the job interview
She started reading the Glass Door reviews. Her job interview was in 5 minutes.
Editor Will Sanders has a major personality defect that over the years has become an intense source of litigation for the company. Working under him took years off my life. I’m now an alcoholic Postmates driver. Whatever you do, don’t work for this company.
She kept scrolling.
A ridiculous place to work. It’s run by boomers who won’t even give you the wifi password. Meanwhile, you’re subsidizing all the technology because the computers barely function.
I’m in therapy now.
The New Reddington Dispatch is a great place for upstart reporters to do local accountability reporting!
She sighed, then took the last drag off her cigarette. After putting her phone on airplane mode, she walked toward the newsroom. Inside it looked like a bunker. The oppressive silence caught her off guard. An industrial green lamp rappelled 200 feet down to shine a weak green light on the secretary, who was very old.
“Hi, I’m Amber Fang. I’m here to see Will Sanders.”
The secretary looked at her for a moment and slowly blinked her eyes.
“What?”
Fang repeated herself, but so loud everyone in the newsroom turned to stare at her. They all shared the same indistinguishable features of zombie reporters in plaid strung out on deadline.
Sanders materialized, looking absolutely horrible. It wouldn’t be accurate to say he was wearing a huge beige suit, it was more like the huge beige suit was wearing him. It cloaked his pear-shaped frame. He looked like he could fall apart at any moment.
“Yea hi,” he tossed off.
“Amber Fang. Nice to meet you.”
“Did you find the place okay? It’s a little out of the way. But once you see Baker Ave, it’s a quick left, then a right passed the business plaza. Then you cross Altan Street by Hometown Deli—a great little spot by the way—then go right.”
“Yea, GPS took me right here,” Fang deadpanned.
“Okay yes of course.”
He ushered her into his office, which was three shades of brown. Everything was wood paneled. She noticed a 1998 award from the New England Society of Professional Journalists for Best Local Accountability Column. Fourth place.
Sanders had forgotten which job she was applying for since there was always someone quitting these days. A lot of the time a posting for an opening would stay up for months and never be filled. He pulled out Fang’s resume and cover letter, which was printed out. It refreshed his memory. The job was covering a couple local towns. East Windsor hadn’t had a reporter in months and subscriptions were plummeting. Things were so out of control that the Board of Selectmen had a whole family sitting on it—the Gleasons, owners of a construction company—and nobody was doing anything about it.
Fang went to school nearby, attending two years at the local community college and finishing her degree at a state university. After college she started freelancing because she figured she might as well get paid for something she would have kept doing for free anyway. This was her first attempt at a full-time reporting job. At 27, she was not quite out of college anymore.
“Thank you for your interesting letter. I see you’ve spent a lot of time working in the restaurant industry,” said Sanders.
She didn’t tell him it was because her family needed the money after declaring bankruptcy. Instead, she said, “Yea, it’s good money. And I think talking to a lot of different people as a bartender helped me become a better reporter.”
“And after college you worked as a seasonal ranger at Hot Springs National Park in Arkansas? So you’re a nature girl?”
“I was a forestry technician. I did a lot of maintenance work. It is actually the smallest national park in the country, but I was pretty busy,” she added.
“Just want to make sure you’re not on the run. I like your clips, especially the one about how bad the infrastructure of lesser known national parks have become. So why do you want to work here?” asked Sanders, kicking up his feet.
“Well...I guess I wanna see how things really work instead of how they appear to work.”
“Too bad you’ll rarely get the chance to actually write about the way things really work.”
“Oh...I thought I applied to work at a news—”
“And you went to CCSU and majored in biology with an English minor,” noted Sanders. “I usually hire from big J-schools. How do you stack up?”
“So I didn’t attend a really nice J-school, but I’m from this area. I know people. And I’ve been writing every day since I was a kid. I think it is more helpful if an aspiring reporter majors in biology or finance, then applies it to journalism. Because a lot of journalists don’t have in-depth knowledge on a subject. I feel like you can learn the rules of journalism pretty quickly. The rest of the time in school should be focused on other subject areas.”
Sanders adjusted his posture, and said, “I personally don’t like managing the ones without a journalism degree. They have problems with authority; piss off advertisers. Then we lose money. I like reporters overeducated, a little naive. Because the try hards don’t really want to hurt anyone’s feelings. They wanna put this on their resume for a while to get their savior credentials. It makes them feel less shitty when they go work for Big Law or a Fortune 500 company for the rest of their lives.”
“Well, I’m definitely not thinking about those kind of career moves. What else is going on in East Windsor these days?”
“A lot. There’s a big fight over whether to approve an Amazon fulfillment center, dispute over teaching Critical Race Theory, and a new DQ Grill & Chill. Demographics are also changing. It’s getting less white. Also, real quick: have you considered the possibility that JFK Jr. is still alive? Have you been waiting for the arrival of the Great Awakening?”
Fang tilted her head to the side, perplexed. A few beats of silence passed.
“Alright...hahaha. And Joan Bennet Ramsey is actually Katie Perry. How many stories do you look for each week?”
