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eldritch-thrumming · 1 year

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Steve looks up when there’s a knock on his cubicle wall. Robin stands on the other side, leaning over the flimsy partition that gives the busy office floor the illusion of privacy.

“Hey, Steve, wanna get lunch?” She asks him.

“Yeah, let me finish this,” Steve says before turning back to his computer screen to save his notes from fashion week. He can’t help but sigh as he looks at the endless lists of what celebrity wore which brands and who sat front row at each show.

He and Robin make their way downstairs to the cafeteria, where they head to the end of the long line. The lunch room was always packed at this time of day. Steve thinks for the thousandth time that they should plan their breaks better, maybe for a time when the entire building wasn’t battling a sudden salad bar craving.

After about twenty minutes and several sharp elbows to the ribs at the refrigerator where the pudding cups are kept, they make their way to the only open table with their sad, wilted-looking lettuce. Steve stares down at his plate, stomach rumbling, before Robin catches his attention.

“Ready for the pitch meeting?” Her brows are furrowed, anxiety written across her face.

“I mean, yeah.” Steve shrugs his shoulders. “Not much to pitch. I’m just gonna get that lame premiere assignment anyway.” His voice comes out an irritated grumble.

“What about that story about the teachers’ strikes you wanted to pitch? The teachers organizing across districts?” The furrow in her brow deepens.

“Face it, Robin,” Steve sighs. “If we want to write what we really want to write, we’re not gonna do it here. Best to get these few years under out belt and do what we’re told, so we can get a good reference for a publication that actually cares about the things we care about.”

Robin looks down at her own plate, moves her fork around her pile of browned lettuce and ranch dressing. “Well, I’m pitching my rail nationalization story. Imagine what this country could do with a high speed rail system organized by the state. It would be a game changer!” She sounds excited about her pitch and Steve wonders if that’s the way he used to sound, too, before he’d been relegated to “Who Wore It Better”s and celebrity advice columns.

As Steve’s contemplating his entire career trajectory, Nancy makes her way over to them with a tray in her white-knuckled grip. Steve would never say it to her face, but he thought it was only a matter of time before she popped a blood vessel because of the cafeteria line.

“I fucking hate this place,” Nancy practically snarls as she slams her tray down on the table between them. She takes a chair from the neighboring table without even asking before sitting and hanging her crossbody bag on the back. She glances at Steve’s tray. “You got a pudding cup?” Steve says nothing as he moves the pudding cup further from Nancy’s reach. She rolls her eyes.

“We were just talking about the pitch meeting,” Robin tells her. “I’m really gonna pitch the railway story. This is important stuff, Nance, we should be publishing it.”

Nancy takes a sip from her orange juice before responding. “I don’t disagree, Robin, but Erica will never go for it. You know those serious pieces are reserved for Terry, Patrick, and Elaine.”

“Terry, Patrick, and Elaine are practically geriatric,” Robin rolls her eyes. “The magazine needs fresh new voices. Erica understands that. I’m pretty sure it was her who said that at last month’s meeting.”

“Well, good luck,” Nancy says, twirling her fork in her pasta. Steve’s not even sure what sort of sauce the pasta’s supposed to have. He grimaces.

“Thank you,” Robin grins, choosing to ignore Nancy’s sarcasm.

~*~

Steve, Robin, and Nancy sit side-by-side in the conference room as they wait for their editor, Erica, to finish the phone call she’d taken in her office. They were surrounded by their coworkers--photographers, stylists, journalists--and there was a massive pile of donuts in the center of the huge polished wooden table. Steve’s fingers itched to reach for one, but the last time he’d eaten a donut at one of these meetings, he’d gotten a huge glob of strawberry jelly on his slacks. He’d had to beg to borrow a pair of pants from the fashion closet so he could go do an interview without a massive red stain on his leg later that day.

Everyone looks up when Erica enters the room. She always looked to Steve like she floated around the place, somehow both intimidating and approachable all at once. Steve’s palms were always sweaty whenever he had to have a one-on-one conversation with her.

The meeting starts and Erica directs the conversation around the room, hearing pitch after pitch for the next few editions of the magazine. Steve’s head is starting to bobble as he listened to the stylists pitch five different fashion spreads. He’s startled from a daydream when Erica says, “Alright, what do you three have for me?” from the end of the table.

