I swipe my keycard to enter the building and almost walk through
glass. Must be malfunctioning, I swipe again. Still nothing. My tardiness
shouldn’t have me locked out of the building? I press the intercom button and
ring security. No answer, something must be going on inside. It could be
dangerous. Most people would say that’s a reason to run, but I never ran from
danger. In fact I moved closer, intrigued by what might happen. I make my way
around the back, and try the emergency exit. Sometimes people will leave it
propped open when they go out for a smoke. That reason alone is why the alarm
doesn’t sound on this door when you exit it. No good, door is actually locked
today and nobody is taking a smoke break.
“Hey Ryan,” Collin, a coworker says arriving at the door
just before me.
“How’s it going,” I ask making small talk.
“Same as always,” he swipes his card and the sound of a
mechanical click unlocks the door.
“Got any big story you’re working on,” I ask as we walk in
together.
“Nah, same old stuff. Writing local feel good stories,” he
sounded defeated.
“At least people will have good memories when they hear your
name. You’ll get something big eventually,” I pat him on the back, a show of comradery.
“I sure hope so,” he says as we split and head to our
respective desks.
Taking a seat at my desk and the computer doesn’t allow me
to log in. Yeah, I had a feeling. The writing had been on the wall for a while
now. They were spending more on sending me to rehab than they were making from
the stories I was writing these days. It had to happen eventually, years ago they
would make a killing from my work. Blow the lid of some local conspiracy and we’d
eat off it for years, write some books, do some interviews. These days, not so
much. I could blame it on the fact that print media is dying, but that wouldn’t
be fair to print media, or myself. The fact is, a man is heavy, but a dead man
is even heavier. They’ve known I was dead inside for years, no longer that fiery
young reporter. Now I was just a man consumed by his demons barely hanging on.
It was only a matter of time until I got the axe.
“Ryan, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Albert rounds the
corner shocked to see me.
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t be here? I know I’m late
but I could have sworn I was supposed to be in today,” I play coy pretending I
don’t know what’s going on.
“How about we talk in my office,” Albert leads me away from
the floor.
Albert’s office is exactly what you would expect, photos of
friends and family. A few odd trinkets from his favorite stories and of course
a litany of awards. No doubt I helped him earn of few of those awards. I never
even got a certificate to hang in my little cubicle, but I suppose a nice
office is one of the perks of the job. He offers me a seat on the couch and he
rolls a chair over sitting across from me. He gently bangs his fist against
each other and sucks at his lips. I didn’t expect him to be good at firing people.
I just didn’t expect him to be this bad at it.
“Is there something you wanted to talk about sir,” I ask
trying to speed this up.
“Well, Ryan you’re a great reporter. Or, well you used to
be,” Albert pauses. “That sounds mean, but your writing just doesn’t have the
same passion anymore. The same vigor you once had. You’re the same age as me,
we’ve been in this just as long. I know you’re an incredible writer but these
new kids don’t respect your work. They respect clicks and comments. Nobody is
looking for work that makes them think anymore….” Albert continues to talk
about the issues with journalism.
I know I’m being fired, and I didn’t think I would care. Still,
I’m a little hurt. Albert feels the same way I do about the news. Things are
changing, and not for the better. Everyone is so focused on being the first to
report a story or get the most viewers and readers that they don’t bother
checking if they’re reporting the truth. The difference between Albert and I is
that he played the game, he knew who he was and he used it as leverage. I can’t
hate it. Some of just get dealt a bum hand in life. We need to make the best of
it, or just accept it. The greatest thing in the world is knowing how to own
yourself, and who you are. That’s the one thing I had over Albert.
“So, we’re going to keep you as a freelance journalist. If
you’ve got a good story send it to us, or if we have something for you, we’ll
send it to you. I’ve got a list of contacts for you as well, other places you
can sell work to,” Albert finishes up as I nod along, somewhat numb.
“Thanks Albert,” I say as I head out of his office.
“What,” he asks confused.
“You’ve always been a good boss, no good friend. You kept me
around way longer than you should have,” I force a smile and close the door. I hope
that lets him sleep tonight.
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