Life at the Daily Beard
Darcy came in and parked herself on my neighbour's chair, looking rather murderous.
"What's he gone and done now?" I said. 'He' being Flintstone, the Daily Beard's very own Wizard of Id, the editor-in-chief. There are a million sources of irritation on the premises of the newspaper office, but there's no mistaking that certain look of homicidal rage that The Flint alone can manage to induce in his minions.
"Hecalledatseveninthemorningtoaskmeforaphonenumber," she hissed.
I turned around.
"He what?"
"He. Called me. At... seven. In the morning."
"Oh my god, seven?"
"To ask me. For a phone number. A reporter's phone number. He called me."
"Why didn't he call his secretary?"
"Why didn't he call his secretary? Listen to this. He actually has this reporter's number. On his cell phone. He called me to check if it was correct, because she wasn't picking up her phone. I don't know why she wasn't picking up her phone, but it was probably because she knows that he only calls for the most inane reasons, such as, getting a phone number that he already has."
"Man, that blows!" I said, channelling a neat mix of shock and sympathy. "You should quit," I added for good measure. "That'll show him."
She punched me on the arm, rolled her eyes, and ran off to transmit her tale of woe to the gaggle of girls at the photo desk.
The photo editing department is ridiculously overstaffed, considering that we only have one proper photographer, no cartoonist, no charts or graphs or illustrations of any sort in our paper... the photo desk consists of two semi-talented young 'uns, and about fourteen fly-swatters who specialise in gossip by invention and multiplication. (Once, some old dude asked Darcy for a light during her cigarette break, and by the next day rumours were spinning through the bureau that she had had a secret rendezvous avec her new boyfriend and that they were seen kissing under the banyan tree. And this is the crowd Darcy hangs with. The girl never learns.)
"What's he gone and done now?" I said. 'He' being Flintstone, the Daily Beard's very own Wizard of Id, the editor-in-chief. There are a million sources of irritation on the premises of the newspaper office, but there's no mistaking that certain look of homicidal rage that The Flint alone can manage to induce in his minions.
"Hecalledatseveninthemorningtoaskmeforaphonenumber," she hissed.
I turned around.
"He what?"
"He. Called me. At... seven. In the morning."
"Oh my god, seven?"
"To ask me. For a phone number. A reporter's phone number. He called me."
"Why didn't he call his secretary?"
"Why didn't he call his secretary? Listen to this. He actually has this reporter's number. On his cell phone. He called me to check if it was correct, because she wasn't picking up her phone. I don't know why she wasn't picking up her phone, but it was probably because she knows that he only calls for the most inane reasons, such as, getting a phone number that he already has."
"Man, that blows!" I said, channelling a neat mix of shock and sympathy. "You should quit," I added for good measure. "That'll show him."
She punched me on the arm, rolled her eyes, and ran off to transmit her tale of woe to the gaggle of girls at the photo desk.
The photo editing department is ridiculously overstaffed, considering that we only have one proper photographer, no cartoonist, no charts or graphs or illustrations of any sort in our paper... the photo desk consists of two semi-talented young 'uns, and about fourteen fly-swatters who specialise in gossip by invention and multiplication. (Once, some old dude asked Darcy for a light during her cigarette break, and by the next day rumours were spinning through the bureau that she had had a secret rendezvous avec her new boyfriend and that they were seen kissing under the banyan tree. And this is the crowd Darcy hangs with. The girl never learns.)
Truth is, I wasn't much surprised by The Flint's latest manoeuvre. The man specialises in aggravating us, and just when you creep up behind him with a hatchet to end the agony once and for all, he will say something ju-u-u-st nice enough to make you feel like an ungrateful berk.
Darcy is the diametrical opposite of Flintstone. She litters the bureau and its denizens with random acts of kindness; and she's a terrible judge of character (but great fun to hang with). She stopped taking me seriously about a month ago, which is a pity, because her "REE-ally!?" was one of the most satisfying responses in the world.
Darcy is one of exactly three pal-worthy people I've found at the Daily Beard. There's Marguerite, my food buddy, who will cheerfully join me in polishing off two vats of french fries without a peep about this Atkins-schmatkins baloney. We really have nothing else in common, but la nourriture, as everyone knows (or should know), is a great medium for comradeship. Mag puts the Beard on the web, and helps out with a million other little things that aren't really part of her job. Mag and Darcy have a designated tittering gossipy session at the five o'clock coffee-break every evening without fail. But if you ask them, they'll each deny being particularly good friends with the other.
Mag and Darcy are all right, but Fazal is the main reason that l'anéantissement that's an inextricable part of working at the Beard hasn't driven me stark, staring mad. Named (by his overly optimistic father, I imagine) after the legendary Pakistani cricket captain and seam bowler Fazal Mahmood, he had no choice, growing up with that nomenclatural legacy, to end up an ardent... sports writer? no. Fashion correspondent.
Fazal is probaly the only other person on this island that abhors songs that play on the radio. In fact, that was the genesis of our friendship: our shared bewilderment at the entire country's seeming love affair with mindless mainstream mass-produced music industry junk. Then we discovered that we read the same sort of books, watched the same range of movies, and were addicted to the same general variety of web comics. Alors, the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Fazal is probaly the only other person on this island that abhors songs that play on the radio. In fact, that was the genesis of our friendship: our shared bewilderment at the entire country's seeming love affair with mindless mainstream mass-produced music industry junk. Then we discovered that we read the same sort of books, watched the same range of movies, and were addicted to the same general variety of web comics. Alors, the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
