The Life and Times of a Times Reporter
Chapter One
She stands proudly, her hands on her hips as she surveys the room before her. It is a buzz with activity: the clacking of keyboards; the clicking of the printer; a light chatter of conversation; even the sound of quick footsteps. This is just the way she likes it. Activity means the reporters and editors are busy. Busy reporters and editors means that stories are being researched, written, and checked over. All is good.
With a contended sigh, Editor-in-Chief Rory Gilmore returns to her office and the seemingly endless list of tasks she has to complete. Busy is good, she reminds herself as she sits behind her desk and turns to her computer. The brunette shakes her mouse to wake up her computer and leans back to wait for the slightly out-dated machine to respond.
As she does, a knock sounds on her door. What now, she thinks before calling out for the knocker to enter. Whoever is on the other side of the oak door must not hear her as a knock sounds again. Again, Rory calls out. Again, the knock sounds.
Getting a little annoyed, Rory stands from her desk to answer the door. However, when she pulls open the wooden panel, there is no one there.
The knock sounds again.
Confused, Rory begins searching out the noise, but no source is immediately identifiable. What is going on?
"Mom!" the soft, though slightly concerned voice calls as the knock sounds a fifth time. Who is calling mom? Rory isn't a mom. What is going on?
"Mom! Wake up! We're going to be late?" the voice is louder, more panicked, and insistent. Rory's heart skips a beat.
The dream dissolved from one moment to the next. Reality quickly swept in. Rory was not at the office. She was not Editor-in-chief. She was, in fact, a mom. And it was her young son, anxious and worried, who was calling out to her and knocking on the door.
Groggily, Rory rolled over. What is he doing awake? It is still the middle of the night. The clock says –
"Shit," Rory swore, making sure to keep her voice low, a habit she has acquired from having a son who mimics every single word she says.
It was not the middle of the night. It was 7:30 am. She had half-an-hour to get ready, eat, and get her son to school for his 8 o'clock school start time. What happened to her 6:00 am alarm? She didn't have time to consider it at that moment. Rory Gilmore had to get her butt in gear.
"I'm awake, Ricky! Are you ready? Are you dressed? Have you brushed your teeth? You can have some of that sugary cereal for breakfast! I'll be right out!" Rory called out to her 9-year-old son, but is he heard her, she didn't know. No response came and she didn't have the time to check if he was ready for school and eating breakfast. Instead, she grabbed her outfit, laid out the night before, and headed to the bathroom.
Twenty minutes after being awoken from her dream, Rory was reasonably presentable. She didn't have any interviews or pitch meetings, so it would only be her two cubicle mates that would have to look at her, and neither Martin nor Claudia seemed to care what Rory looked like; they were both much too focused on their jobs. Also, it was the best she could do and still get Ricky to school on time so her current, slightly mussed state would have to do.
She rushed out of the main room of her small apartment, her stockinged feet slipping slightly on the floor as she did so. A small blonde boy was sitting at the small, slightly beaten kitchen table. His legs were swinging underneath the chair several inches off the floor. He was obviously anxious about potentially being late for school.
"Okay, Ricky. I'm ready. Let's go! We've got just enough time!" Rory called out as she slipped on her shoes and hooked her messenger-style bag over her shoulder. It was the perfect bag for carrying her notes and story documents, but if she wore it for too long, it started to hurt her shoulder. Ricky gave his mother an exasperated look before grabbing his more sensible backpack and heading to the door.
"You didn't sign my permission slip," Ricky muttered as Rory closed the door and locked it behind her.
"I'll sign it tonight," Rory responded, flustered and hurrying her sullen son towards the stairs and the busy New York street outside the front door. Ricky mumbled something else, but Rory didn't catch the words. All she was focused on was walking the nearly twelve blocks to Ricky's school in the seven minutes they had left before the bell rang. It would be quite the feet and she couldn't afford to be distracted by anything.
Rory walked into the bustling offices of the New York Times nearly an hour late. She and Ricky had managed to make it to school just at the final toll of the bell sounded. He had bounded up the stairs and blended in with the other students who had arrived on time. Rory had begun to feel quite proud of herself, having somehow managed to pull off the impossible.
Then it had hit her.
Did Ricky have a lunch? Rory couldn't remember making one the night before. She definitely hadn't made him on that morning. Did Ricky have a lunch in his bag? He wasn't holding it in his hand like he normally would have.
Quickly, Rory had run up the stairs after her son. She'd already forgotten his permission slip; she couldn't also forget to feed him. Surely, they would revoke her mom card for that.
"Ricky!" Rory had called, rushing through the busy hallways of her son's school. Children had looked up as she pushed passed, no doubt wondering what was wrong with the crazy woman. Finally, Rory had caught up with Ricky.
