Walter
Present Day
“Please work this time.”
I tapped the numbers on the pad and was relieved when the light turned green.
It had only taken three tries to unlock my door today, which was better than the day I moved in when it had taken nine.
I’d called the apartment manager numerous times about the stupid thing.
They’d come out twice and both times blamed it on user error.
As if tapping numbers had a learning curve.
One of my new coworkers, Louisa, told me it had to do with the speed I tapped them. If that was the case, fine, but I needed someone to teach me that timing because this was getting ridiculous. But what did I expect for the price I was paying for my studio apartment?
I stepped inside, took off my shoes, and dropped my bag beside them.
To the left of me was a small counter that held my tea kettle, my mini draining board, and nothing else.
My apartment-size stove and fridge and enough cabinets to hold dishes for two, a few canned goods, and a very basic cooking set completed the kitchen area.
Cooking a full meal here wouldn’t be easy.
The space was too crowded and the oven too small, but it suited the purpose for what I needed as someone living alone who didn’t enjoy playing chef.
I filled up the kettle and turned it on.
It was a cup of noodles kind of night… just like every other night for the past week.
Part of it was that I came home late most nights.
I needed something quick. But most of it was the fact that I was rent poor.
As “reasonable” as this place was for the area, it sucked up most of my take-home pay.
I’d been surprised I was approved because I definitely didn’t meet their income requirement.
If it hadn’t been for my references, there was no way I’d have gotten in here, and I’d have been answering all of the “roommate needed” ads and living on someone’s couch or a closet that was converted into a bedroom. This was better. I needed my own space.
I still hadn’t completely unpacked, not so much out of laziness or exhaustion, but because there wasn’t any place to put my things.
Instead of a twin bed, which was the only thing that would fit in the space, I had a couch.
It was comfortable, and it did have a pullout element, but I had to move everything else out of the living room/bedroom to make it fit.
When the bed was out, it encompassed my entire living space.
I couldn’t see ever using it unless my uncle came to visit.
I’d tried to figure out a way to have a small desk here. It was impossible.
Unlike a few other places I’d looked at in my price range, I didn’t need to leave my room to get to the bathroom.
It had an itty-bitty shower stall and a pocket door that was broken, but that was better than wandering down the hall in the middle of the night.
I wasn’t sure how those places qualified as apartments, but apparently that was allowed here.
I plopped on the couch.
“So this is what it means to move up,” I said, leaning back and closing my eyes, waiting for the kettle to whistle.
It had been a long journey to get here. I’d gone to school for journalism, and had big dreams of being a reporter at one of the top newspapers, my byline on the front page so often I became a household name.
Back then, I thought I had a chance to just slide into the perfect job. I was top of my class, after all.
How wrong I was.
My first job was at a midsize paper, and my position focused on fairly local happenings. It was the chance of a lifetime, they said, an opportunity for career growth. My classmates were so jealous I was hired weeks ahead of graduation. I thought I’d hit the jackpot pot. I had not.
What it actually was was a pretty crappy job.
I was the one to fetch coffees. I was the one to lug boxes from one place to the next.
If someone recorded an interview, yep, it was me who had to transcribe it.
They didn’t like the idea of transcription software but didn’t mind underpaying someone for a job that was extremely frustrating and time-consuming.
I didn’t let them see my frustration, though.
I slapped on a smile and took on every task they gave me, waiting for my opening to move up.
When my boss asked me to check facts on an article, I was so thorough there wasn’t room for a hint of a mistake.
And when our most well-known reporter was investigating a crime ring, I was the one who tracked down phone numbers and addresses of people who didn’t want to be found.
I was the guy who walked behind the reporter at community events, holding their bag, making sure they had what they needed and the one answering phones when everyone else had their plates full. I did it all.
And one by one, the people I worked hardest to help moved on to bigger and better opportunities. And each time, I was hit with the same disappointment. As hard as I tried, I didn’t make a big enough impact to slide into one of their positions. They always gave me the same excuses.
“You haven’t put in your time yet.”
“You’re too valuable in your current role.”
“We had much stronger applicants.”
They were all bullshit.
Eventually, I stopped waiting for my promotion and started applying everywhere. That’s how I ended up moving here. The job was a million times better. I was finally able to write stories, ones that had my name on them.
My articles would never end up on the front page.
I wasn’t covering serial killers or politicians being caught with their pants around their ankles.
