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Authors: Tracy Kiely
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office, sidled up to my desk. More than one female head turned his way as he did. Sam is hands down the best-looking guy in the office. Of course, the competition isn’t too fierce; the guy in second place is balding with stubby fingers and a paunch. Still, with his broad shoulders and chiseled features, Sam’s not too shabby. Over the years, Sam’s friendship with me has prompted a few catty comments, but that’s all we’ve ever been—friends. He’s been happily dating a girl named Amanda for over a year. However, even though Sam has Amanda and I have Peter, that doesn’t stop the office gossips from making their assumptions.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Parker,” Sam said with a smirk. “Hannigan’s here. Apparently he’s got some brilliant new idea. Come, the conference room awaits us.”
Shit. Richard Hannigan—or Dickey as we subordinates call him when he is out of earshot—is the managing editor/owner of the paper. Once a month or so he appears unannounced armed with some new idea that he guarantees will revitalize the paper’s “chi” (his word) and boost circulation. The staff is then herded much like cattle into the conference room Dickey commandeers whenever he visits, where we listen in rapt silence to this new idea. These sessions last anywhere from two to four hours. Lunch is not served.
My eyes darted from Sam to the conference room to the elevators. Did I have time to sneak out unnoticed and then call in sick? Before I could bolt, Sam anticipated my move. “Don’t even try it, Parker. I will rat you out in a heartbeat. Sharon already knows I’m here. If I have to waste my day in there, then so do you.” To prove his point, he called out, “Sharon? Elizabeth is here. We can get started when you’re ready!”
“You bastard!” I said, laughing. I couldn’t be mad at him; I would have done the exact same thing if the situation were reversed. Sam and I depended on each other during those meetings, mainly to help one another stay awake, although sometimes a quick sanity check was in order.
Grabbing my notebook, I trudged into the room behind Sam and took a seat at the large oval table next to him. While the rest of the staff filed in, I studied the walls for any new additions.
As Dickey used the conference room as his office, he decorated it as if it was his as well. Therefore, there was the standard vanity wall—or in Dickey’s case, three vanity walls. For those unfamiliar with such walls, every inch is covered with framed pictures of celebrities from all fields—politics, entertainment, sports, you name it. Most of them have meaningless inscriptions scrawled across the bottom, such as “Dear Richard, You’re the best! Keep up the great work!” Although most of the pictures are standard publicity head shots, Dickey does feature in a few of the pictures himself, “caught” at some function yakking it up with some bigwig. These pictures are usually the same, a group of people standing around at some cocktail party all grinning foolishly at the camera. Dickey’s always easy to spot. First of all he’s completely bald, five foot five and a good deal north of two hundred pounds. He’s also usually on the edge of the crowd, looking like he just ran over in time for the shutter to snap, which, knowing Dickey, is probably the case.
However, the first time you see Dickey’s vanity walls, you tend to be impressed. You believe that he actually knows all these people. I did, anyway, until we received a publicity still of Angelina Jolie along with a form letter thanking Dickey for his fan letter. Two days later I noticed the picture on the wall—framed—complete with an inscription that Dickey presumably had added himself. Although it could have been signed by his secretary, Barbara Clark. For unknown reasons she adores Dickey and probably would give him her kidney if asked. I should also mention that Barbara lives alone with six cats.
Of course, I wasted no time relaying that
“Don’t get too comfortable, Parker,” Sam said with a smirk. “Hannigan’s here. Apparently he’s got some brilliant new idea. Come, the conference room awaits us.”
Shit. Richard Hannigan—or Dickey as we subordinates call him when he is out of earshot—is the managing editor/owner of the paper. Once a month or so he appears unannounced armed with some new idea that he guarantees will revitalize the paper’s “chi” (his word) and boost circulation. The staff is then herded much like cattle into the conference room Dickey commandeers whenever he visits, where we listen in rapt silence to this new idea. These sessions last anywhere from two to four hours. Lunch is not served.
My eyes darted from Sam to the conference room to the elevators. Did I have time to sneak out unnoticed and then call in sick? Before I could bolt, Sam anticipated my move. “Don’t even try it, Parker. I will rat you out in a heartbeat. Sharon already knows I’m here. If I have to waste my day in there, then so do you.” To prove his point, he called out, “Sharon? Elizabeth is here. We can get started when you’re ready!”
“You bastard!” I said, laughing. I couldn’t be mad at him; I would have done the exact same thing if the situation were reversed. Sam and I depended on each other during those meetings, mainly to help one another stay awake, although sometimes a quick sanity check was in order.
Grabbing my notebook, I trudged into the room behind Sam and took a seat at the large oval table next to him. While the rest of the staff filed in, I studied the walls for any new additions.
As Dickey used the conference room as his office, he decorated it as if it was his as well. Therefore, there was the standard vanity wall—or in Dickey’s case, three vanity walls. For those unfamiliar with such walls, every inch is covered with framed pictures of celebrities from all fields—politics, entertainment, sports, you name it. Most of them have meaningless inscriptions scrawled across the bottom, such as “Dear Richard, You’re the best! Keep up the great work!” Although most of the pictures are standard publicity head shots, Dickey does feature in a few of the pictures himself, “caught” at some function yakking it up with some bigwig. These pictures are usually the same, a group of people standing around at some cocktail party all grinning foolishly at the camera. Dickey’s always easy to spot. First of all he’s completely bald, five foot five and a good deal north of two hundred pounds. He’s also usually on the edge of the crowd, looking like he just ran over in time for the shutter to snap, which, knowing Dickey, is probably the case.
However, the first time you see Dickey’s vanity walls, you tend to be impressed. You believe that he actually knows all these people. I did, anyway, until we received a publicity still of Angelina Jolie along with a form letter thanking Dickey for his fan letter. Two days later I noticed the picture on the wall—framed—complete with an inscription that Dickey presumably had added himself. Although it could have been signed by his secretary, Barbara Clark. For unknown reasons she adores Dickey and probably would give him her kidney if asked. I should also mention that Barbara lives alone with six cats.
Of course, I wasted no time relaying that
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