"Mom!" he had complained, "you're embarrassing me!"
"Lunch, Ricky. I need to make sure you have a lunch. I can't remember if I packed you one," Rory had whispered as she had begun to rifle through his bag. No lunch.
Realisation had then dawned on her son and his eyes had widened to the size of saucers in disbelief. Rory's heart had broken at that. She'd let her son down. Again.
"I'll get you something and leave it at the office! Go to class before you're late!" Rory had commanded, pushing Ricky towards the brightly coloured door that signified his fourth grade class.
It was because Rory had needed to find a last minute lunch for her son that Rory was late for work. She just hoped no one noticed.
As inconspicuously as possible, Rory walked to her desk and began the process of logging on to her computer. While she waited for the aged machine to boot up, she busied herself with organizing her paper notes. It may be a little old school, but Rory loved the feel of paper and pen while interviewing and researching. It just wasn't the same to type everything up. That stage came once she was sure she had everything finalised and ready to go to print.
Her computer was finally, and unfortunately loudly, booted up when the editor of major news poked her head into Rory's cubicle.
"Ah, Ms. Gilmore. Great to finally see you in the office today," Miranda, her boss, spoke. Rory struggled to pin down the other woman's tone. Was it genuine cheer or was it sarcastic? Not all reporters are always at their desks. It was quite normal for them to be absent for long stretches of time, in fact. So, Rory wasn't sure if her boss was suspicious of Rory's late entry or not.
"A word in my office, if you will," the woman, a strange sneer-like smile on her face, continued. Rory had less than an ideal relationship with Miranda. She often felt that the older woman, for whatever reason, was keeping her down. Rory was rarely given more than puff pieces and local interest stories; she hadn't had a real story in years. The woman had relatively cordial, business-like interactions, never particularly upsetting but also never more than pleasant greetings and work related discussions.
Now, she wasn't sure what to think. Why did Miranda want to talk to her? Was it good or bad? Slowly, Rory stood and followed after her boss. Better to get this over with now than sit at her desk and stew about what it could mean.
Miranda's office was something to be envied. Windows made up most of the two exterior walls of the room. The other walls were decorated with a mixture of tasteful modern art and award-winning pieces of journalism clipped from the pages of the New York Times in which they'd originally been published. The furniture matched the esthetic of the artwork to a tee. Rory, who was never all that concerned with interior design (a trait she proudly shared with her mother), still felt a jealous desire to have the office as her own whenever she walked into the spacious room.
This time, however, Rory didn't even look at what was in the office. She was far too focused on what Miranda wanted, what the wholly unpleasant woman would say.
All Miranda did was smile warmly at Rory for a minute before motioning to a plush chair set across from the large mahogany desk. Slowly, apprehensively, Rory sank down into the chair. She tried to plaster a smile on her face, but her internal emotions were so confused that she couldn't seem to control her facial muscles.
"Look, Miranda," Rory heard herself talk before she was aware that she was doing it. Miranda just levels her with a look that tells her to stop talking, which Rory's crazy muddled brain actually listened too. Rory sat in the plush chair quietly, waiting for Miranda to speak.
"Rory. You've been here for a few years now, and I know you haven't gotten to work on the most exciting stories in your time here," Miranda spoke. Rory felt herself tensing, bracing for what was coming. "I'm a firm believer in putting in the work. Nowadays, so many people are just handed success without having to work for it and just look at the mess we're in.
"But I digress. I think you're finally earned your chance at a big story, an investigable piece that will really test you as a journalist. This could be the story of the year, if you do it right. So, make sure you do it justice, really put in the work and the research, and don't mess this up." Miranda slid a large manila folder across the desk and motioned for Rory to leave.
Not wanted to spend a single second longer in Miranda's presence, Rory grabbed the folder without even really looking at it and hustled out of the room.
Rory didn't look at the folder until she was back in her cubicle and seated comfortably at her desk. Only then did she feel steady enough to open it. A big story was what Rory had been waiting for since she got the job at the New York Times nearly five years previously. She was a journalist, after all. A real journalist can only write about community center openings and street fairs for so long.
'This,' she thinks, 'is my big break. My name will finally be out there. I'll have a meaningful story under my belt.' Slowly, Rory opened the folder, revelling in the victory. As it lightly thuds open on her desk, the contents, basic research amounting to a simple profile, finally revealed, Rory froze.
Stuck on top of the familiar face and background information is a small sticky note with the word 'Corrupt?' written on it.
'The NYT wants to do an exposé on Logan Huntzberger and his potentially corrupt business practices? And they want me to be the reporter to cover it?'