I was working on the food and lifestyle stories, mainly the food.
And I kind of loved it. I didn’t see it as a permanent position that I’d be in forever, but going to a brand-new bakery to let everybody know the family story and all the delicious items they had—it felt good. And delicious.
Over my month here, I’d done a piece on a family restaurant celebrating its seventy-fifth anniversary, another on a coffee shop that roasted all their beans in-house.
There was a series of articles on a food truck that had just won a big award and their journey to get there.
The “real reporters” acted as if I was just doing these puff pieces that didn’t need to be written in the first place.
And were they fluffy, puffy pieces. That was the point. They made people smile.
People read them and made decisions based on what they read.
After the anniversary celebration article went to print, the restaurant called to let me know their lunch business had doubled.
I did that. Not through some sales-gimmicky writing that was marketing in disguise, not through paid ads, not through being a celebrity—through me sharing their story. It was pretty cool.
The kettle whistled, and I made my noodles, exhaustion starting to settle in, to the point where I only ate half of them before getting ready for bed.
I had a busy day in the morning. There was a zoning meeting to decide if pop-up restaurants should be allowed in the city that I was covering.
It was the closest I’d come to real news, and a lot of people needed the information, as the increasing popularity of pop-ups had quite a few businesses wanting to shift to that model.
I woke up the next morning, hitting snooze five times before getting ready.
It was going to be such a long day, but they all were.
I was determined to put in 110%, coming in early and staying late.
Unlike my last position, my boss here said his goal was to move me up, and so far, he hadn’t shown me he was anything but trustworthy.
The meeting decided absolutely nothing, everything being postponed until next month.
It was a waste of time. When I got back to the office, I had a ton to catch up on.
I managed to get it all done, as well as some research for my boss.
Being a team player never hurt. It was good to keep your skills sharp.
“Why are you still here?” one of the editors, Robert, asked.
“Oh, I’m here, but I’m going to get going now.
” I looked around. It was only the two of us left.
I thought I was last, which was more comfortable than this.
Robert liked me, and I’d been kind of dodging his advances preemptively.
Both of us being here now with no one else made that less easy to do.
I couldn’t act like someone was calling me or say I had a meeting to flee the scene. I was trapped.
I closed down my computer. “I’m outta here.”
Just as I walked around my desk, he stepped in front of me once more.
“I’m ready to go. Want to grab a drink?”
“No, I’m exhausted. Just going to go home.” I said “home,” but my apartment wasn’t one. It was just a place to sleep.
“If not today, maybe a rain check? I could buy you dinner.”
There was no more dodging. If I didn’t put a hard no on this now, it was only going to encourage him. “Robert, it feels like you’re asking me on a date.”
“That’s because I am.”
“I’m sorry. You’re nice. Really nice, but I don’t shit where I eat.”
His eyes went wide as I repeated a phrase my grandfather used to say.
“What I mean is I don’t socialize with work people, and I don’t—I don’t mean dating. I mean friendships, too. I like to keep work work and personal personal.”
“So what you’re saying is I have a chance if I get hired by some big fancy paper and need to leave here?”
There were no big fancy papers locally, and as far as I knew, he hadn’t been looking for a new position. He was looking for a graceful out to save some face, and I was going to give it to him.
“Exactly. Get that big promotion and get back to me.”
He laughed. I laughed. And the tension was gone
I’d lied to him, sort of. It was true I didn’t like to make my whole circle of friends connected to my job, and I definitely wouldn’t want to date at work, but I’d have said no to him anyway. I didn’t date. Not in years. Not since that day I was in the hardware store.
How messed up was that? Meeting one person once changed me from a guy who didn’t mind hanging out with people, was known for his share of drunken kisses, and would give any guy a chance to a non-dater.
Eight years ago, when I first saw Archie, that was his name, something changed.
I thought we had a connection, and I wanted to see him again, to get together, to do all sorts of depraved things.
And the vibes were that he did too. But I never saw Archie again.
How messed up was that? Still thinking about a man eight years later who I’d never even so much as held hands with or gone on a date with. Heck, we didn’t even exchange numbers. But when he looked at me, I felt like I was the only man in the world.
And I needed to get over that. It was eight years later.
He probably had a new life somewhere else, probably with a partner and kids.
That was okay. I didn’t need a relationship.
I was focused on my career. In a way, I had Archie to thank because that memory kept me from making stupid mistakes—like sleeping with a co-worker.