“About six. If you’re a striver maybe double that. Are you sure you want a job here? I mean, I don’t think you should take it if I offer it to you,” said Sanders.
“Yes I want the job, but now you’re kind of changing my mind, I guess. How much is salary?”
“$24k.”
…
“I’ll be in touch,” said Sanders. “Deadline is 9 a.m. every day. After three months you have to take one furlough day a week. The state will let you recoup some of that if you file for unemployment. And don’t worry about taking a drug test, if I had to test everyone here I’d never have any reporters. They’re all lushes!”
The Job Interview, Part 2
He checked his fantasy baseball league one more time, then Facebook again. His status that morning said, “Big job interview today. Feelin’ pretty good going into it.” It had one like, from his mom.
Stroking his chin, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror, squinted his eyes and said “Let’s go.” It was definitely weird, but that’s what Anthony Romano said to himself right before going into his job interview at the Dispatch. His hair was more gel than hair. And not only was he wearing a tie, the guy was wearing a full on Facebook blue suit. Kanye’s “Runaway” blasted inside his Honda Civic. It was like he was getting ready to go clubbing, but it was only an entry-level job at a struggling local newspaper.
With his mouth a jar, he looked up at the Dispatch sign perched on top of the old brick building. Inside, the old secretary was also slack jawed, but eager to help. He announced his business in total confidence.
“Oh good morning. Will Sanders is here to see me.”
“Yes, I am sure he is here.”
She gave Romano some homemade banana bread because he reminded her of her Italian grandson.
Sanders walked up with his hand extended.
“Will Sanders. So great to meet you!”
Romano already felt like he owned the place as he entered Sanders’ office…
“So the first sentence of your cover letter says you graduated from Boston College with a 3.1 GPA,” said Sanders, looking up at Romano.
“Yea, I was actually able to pull that off while rushing for my fraternity,” he responded.
Sanders looked up and then quickly looked back down at the resume. It was too long, totaling four pages. In one section, Romano described himself as “a LinkedIn influencer.” There was no question pending but Romano continued talking.
“I have over 5,000 Twitter followers and a guaranteed average of 20 likes per Tweet.”
Ignoring the comment, Sanders moved on.
“And your most recent job was writing banking newsletters for private equity vultures,” he said, licking his thumb and flipping the page.
“Yes, we provided a very reliable inbox experience for our customers, especially during Q4. It armed them with the knowledge they needed about mergers and acquisitions. We tracked strategy, identified buys, and monitored competing portfolios and relationships.”
“Why do you wanna work at a newspaper?” said Sanders, a little annoyed.
“I want to build relationships. I want praise from my peers and look good to prospective employers. I want to be accepted by my father. I want to be desired. Seeing my byline really makes me feel good. I wanna help the big guy. The wealthy are under attack. And our family values are in peril.”
...
“How are you guys looking on your socials?” asked Romano.
“What?”
“Social media. You know, like Twitter.”
“We don’t use it. Never give anything away for free.”
“How do you like working here?” followed up Romano.
“Listen, son, I’m conducting the interview, not you. Can you sit through a three-hour planning and zoning meeting and come away with a story?”
“Yea sure. I love plannin’.”
“Are you okay with being paid very little? There is no 401K here. No bonuses. Don’t even bother asking for a raise.”
“That’s fine,” said Romano. “I have a trust. I think privilege is awesome.”
“Well, I think you’d be a great fit here. I think your co-workers will really get a gas out of your superior attitude.”
“Thank you. It’s an honor, sir.”
“Not so fast, I haven’t offered you the job yet.”
“Of course, of course. Sorry, I’m really feelin’ the momentum. I’m in the zone,” said Romano.
“Who do you like reading these days?”
“Love Ben Shapiro. If I’m feeling crazy, a little Jordan Peterson. But I’m more of a podcast guy,” said Romano. “Joe Rogan taught me a lot about science.”
“While I got you…” Sanders leaned in and began at a whisper. “Don’t you agree, Anthony, that we are being infiltrated on all sides by emasculated lunatics, who have no respect for the great American tradition, who can’t change a flat tire because they have low T, and whose only wish in life is to go viral?”
“I agree. Masculinity is in danger. Wait, do you post on 4chan?”
“Yes, my username is PullOutKing,” said Sanders.
“People like us have to stick together,” nodded Romano. “Can I pitch you a story?”
“Go for it.”
“Okay. Puerto Ricans: Where did they come from? Why are they here? And how can we get rid of them?”
Sanders pounded his desk. “Goddamnit you’re hired! $40k. Look forward to reading your stories!”
“Wait, are you sure, $40K? I really don’t need the money. I’ll just donate my salary to the NRA.”
And then a wave of sadness passed through them, ending their discussion. They examined each other carefully, silently telegraphing their deep psychic pain.
With water welling up in his eyes, Sanders looked up at Romano.
“Can I have a kiss? I’ve been pretty lonely these days,” said Sanders.
Romano looked at Sanders for a moment, then hurled himself across the desk, tackling Sanders to the floor.
And while making out, they both thought, “What kind of people are we?”