SMeyer owns.
~Chapter 1~Coming Full Circle
BPOV
They say that you can never go home again. Well, I am certainly putting that theory to the test. It's hard to believe that after all of these years pushing as far away from home as I could, I've returned—returned to unpack all of my earthly possessions in this modest Seattle townhouse just six blocks from my new place of employment. A lot of things had changed over the past few months. Rather than avoiding the obvious any longer, I sucked it up and came home.
It was one of those rare, sunny spring days in Seattle, and I was just grateful that my dad was able to move the rest of the furniture I bought from the second-hand store in Forks without it getting drenched in the back of his truck. For the past couple of weeks, I had been dreading the move and the new job. After I put my dishes into the cupboard, I wondered about my new job and how exciting it would be to work at a newspaper that was bucking the system and adding new staff rather than downsizing.
The Gate Business Journal had an incredible and eclectic team of reporters and editors in San Francisco, and when I first started there, it was a dream job. Sure, it was hard with all of my added responsibilities. However, I had something that few fellow classmates vying for the same summer internship possessed—an unfaltering work ethic, fueled by the fact that I had everything to lose if I wasn't successful. I couldn't just go home, at least not then.
My humble beginnings consisted of rewrites and business briefs. If I were being honest, I would admit that while I certainly had a nose for news and a passion for entrepreneurs and economics, I was lagging in my ability to write perfect copy on deadline. Over my five years at The Gate, I had built myself a reputation for being able to write about anything in the realm of business—no matter whose beat I happened upon that day. Rolling with the punches and my special knack for pinch-hit writing were ultimately what enabled me to stay employed through two owners, three publishers and two editors.
Before Renee passed away two months ago though, I was already questioning how much longer the San Francisco Bay Area could sustain the thousands of trained journalists that resided within it. The housing crisis that kicked off our lovely little economic downturn has wreaked havoc on newspapers across the country. Real estate advertising has been one of the saving graces for newspapers, despite decades of declining readership. But when the bottom fell out of the housing market, I knew my days in San Francisco were numbered.
I never really got much from my relationship with Renee, except perhaps a strong desire to live my life very differently from the way she did. My level-headed nature and always having a backup plan were among my defining characteristics.
Thinking about Renee was still hard. She was always sick with some catastrophic disease or another, and so when she told me in January, during her belated Merry Christmas phone call, that she had breast cancer, I honestly didn't believe her. Her hypochondriac tendencies stretched back as early as I could remember. Over the years, Renee had been ravaged by the likes of Lupus, gout, colon cancer, chest pains, a couple of mini-strokes, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Diabetes, ulcers, a herniated disc in her spine, and asthma. She seemed to be allergic to everything on the planet.
The only thing she really had was hay fever, occasional bouts of asthma, and an extreme desire for morbid attention. She left Charlie and me and high-tailed it to Arizona when I was six years old. Pretty much the only time I heard from her was when she had some new medical melodrama to report on. I never for a moment considered that she would really be sick. The hospital said that for all of Renee's extensive medical files at Phoenix Mercy Medical Center, Renee had never opted for a mammogram.
At her funeral, when her husband and his brothers carried her casket out of the mortuary after the services, all I felt was a blank numbness. Looking back, I think my mother died that rainy fall day she drove away from Forks in her dirty Chevy Impala. I remember being physically ill for two weeks afterward. Charlie could barely get me to eat or get out of bed at the time. From that day forward she became known to me as Renee, because mom just didn't seem to fit anymore.
Rather than head back to San Francisco after the funeral, I extended my leave with some vacation time and spent a few weeks with Charlie to regroup. I had a lot to think about and too many responsibilities not to look at this as an opportunity to improve my life.
I sighed to myself as I stood up from squatting where I had been unpacking the last box in my kitchen. Not bad Swan, I thought looking around. There are some definite advantages in what my rent money buys me in Seattle over San Francisco.
I stood up and dusted off the cardboard bits from the front of my jeans and washed the newsprint off my hands. Looking out the kitchen window, I saw the sun setting and smiled to myself. Even though my place was close to downtown, there was lingering evidence of the families that called this neighborhood home. A tricycle teetered on the edge of a walkway in the narrow fenced front yard across the street, like it was abandoned mid-ride. Shaking off nostalgia, I pulled the curtains shut. I wrapped my arms around myself thinking that tomorrow's dawn was bringing me more than the first day at a new job.
******
"No, Dad, that isn't necessary," I said as I struggled to wiggle into my pantyhose with my ear to the phone. "I got most of the big boxes unpacked last night, and I can just do a few more in the evenings as I have time."
"OK, well I took the last of the unwanted boxes to the Goodwill, and Sue and I can bring up your truck this weekend," he said.
Charlie's voice was even, but I could hear the excitement behind his offer. After nearly eleven years of absence, his daughter was home. Even though he lived more than an hour away, he planned on making up for lost time.
We said our goodbyes, and I finished ironing my skirt and got dressed. I looked in the mirror and pushed down the nervous butterflies in my stomach. I downed the rest of my coffee, grabbed my briefcase and raced out the door.
******
Marcus hefted me my "welcome-to-the-company" packet and its customary gigantoid section of Human Resource forms. "That should keep you busy for awhile," he chuckled, "but don't think you are getting out of writing a story just because it's your first day."
