The Interview - 13. The office looks different

Chapter thirteen: The office looks different

The office looks different somehow, but I can’t pick it. The desk is as cluttered as ever, the same stacks of papers, clock and name plaque crowding the laptop. The photos and trophies have not changed, and nor has John. He sits behind the desk reading my submission and wearing an outfit that must either be the same, or very close to the one he was wearing on my previous visit.

            I am feeling as uncomfortable as I was in that last visit, waiting for him to finish reading and pass judgment on me. I shift in my chair a couple of times, before clearing my throat and asking timidly if he minds me taking a closer look at the pictures. He waves an okay without looking up from the reading, and I stand to study the photographs more closely. It occurs to me that each is a snapshot in time, evidence of the Herald’s proud heritage and decades of community involvement. There are black and white photos of the city from distant times, the streets wider, cars older, buildings shorter. There are photographs of a man I take to be a young John standing with other people; a past prime minister, a movie star, business leaders and politicians. There are shots of burnt-out buildings ringed by fire fighters, of men and women laying sandbags in the rain, desperately trying to contain the banks of an overflowing river. Happy moments and tragic moments. The trophies speak of excellence over many, many years. Some of them are to John himself, journalistic and editorial awards. Others are for the Herald as a whole, for outstanding coverage, sales performance, and printing excellence.

            After having gazed at them all, I retake my seat and it occurs to me that it is not the office itself that has changed, but my perception of it. When I first dropped in four days ago, I hated it, seeing it as outdated, shabby and old. Now it seems comfortable, full of character and charm. It would still not be a perfect match for me, but I can appreciate the history in it, the story it tells about the man behind the desk. It’s what I want one day; a desk and office that can speak of the good times and the hard, of the successes I’ve managed to achieve.

            The flipping of pages brings my attention back to the present and I see John has finished reading, and is looking at me over his glasses. His expression is unreadable and it causes me to return to shifting uncomfortably in my chair.

            ‘Is this a joke?’ he asks.

            My heart sinks. ‘You asked for an interview…’ I started meekly.

            ‘That’s true, though I’m pretty sure I asked for one with a member of the community.’

            ‘Well, God is a member of the community. This city no doubt has lots of religious denominations and the majority of them would be Christian. You also said to write something of interest to your readers, and I think they would find this article interesting.’

            I hold John’s gaze as he stares at me critically, determined not to look away. His eyes bore into me, as if he is trying to work out whether I am taking the piss or not. I want to show him that I am not, because I am really proud of the article I have written, and honestly want to get it printed. Perhaps twenty seconds go by, though it feels like an eternity. The room is silent, with only the sounds of the office filtering in to provide some background noise.

            At last John nods slowly. ‘It may be of interest to our readers. It is well written; funny and serious. How did you come up with it?’

            I keep a straight face, but something inside me leaps with pride that he is considering taking the piece. ‘I dreamed some of it and made up the rest,’ I tell him.

            He raises an eyebrow. “Dreamed? Well, it must have been a vivid dream, because apart from the fact it is obviously fiction, it is written very believably.’

            ‘So, you’ll print it?’ I ask.

            ‘It needs a little bit of work, but I’m willing to run it,’ he says.

            For a moment I bristle when he says it needs some work. Indignation rises inside of me as I am truly proud of what I have written. But then I realise that this could mean I am about to get paid for writing, and my face turns hopeful.

            ‘And you’ll pay me for it?’ I ask.

            ‘Yes, I’ll pay you for it.’

            ‘Thank you!’ I say, and I mean it. ‘So what happens next? You said the article might need a bit of work?’

            ‘I’ll take another look over it this afternoon and give you some suggestions. They won’t be big ones – there are only a few areas that we may need to tweak for our readers. Do you have this in soft copy?’ I nod, yes. ‘Good. Come back in an hour and I’ll have some notes for you. If you work on it this afternoon and can email through the final version, I’ll see if I can get it in tomorrow’s edition. We go to print tonight, so you’ll need to have it to me by four.’

            ‘I can do that,’ I reply.

            ‘Good,’ John says, standing and extending his hand for me to shake. I rise and take it. His grip is firm. ‘Congratulations. You’ve managed to get your fiction printed after-all.’

            I smile in reply, wondering how he would react if I tried to explain that it wasn’t fiction. He’d probably make a call to the local mental institute and have me committed.

            ‘I’d be willing to look at more articles from you, if you are interested?’ he offers, releasing my hand.

            My smile widens. ‘Very interested. Thanks.’

            ‘Good,’ he says, walking around the desk and opening the door for me. ‘Welcome to the Herald.’

            I walk out of the office, my heart feeling lighter and my future looking brighter than it has in a long time.