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Authors: Nina Siegal
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jobs here at the moment, but we should get to know each other in case something opens up. They call Zachariah Zip, over there, don’t they?” he said. “I love that. If it makes you feel more at home, you can call me Buzz. Some of the reporters here do already. It’s kind of a tease.”
I was pretty sure this Phipps just wanted to eyeball me so he’d know how to spot me in a room. But I realized at my interview that he’d be my future boss, if I’d have him. He flipped through my stack of clips and clucked, “Quite a nose for news.”
Buzz Phipps had a face like a new BMW sports car: sleek aerodynamic curves and a buffed, hot-waxed patina, tested for maximum performance on scenic mountain roads, seen idling in French hamlets before quaint patisseries. Around town, I knew, Buzz kept a harem of hair-care specialists, massage therapists, manicure-pedicurists, personal trainers, wardrobe consultants, eyebrow experts, ear-and-nose-hair pluckers. And there were fashion designers and boutique managers throughout Manhattan who’d rescheduled a Rothschild to offer Buzz a fitting.
I told him I wasn’t seeking a job at The Paper.
“Nonsense” was his answer. “You’re no slouch, but working for that glossy doesn’t say so,” he added confidentially. “Even a year here would make you legit. But you should already be thinking about your career, big picture. Not just your next little scoop.”
Nothing on him moved. A Kansas-style twister couldn’t put a single hair on Buzz Phipps’s pate out of place. His blond haircambered off his brow with a gravity-defying curl. His slacks were pressed along the fold, his fine leather belt polished black and his buckle shined. A form-fitting shirt revealed a neat thicket of brown hair just beneath his bronzed throat. His lips were ample and pink, his teeth porcelain. And his eyes were, with the aid of contacts, pale blue verging on gray.
“I’ll think it over,” I said.
On the way home, I considered my mother back in Oregon, who paid five dollars weekly for the Sunday edition. She’d moved off the farm some years back, but she still had her ideals. Even if I didn’t work for the investigative team, writing for The Paper would prove I’d made something of my life.
The next day, I told Zip I wouldn’t be able to cash his blank check after all. He leaned back in his massage recliner and turned the volume to throb. “They were smart to steal you; you’re just what they need to shake up that sleepy section. But if you ever get tired of the scholarly life, come join us again in the gutter.”
I learned quickly that my life at The Paper wasn’t going to be cush. First off, the hours were a working stiff’s. At Gotham’s Gate writers arrived at noon and milled at the water cooler till six. At The Paper, reporters started at ten, worked till ten, and called home nightly to say they were running late. Second, there were new rules I had to obey: I couldn’t accept freebies over twenty-five bills—none of the gentle exfoliating cleansers, acid-free jojobas, or aloe vera extracts that arrived on my desk by the ribboned bagful. I had to bundle those off to Goodwill. No junkets, and free tickets were allowed only if I was really writing about the event. The bigger glitch for me, though, was the almost-outright ban on unnamed sources. I couldn’t quote half my friends. It was like running a pub during prohibition: traffic only in teetotalers.
The Paper was rigorous with the facts. Everything that appeared in print had to be both true and verified. This was new territory for me. So, in my first few months on Style, I inadvertently became a star feature in the “Corrections” column, on page two. The copy desk checked stories before they ran, but if they missed the smallest fault, there were always a million amateur fact-checkers among our readership ready to point out a mistake. When the Letters desk got a call, Buzz got a call, and then I got a call, and I had to oblige with
I was pretty sure this Phipps just wanted to eyeball me so he’d know how to spot me in a room. But I realized at my interview that he’d be my future boss, if I’d have him. He flipped through my stack of clips and clucked, “Quite a nose for news.”
Buzz Phipps had a face like a new BMW sports car: sleek aerodynamic curves and a buffed, hot-waxed patina, tested for maximum performance on scenic mountain roads, seen idling in French hamlets before quaint patisseries. Around town, I knew, Buzz kept a harem of hair-care specialists, massage therapists, manicure-pedicurists, personal trainers, wardrobe consultants, eyebrow experts, ear-and-nose-hair pluckers. And there were fashion designers and boutique managers throughout Manhattan who’d rescheduled a Rothschild to offer Buzz a fitting.
I told him I wasn’t seeking a job at The Paper.
“Nonsense” was his answer. “You’re no slouch, but working for that glossy doesn’t say so,” he added confidentially. “Even a year here would make you legit. But you should already be thinking about your career, big picture. Not just your next little scoop.”
Nothing on him moved. A Kansas-style twister couldn’t put a single hair on Buzz Phipps’s pate out of place. His blond haircambered off his brow with a gravity-defying curl. His slacks were pressed along the fold, his fine leather belt polished black and his buckle shined. A form-fitting shirt revealed a neat thicket of brown hair just beneath his bronzed throat. His lips were ample and pink, his teeth porcelain. And his eyes were, with the aid of contacts, pale blue verging on gray.
“I’ll think it over,” I said.
On the way home, I considered my mother back in Oregon, who paid five dollars weekly for the Sunday edition. She’d moved off the farm some years back, but she still had her ideals. Even if I didn’t work for the investigative team, writing for The Paper would prove I’d made something of my life.
The next day, I told Zip I wouldn’t be able to cash his blank check after all. He leaned back in his massage recliner and turned the volume to throb. “They were smart to steal you; you’re just what they need to shake up that sleepy section. But if you ever get tired of the scholarly life, come join us again in the gutter.”
I learned quickly that my life at The Paper wasn’t going to be cush. First off, the hours were a working stiff’s. At Gotham’s Gate writers arrived at noon and milled at the water cooler till six. At The Paper, reporters started at ten, worked till ten, and called home nightly to say they were running late. Second, there were new rules I had to obey: I couldn’t accept freebies over twenty-five bills—none of the gentle exfoliating cleansers, acid-free jojobas, or aloe vera extracts that arrived on my desk by the ribboned bagful. I had to bundle those off to Goodwill. No junkets, and free tickets were allowed only if I was really writing about the event. The bigger glitch for me, though, was the almost-outright ban on unnamed sources. I couldn’t quote half my friends. It was like running a pub during prohibition: traffic only in teetotalers.
The Paper was rigorous with the facts. Everything that appeared in print had to be both true and verified. This was new territory for me. So, in my first few months on Style, I inadvertently became a star feature in the “Corrections” column, on page two. The copy desk checked stories before they ran, but if they missed the smallest fault, there were always a million amateur fact-checkers among our readership ready to point out a mistake. When the Letters desk got a call, Buzz got a call, and then I got a call, and I had to oblige with
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