lobster salad sculpture of a giant koi. Beside me was my bride, but I couldn’t see her face. She was hidden by a veil of newsprint. As I was about to say “I do,” the waiter handed me a bill for the event and said my credit card had been denied. The bride screeched, and the rabbi beseeched the crowd, “If there is anyone present who can afford to marry this woman, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”
I bolted up in bed. I needed a raise.
I had never asked for one before. In fact, I didn’t know if anyone at The Paper ever had. Newspapers aren’t like banks. Your byline is your only bonus. I had always accepted that being underpaid and overworked was the natural order of things. Suddenly, I could see a future that included a bedroom. Andstemware. It was like Mike had thrown open a damask curtain revealing an intoxicating new vista.
Feeling invigorated, I went for a short run and then charged uptown to work through lightly falling snow. When assigned to elevator B, I queued up with a sense of purpose and entitlement. I knew writers in the Entertainment section making double my salary. I wasn’t going to ask for double, but I sure as hell was going to ask for my fair share.
Assuming I ever got upstairs. Elevator B was MIA.
Joe Mariano, a business columnist, was standing beside me. “If I wanted an extra half-hour commute, I’d move to Westchester,” he said.
As if on cue, the errant but energy-efficient elevator arrived and whisked us upward. There was a newly installed digital screen where floor numbers could be displayed—
could be
but were not. When the doors opened, I poked out my head and scooted down the hall. I could hear Joe ask in his native Brooklyn patois: “Does anyone know what friggin’ floor we’re on?”
Moments later I was at my desk, but Renée was not at hers.
“Have you seen Renée?” I asked Tony.
“Target at twelve o’clock,” he said without taking his eyes off his monitor.
Renée was in a glass conference room with Tucker Prescott, the head of the Lifestyles department. That was unusual. They had what I considered a unique working relationship: He barely tolerated her existence, and she pretended not to notice, which seemed to be working for them. Implicitly, interactions were kept to a minimum.
“I want to talk to her about a raise,” I confided in Tony, testing his reaction.
“Good luck with that,” he said, still glued to his computer screen. “They just announced layoffs.”
“Who? When? Where?” I stuttered.
“I’m just reporting it as I’m reading it,” Tony said.
My stomach churned as I quickly logged on. “Did they send out an e-mail?”
“Fat chance,” Tony said. “I’m reading Gawker.”
Gawker, the gossipy Web site devoted to all things snarky and sleazy in the media industry, was the best source of in-house news. When a music critic ripped the toupee off a copy editor and had to be restrained by a security guard, Gawker had the story with video before the rumor had circulated past the third floor.
I found it disappointing that people didn’t have a greater sense of loyalty to The Paper. But at times like this, I was also grateful.
According to Gawker, unnamed sources at The Paper predicted the imminent elimination of 150 news staff jobs, which was roughly equivalent to recent announced cuts at the
L.A. Times
and the
Washington Post
. As if that was consolation.
With all the newspapers pulling back, it would be nearly impossible to find a job if I was laid off. I knew I shouldn’t assume that I would be. In fact, there was no proof that anyone would be. Gawker often got things wrong. Fact-checking was not their forte. I needed to find out if other news sites were carrying the story. My phone rang, and I distractedly answered while scanning CNN’s home page.
“This is Emily from the
Today Show
.”
I freaked out. The
Today Show
’s standards were much higher than Gawker’s. What did they know that I didn’t?
“I have
I bolted up in bed. I needed a raise.
I had never asked for one before. In fact, I didn’t know if anyone at The Paper ever had. Newspapers aren’t like banks. Your byline is your only bonus. I had always accepted that being underpaid and overworked was the natural order of things. Suddenly, I could see a future that included a bedroom. Andstemware. It was like Mike had thrown open a damask curtain revealing an intoxicating new vista.
Feeling invigorated, I went for a short run and then charged uptown to work through lightly falling snow. When assigned to elevator B, I queued up with a sense of purpose and entitlement. I knew writers in the Entertainment section making double my salary. I wasn’t going to ask for double, but I sure as hell was going to ask for my fair share.
Assuming I ever got upstairs. Elevator B was MIA.
Joe Mariano, a business columnist, was standing beside me. “If I wanted an extra half-hour commute, I’d move to Westchester,” he said.
As if on cue, the errant but energy-efficient elevator arrived and whisked us upward. There was a newly installed digital screen where floor numbers could be displayed—
could be
but were not. When the doors opened, I poked out my head and scooted down the hall. I could hear Joe ask in his native Brooklyn patois: “Does anyone know what friggin’ floor we’re on?”
Moments later I was at my desk, but Renée was not at hers.
“Have you seen Renée?” I asked Tony.
“Target at twelve o’clock,” he said without taking his eyes off his monitor.
Renée was in a glass conference room with Tucker Prescott, the head of the Lifestyles department. That was unusual. They had what I considered a unique working relationship: He barely tolerated her existence, and she pretended not to notice, which seemed to be working for them. Implicitly, interactions were kept to a minimum.
“I want to talk to her about a raise,” I confided in Tony, testing his reaction.
“Good luck with that,” he said, still glued to his computer screen. “They just announced layoffs.”
“Who? When? Where?” I stuttered.
“I’m just reporting it as I’m reading it,” Tony said.
My stomach churned as I quickly logged on. “Did they send out an e-mail?”
“Fat chance,” Tony said. “I’m reading Gawker.”
Gawker, the gossipy Web site devoted to all things snarky and sleazy in the media industry, was the best source of in-house news. When a music critic ripped the toupee off a copy editor and had to be restrained by a security guard, Gawker had the story with video before the rumor had circulated past the third floor.
I found it disappointing that people didn’t have a greater sense of loyalty to The Paper. But at times like this, I was also grateful.
According to Gawker, unnamed sources at The Paper predicted the imminent elimination of 150 news staff jobs, which was roughly equivalent to recent announced cuts at the
L.A. Times
and the
Washington Post
. As if that was consolation.
With all the newspapers pulling back, it would be nearly impossible to find a job if I was laid off. I knew I shouldn’t assume that I would be. In fact, there was no proof that anyone would be. Gawker often got things wrong. Fact-checking was not their forte. I needed to find out if other news sites were carrying the story. My phone rang, and I distractedly answered while scanning CNN’s home page.
“This is Emily from the
Today Show
.”
I freaked out. The
Today Show
’s standards were much higher than Gawker’s. What did they know that I didn’t?
“I have
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