Robin looks at Steve and Nancy before she speaks. “Well, uh. I had this thought that we could, uh, maybe do a piece, like, an article, you know? With, uh, interviews and first-person accounts and statistics and all that stuff--”

“Right, I know what an article is, Robin,” Erica says firmly, but not unfriendly.

“Right, Robin swallows, squirming. “Sorry. Um. Well, there’s been a lot of talk recently about the railway workers unionizing and the derailments and how corporations are going about handling these issues.” Steve notices how Robin’s voice starts to sound much stronger when she really gets in to her pitch. “And there’s a renewed interest online and in DC in a potential nationalization of the railway system in America and I think that could be a really worthwhile and interesting story for our readers.”

Erica looks at Robin for a long moment, thinking. Steve holds his breath, waiting for Erica to speak.

“I like it,” she finally says, a slow smile spreading across her face. “We’ll talk to residents where the derailments occurred, doctors and scientists, state representatives, workers, officials. It could even be a serial piece.”

“Wow, really?” Robin’s eyes brighten.

“Yeah, really,” Erica smiles again, before turning to her right. “Terry, what do you think? Can you handle that?” Steve sees Robin’s face fall out of the corner of his eye. Terry responds in the affirmative, before Steve cuts off the conversation that they’re having about Robin’s story.

“I have a pitch,” Steve says, voice loud in his own ears. His hands shake in his lap.

“Really, Harrington?” Erica asks, eyebrows shooting up in surprise as she turns to look at him.

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “About the teachers’ strikes and how they’re organizing across districts in the city.”

Erica looks at him, like she’d looked at Robin. Her eyes shift back and forth between the two of them.

“That’s not a bad story,” she tells him. She pauses again, looking at Steve for another long moment before continuing. “Listen, I see what’s happening here. You want a chance at more serious stories. But you’ve both been here only a year. I need to know that you can write more than an analysis of what Selena Gomez was wearing when Justin Bieber broke up with her.” She looks at them and she looks so far away from where Steve is sitting. He feels like his vision has taken on a fish-eye lens, distorting at the edges, making everyone look tiny. “So, here’s what we’ll do. I was just on the phone with Corroded Coffin’s PR. Apparently the band is coming out of retirement and they’re announcing a new album and a new tour kicking off in March. They’ve asked us to publish something about the band, with full and complete access to recording studios, one-on-one interviews with each member, and live shows before the tour starts. We’re doing a whole issue on the resurgence of grunge and metal style from the eighties and nineties for it. I’ll let you, Buckley, and Wheeler have the central article. If you can get me some new, interesting, and relevant information on the band’s personal lives, I’ll let you start writing more serious pieces for the magazine.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as the blood rushes in his ears. He hadn’t expected that to actually work. Plus, the Corroded Coffin article itself was a huge deal. Nancy’s saying yes on everyone’s behalf before Steve can even really wrap his mind around the offer.

~*~

After the meeting, Steve sits at his desk doing a cursory Google search of Corroded Coffin. He wasn’t the biggest metal fan and the closest he’d ever come to really giving the genre a try was adding a few Nirvana songs to his workout playlist.

He’s scrolling through the search results when he realizes that there’s a significant lack of interviews, even though the band has been active for almost a decade. Most of the articles were descriptions of the lead singer’s rather outlandish public stunts.

“Hey, Rob?” He calls out over the partition that separates their cubicles.

“Yeah?” She responds. Steve doesn’t like when he can’t see her while they’re talking, so he rolls his eyes and pulls himself from the chair to look over their shared wall.

“Have you noticed that there’s, like, no interviews with the band?”

She looks up from her computer screen. “There’s a few,” she says, sighing. “On the second page of Google. But there’s none with Munson.” Robin throws herself against the back of his chair. “A few of the articles say he’s ‘notoriously private.’” She rolls her eyes as she puts air quotes around the last two words.

Steve stomach drops. This was supposed to be an easy article. Full access usually meant a lot more intimacy between the journalist and the subject, but Steve knew first hand how hard it was to get a cagey and jaded celebrity to talk, even when the request for the interview came from their own camp. Sometimes especially when the request came from their camp.

“Is this going to be harder than we thought?” Steve asks, brow furrowing in concern. “”What are we going to do?”

Robin smirks. “We’ll just have to get creative.”

part one part two

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