Page 59 of Cuts like a Knife
Working at Flash was nothing like I expected.
When Kelsang first contacted me on Twitter (because he’s the one who recruited me) he called Flash a “brand new magazine”.
Backed by one of the biggest publishing conglomerates in the world (think along the lines of Hearst), he said it was going to be major. A huge print run. Distribution in five major cities to start, but with plans to expand. Maybe a TV show or web series with the same name. Flash TV. It had a nice ring to it.
It was also overwhelming and exciting. A world of opportunity. And Kelsang made it sound so interesting and so … possible. So easy. Just more of what I was already doing online, only in print, real print, not digital, and unlike what I was doing on Twitter with my sad little follower base, I’d be paid.
As a media outsider, I didn’t really have any clue what I was getting into. I assumed from the word “magazine” that the publication would be monthly. Like a glossy196.
Within a week of the launch, which was a whirlwind of parties and events packed with grouchy, snobby people from other publications, inevitably underdressed and deliberately disheveled (editorial and creative types) and snobby, grouchy, overdressed suits — (lawyers, publishers, board members, admin), the reality of what Flash really was had settled over me like a wet cloak.
I’d had it all wrong. It wasn’t going to be a glossy monthly. It was a daily197.
Instinctively, I felt it was tacky, but I soon learned that there was a tonne of money involved. Massive revenue expected. I guessed from advertising dollars? I still didn’t really understand how it all worked. But the money was there. And none of what Kelsang had told me was technically untrue in any way. The distribution numbers, the cities, the big parent company publisher — it was all real. I’d just misinterpreted it all.
I should have backed out then, right at the beginning, but I didn’t because I liked Kelsang so much. He was fun. Sincere. He took me out to lunch three times in my first week. We had beers, which felt scandalous in the middle of the day, and talked like old friends.
He was married and already had a little kid. And if he seemed just a little bit flirty, well, he never actually made a move or anything. He was an above-board guy. He was just fun.
I told him so much — about the Madisons, my sisters, about how much I wanted to do something good in the world, something of value. And he took it all in. He was particularly interested in my interest in causes. Environmental protests, BLM, unions. I remember it so distinctly.
“This is all great stuff, Madison. Perfect for Flash. We want to tap into that Gen Z audience and this is what works on them198,” he said.
A few months after we launched, Kelsang made a special point of introducing me to Owen, who was rarely in the office. I didn’t know much about the Gottfried family. I had to Google them too. And after I did, I couldn’t really understand it. From what I read, Owen Gottfried was approximately thirty years old. He’d had a private-school-then-ivy-league education, but no actual jobs to speak of.
As the son of a billionaire, he was obviously rich and didn’t have to work, but I couldn’t understand what qualified him to be the Publisher of such a significant publication. Other than money199.
But Owen was the one to charm, Kelsang told me. He was a “great guy”. If I made a good impression on him, my future at Flash would be bright.
So when he came through a few months after the launch, and Kelsang introduced us and invited me to eat with them — just the two of them, plus me — I jumped at the chance.
I didn’t notice the entire editorial department watching as we walked out that day200.
The lunch wasn’t even anything special. Sushi at a strip mall restaurant. And Kelsang and Owen talked almost entirely to each other. They bro-ed out while I tried to laugh at appropriate intervals. I barely said a word.
Nonetheless, at the end, Owen thanked me for coming, said it was great to meet me, and shook my hand, cupping it with both of his own and looking into my eyes as he complimented me.
“I’m so glad Kel found you, Al,” I remember him saying, using Kelsang’s nickname for me, which he’d heard only once or twice. He was completely focussed, looking at my face in that really directed way some people can. (Drew has this skill, actually.) “I’m so excited to watch your star rise.”
I mean. It felt great. I’m not going to lie. It was like being anointed.
As we walked back to the office, Kel took my arm and whispered into my ear.
“Great job, Al. Work up some feature pitches. Just make them timely. And sexy. And I promise we’ll take notice.”
Sexy?
I was so clueless. I didn’t really even know what feature pitches were, exactly. Like, I knew they were ideas for stories, but I had no clue how to format them, how long they should be, or what exactly I was supposed to include. I had to Google it.
Adele and I had the same job title — Reporter — even though she was way more experienced than me, having spent five years at a small-town newspaper before being hired at Flash. She seemed nice.
She wanted to share ideas.
She smoked, and would invite me along to sit on the picnic benches outside with her while she took her smoke breaks. I’d spend the time sipping my bad break-room coffee and trying not to cough. We’d brainstorm together. And chat.
After the lunch with Owen and Kelsang (which I had no idea everyone had clocked), she said, “So how do you know Owen Gottfried?”
And because of my naiveté, I didn’t realize how careful I had to be.