I smiled to myself. These days, reporters and editors worked even harder than they did a few years ago—just to keep up with the constant and never-ending pace to stay afloat. "I wouldn't dream of it sir," I said with a smirk.
"Great, when you are finished with those, we'll grab some coffee, and I'll show you around the newsroom and then take you downstairs," Marcus said as he turned back to his desk to grab his ringing phone.
As I sat down to fill out paperwork, I had an opportunity to check out the newsroom. There were piles of newspapers on nearly every desk, and file cabinets that were chock full with papers sticking out the top. The desks were arranged in numerous pods of four and were facing each other with a small, empty square in the center. Computer screens and stacks of piled court documents, steno books and city council agendas offered reporters a reprieve from staring at their colleagues while working on their stories. There were a few obvious inside jokes plastered to walls, along with a cork board 'wall of shame' full of red-marked clippings from competing newspapers. At the end of the room, I saw big screened computers and large scale printers for the graphic and copy desks. The walls held the last week's worth of front page editions of the King County Reporter.
The American newsroom is nearly a 24-hour a day operation, and from the slow start of less than a dozen people on the floor, it was clearly just the beginning of the one. I could smell coffee brewing and hear the sounds of people turning on their computers and checking voicemail before officially starting their day. The night shift janitor was still fumbling with emptying the last of the trash cans and recycling bins from the night before.
As I stood up to walk back to Marcus' desk, I bumped into a photographer racing back to the photo desk to listen to something coming across the scanner. "Oh, good morning," I offered shyly.
"Sorry about that, false alarm at the nursing home. So hey, you must be the new girl. Isabella right?" he said, catching up to me. Holding his camera to the side, he offered me a hand.
"Yep, that's me. I prefer Bella actually," I said, shaking his hand. "And you are?"
"Jacob Black, photo and graphics editor and honorary staff comedian. Look, I've got to run to shoot a press conference, but I'll definitely be seeing more of you later," he said looking me up and down with a wink. I groaned inwardly at the innuendo and kept walking. I made a mental note to steer clear of Jacob, though I couldn't help but notice his muscular arms and tight butt as he headed to the door with his equipment. You know it's been a while when even the insulting, cocky guy catches your eye.
Marcus saw me coming, grabbed his coffee cup, and smiled. "All set?"
"Think so," I offered.
"Great, I want to introduce you to someone." He pointed me in the direction a blond, in the midst of a heated phone conversation in the corner of the room.
"I don't care if you have fifteen appointments today. You may have said you would be there between 8 a.m. and 1 p.m., but I have a life and a job and if you want my business you are going to need to be more specific than that," she said, half turning towards us, holding her finger up to us to wait a moment. "I take my lunch between 11 and noon today. That's the best I can do. If your little white van doesn't drive up before I leave, then I'll call your competitor and see if he can satisfy me!" She slammed down her phone, and breathed a moment to collect herself before looking back to us.
"What's up, Marcus?"
Looking amused by her phone exchange, Marcus introduced me. "This is the new business editor and writer from San Francisco that I was telling you about," he said.
"Well, it's about goddamn time Marcus," she said sticking out her hand to me. "Sorry, but if I had to cover another business closure or unemployment update I was considering offing myself. I can cover murder trials all day long, but listening to the mom and pop shop crying over how their sales have plummeted and how they've been forced to empty their life savings to keep their doors open through the recession? That shit is depressing."
"Yeah, it's looking pretty bleak out there lately," I said. "BellaS wan."
"Rosalie Hale. Glad to have you on board. A little more estrogen in the newsroom is always appreciated. Now if you will excuse me, I've got to run to the sheriff's station and check the blotter before the Internet guy can get to my house."
"Don't let her fool you with that girlie estrogen crap, Rose covers cops and courts better than any man I've had the pleasure to work with," Marcus joked as we walked towards the elevator. "Most of the staff are out on their beat or start a little later, but working on business, you get one of our rare 8 to 5-er positions. Lucky you."
I gave him a sideways smile as he punched the first floor button. I already liked my new city editor, and thought he would be a good ally in the newsroom. Newsrooms had a tendency to be hostile places. The very nature of deadlines, aggressive personalities, and stressful stories meant that an ally was golden.
Marcus explained that he was taking me to meet with the publisher. Before I accepted the position, I got the lay of the land for what I could expect. With the exception of a sole general assignment reporter and the occasional freelancer or columnist, I was on my own for providing copy for my section three days a week. For my section in particular, meeting and establishing a professional rapport with the publisher was a make it or break it venture. While the editor in chief was responsible for the newsroom and general news direction, the publisher oversaw the whole publication. Occasionally you'll find a few publishers that actually care about news, but in general, the publisher keeps a watchful eye on the bottom line.
That is where I came in. The business editor sets the tone for all the clients that represent money to the newspaper. They also come most closely to walking the ethical line. An ethical publisher wouldn't have much contact with the business editor; a bad one would be an ugly, up-close and personal relationship that discredits good work. As we walked through the advertising department to the executive offices, I felt my hands get clammy as I reminded myself what exactly was on the line.
You can handle him Bella, just turn on the charm and let him know what you're made of, I reassured myself.
"Bella, meet our founder, owner and publisher Mr. Aro Volturi," Marcus offered grandly.
I put on my confident smile and shook the hand of my new boss, while my inner voice screamed:
Oh, Bella you are so fucked.
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