City slicker

It makes a noise.

There is a distinctly audible click.

It happens when you know, in no uncertain terms, that it’s closed. That there has been a shut off, a shut down; a closing of the proverbial book. And you further know, that any futile effort on your behalf to pry it back open, to jam a foot back in the door, would be viewed as somewhat pathetic. The moment is gone, opportunity lost. Move on, move away. For God’s sake, whatever you do, leave the room.

Two years ago, I found myself sitting in a news editor’s office, interviewing for a position as a city reporter at a community paper. I was pretty sure I didn’t want the job; I had just been offered one as an editor at a magazine I had interned at all through school, but I hadn’t started yet, and being superstitious as I am, I figured it couldn’t hurt.

So let’s go back.

I’m sitting on a swivel chair, which is clothed in faded grey plaid. There is a huge, bright yellow plastic, decorative pencil in a corner of the room. The editor of the paper is sitting on an equally worn-out chair in front of me, one thin leg tucked under the other. Her long hair is loose; she wears a chunky necklace that makes me think of a beach vacation. She is the only person I know to actually look good in a pair of white jeans. She takes a swig from a Naya bottle and screws the cap back on tightly.

‘So,’ she says to me, ‘let’s see what you’ve got.’

Tentatively, I hand over my portfolio, bursting at the seams with clippings on library closures, school board meetings and bake sales. There were a few articles I had written on such weighty matters as softwood lumber, international trade and energy policy, all for the magazine I was due to start working at in a few weeks time. I proudly displayed these on top.

She looked at these first.

‘Hmmm.’ She screws up her mouth, bunching her cranberry lips into a terse, wrinkled, 0. I would have put a semicolon there…sorry…I’m a sucker for grammar.’

The insult. The assault.

We chat. She questions. I answer. I qualify, she quantifies. She tells me about her passion for journalism, for the written word, for the community her paper reports on. We talk about her kids, I listen. The phone rings. We talk about juggling domestic responsibilities with work demands. I decide I like her.

‘So. What are they going to be offering you at the magazine?’ she asks.

I toss out the truthful number.

She sighs.

‘I can’t offer you that. I can’t offer you even close to that.’

We stare at each other.

‘I’m going to tell you something,’ she says. ‘When I was in my late 20s, I had two young kids and my husband had just lost his job. I was making a pretty decent salary in a PR firm. But you know what? An opportunity came up at a little, community paper, as an assistant editor. I would be making $17,000 a year. And I took it. Then I became a single mother, but I still never looked back. And now, here I am. I’m the editor-in-chief here, and I make good money. And I love what I do. But I never would have got here had I stayed in PR, had I not taken that risk, had I not taken a gamble. Had I not followed my heart.’

I thought for a minute. I thought of the amazing staff I knew I would be joining soon. I thought of the spacious office that would be mine in just a few short weeks. I thought of the expense account, of the travel, of the three weeks vacation.

‘I really appreciate the offer. It was so kind of you to meet and discuss….’

Click.

She smiles. Unscrews her water bottle.

‘Hey –you gotta eat. I understand that. We all have our own priorities; we all know what makes us tick.’

‘I know that any young, Journalism grad would be lucky to work here, in fact I think I may know someone who…’

I had the distinct feeling, a knowing, that the decision I made that afternoon was a defining one. I was choosing more than a job; I was choosing a set of priorities, of standards. I felt like I had heard so many stories of young reporters cutting their teeth at community papers who wound up running major dailies years down the road. Young journalists who took a gamble, who followed their hearts, and wound up winning Pulitzers. I felt like I was staring myself straight in the face, and wasn’t sure I liked who I saw.

Skip ahead.

I had dinner a few weeks ago, with some friends from journalism school, one of whom landed that city reporter job, and who is now the editorial coordinator at the paper. I got there first. The rest of the girls filed in, and work-related stories began to fly around the table. The city reporter friend came in last, rushing over to our table in a breathless, apologetic frenzy.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late guys!’ she starts. ‘I was doing an interview with the most amazing man…it’s going to be such a fantastic story. You wouldn’t believe…’

Click.