Page 43 of Cuts like a Knife
“Points for accuracy.”
“But why are you lounging? We’re here to work. You’re supposed to be working. You weren’t at the conference and we’re supposedly to be in the first taping in like, ten minutes.”
“We? Madison, wake up. Why do you think you’re here? If you’re going to the damn taping, why on earth would I have to go? Doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?”
“But … but,” I sputter. “You need to work. I’ve already submitted two complete stories!”
Callum laughs. “Perfect! That’s great, Madison. So keep it up.”
“But you’re supposed to be working too. This is bulls—!”
“Look, I am working, okay? I have a bunch of one-on-ones set up for cover profiles. So don’t worry about it. I’ll be producing plenty of real content in my own time. It’s your job to do the crappy little Q&As, and to go to the actual tapings.”
“You know what? I’m getting sick of you trying to tell me what my job—”
“Nope. Maybe after you’ve been doing this job for more than five minutes you’ll have earned the right to pick and choose your stories, but for now? You’re basically a cub, Madison. Your beat is grunt work. Deal with it157.”
“That is such crap, Callum, and you know it. Listen, if you think—“
He sits up to cut me off, again, but this time it’s like he’s suddenly really paying attention.
“No you listen. You’re sick of something? You think you’ve earned the right to be sick of things? Grow up. Grow the f— up. I’m sick of you and your non-stop attitude. F—ing millennials.” He puts a hand to his face and massages his temples like I’ve given him a headache. “You think you’re hot s— because of where you came from? Fancy Flash? Too good for Citidaze, definitely too good for me, right? I get it. And Lars, who is a money guy who doesn’t know jack about the actual work, fell for that whole thing. Ooh, we’re poaching a real up-and-comer, he told me. Didn’t say a word about the ego mania. You’re all so f—ing deluded.”
Callum points a finger directly at my chest. His voice has risen well out of his usual laconic drawl. As he berates me, people’s heads start turning in our direction158 as Callum shouts at me.
“You were at Flash for less than a year, Madison. I checked. Racked up plenty of clips, sure. Good for you. It appears you made an attempt to do your job there, but before that? You weren’t the even in the industry. You had no experience. You didn’t go to J-School. You had no practice. None. From what I can tell, you got that gig at Flash because you were a big mouth on f—ing Twitter. You didn’t pay your dues and you barely know how to do the job now. You had less than a year of experience when we took you on. Your resume is so f—ing thin, it fits on a quarter sheet of paper.”
I bristle.
“I do know how to do the job. I’m—”
“You’re fast. Big deal. So am I. So is everyone here. That’s a basic prerequisite, not a special skill. But you don’t really know what you’re doing. You’re writing puff pieces because, in my opinion, that’s what you’ve shown you’re capable of so far. And that’s your job. It’s what you were hired to do. You think I’m going to waste all our time sending you out on a profile? Do you even know how to conduct a serious interview? It’s not something you learn by watching a YouTube video.”
My desire to retreat morphs suddenly into a desire to fight back. I don’t have to take this. What does this smarmy man know anyway? F—ing Millennials? What about f—ing Xennials? Or Gen X losers? Whatever Callum is. