bit in favor of a few more questions. For someone Rose's age, after all, the Nineties are relatively far away, and "actual journalism" a very real ideal. "But you're not anymore? Thinking about going back if the, um, tabloidism clears up?"
"No, I quit the paper years back and went into television." Leah grimaces back to her little twisted smile. "More fool, me, as it turned out, though eventually I got my crap together and started bringing in money. Had to go freelance in the end. Maybe I'll beg for a job at a paper again--" her eyes trail over the crazy room again "--'cause there's something about this energy, isn't there? Ah, well. Are /you/ in j-school, or did you just get tapped by your friend to cover this desk as a friendly outsider?"
Rose sends a curious, more interested look at the woman across her desk, as though trying to figure out whether she recognizes Leah. "Hmm." That doesn't seem to be the case, though, so she brings her mind back to the conversation. "Yeah, actually, I'm doing some summer classes right now. I hadn't joined the paper before because, you know, work and settling in and all that kind of stuff. That friend of mine, though, decided I should get some experience--and cover her when she misses a deadline." Just as the young journalist wraps up her answer, one of the staff heads over, bends to murmur something, and hands her a small bundle of looseleaf. "Right, right, I'll get it done right away." Looks like she's a go-for on top of her day job. "Sorry," for Leah once more, "gotta run this downstairs. I'll make sure Kenny gets that note." A little awkward as she rises, Rose gives a sort of finger-waggling wave when she hurries out.
[Log ends.]