The Interview - 1. The Office is cluttered

Rather than posting normal blog entries, over the next few weeks I’ll be posting chapters of a story I wrote a few years ago, called The Interview.

What’s it about? Dan thought his life was going nowhere, figuratively. But when he inadvertently finds himself interviewing God and learns that the big guy is having a crisis of faith, he suddenly realises that his life may actually be going nowhere, literally. An atheist himself, can Dan help restore God’s faith in humanity? Or will the four horseman ride forth and Armageddon be unleashed on Earth?

Chapter 1: The office is cluttered

The office is cluttered and old-fashioned, reminding me of the chief's office in an old cop movie from the eighties. It is filled with paraphernalia collected over what is clearly a long career at the Herald, one that is in desperate need of retirement might I add. Faded photographs cover the walls, their washed out colours testament to the age of the camera that took them, a far cry from the high resolution and printing quality of the modern era. Framed front pages of actual newspapers demonstrate that the owner’s career is way past its due date. A wooden bookshelf on one wall is filled with awards and trophies, some new and shiny, others old and tarnished, but all speaking of journalistic excellence. I scan them for dates and am surprised to see there are a few recent additions.

            The desk is an old battered wooden rectangle, its surface barely visible under the weight of in and out trays, stacks of A4 papers and copies of print. The space in the centre has been kept clear for a laptop, which looks more out of place among the antiquity than a stripper at a retirement home. Barely visible among the stacks of paper, a wooden name plaque reads John Holmes – Editor in Chief. Next to it an old white desk clock, the type that tells the time and date with black flip down numbers, reads 10:28am, Fri March 9th. I mean, come on! Who needs a desk clock anyway, when you are sitting behind a computer?

            The main behind the desk is a perfect match for the office. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up past his elbows. Over the shirt he wears a brown vest straight out of the seventies. The desk obscures his lower half but, earlier when he opened the door, I noticed his pants and shoes were also brown. Slap a few stickers on him and put him on an airport conveyor belt and some hippy would likely mistake him for their suitcase and take him home. I scan around the office for a hat stand sporting a brown Fedora hat, but on this point I am disappointed. John looks like he is in his sixties, with a grey, well-kept mustache and thick grey eyebrows behind a pair of thin spectacles. He is bald on top of his head, with a ring of shortly cropped grey hair wrapping around the side and back. He leans back in his leather chair comfortably, looking at me with steady brown eyes.

His calm manner is a complete counterpoint to the current turmoil roiling within my gut. I try again. ‘It’s a great story though! You can publish a chapter each week. It will increase sales of your paper.’ I am unsuccessful at keeping the anger and frustration I am feeling out of my voice.

            ‘Dan, for the third time, we can’t and it won’t. I’ve got forty years in the newspaper industry and I can tell you, fictional stories published in newspapers do not increase sales, do not drive subscriptions and do not improve our customer’s experience. Our readers are after sports, news, politics, gossip and light entertainment. If they want a book, they’ll buy it.’

            I jump up from my chair and pace across the small office. John remains in his chair, stubbornly unmoved by my frustration, only his eyes tracking my progress.

            ‘But I’ve tried getting it published, and nothing. I even self-published it and have close to a thousand copies in my apartment at home which I can’t give away. I’m desperate.’ I am pleading now, and I hate myself for it.

            ‘That’s the book publishing industry for you. Patience and persistence is needed to succeed.’

            ‘Patience and persistence won’t pay the bills though,’ I reply bitterly.

            John sighs, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on the desk. ‘Look, from what I’ve read of it, it sounds like a good story and I can tell you are a good writer. I’ve got a freelance budget; if you submit something to me I’ll consider it and if it’s good enough to print I'll pay you for it.’

            ‘I’ve just submitted something good enough to print!’ I insist.

            ‘That's subjective, and until you get it printed it remains to be seen.' His response is maddening, causing my anger to rise still further. 'I'm talking about something of appropriate subject matter for my readers. What other interests do you have besides fantasy and sci-fi?’

            ‘Nothing. I don’t want to write about anything else.’

            ‘Well, if you want to get paid to write while you find a way to get your novel published, then you're going to have to.’ There was an edge to John’s voice now, and I sense he is losing patience with me.

            ‘Do you have any suggestions?’ I ask, unable to stop the sarcasm from creeping in.

            He looks at me evenly, and after about three seconds I start to squirm under his gaze. ‘An interview. Get me an interview with a member of the community. God knows you could use some practice dealing with other people. Two thousand words and I’ll consider it.’

            ‘An interview?’ I ask, incredulous. ‘So you want me to go find some old person and write about quilting or something?’

            ‘Not if you want to get it printed. Something interesting. Now, if you’ll excuse me Mr. Myers? I have a three o’clock appointment and they are being kept waiting.’ As he speaks, John stands and circles his desk to the office door, open it and waits for me to leave.

            I grab the copy of The Gates of Eden I had brought with me from the desk top and stalk out of John's office. I have to cross the open-plan office floor to reach the lifts, and I feel the eyes of the newspaper staff on me. I refuse to meet anyone's gaze, keeping my eyes locked firmly on the lift. I stab aggressively at the lift button when I get there. The lift takes forever, a ping finally signals its arrival. I dodge through the doors before they are fully opened, hit “G” for ground floor and push the close door button. As the doors start to close, I turn and see a woman hurrying for the lift. There is an expression of dismay on her face. I keep my thumb on the close button and the doors shut in front of her.

            Inside the safety of the lift, I roughly pull off my tie and stuff it into my backpack, along with the copy of my book. When the lift doors open, I rudely brush past a man in a business suit waiting to get in, stalk through the foyer and out into the sunshine. It is a beautiful spring afternoon outside, with the sun in the sky and fluffy white clouds lazily floating past in a sea of brilliant blue. But inside my head a storm rages, clouds dark and full, lit up by angry flashes of lightning, the howl of the wind blocking out all other sounds. All I can think about is getting home.

I hope you enjoyed Chapter 1; look out for chapter 2 which will be posted in the coming days.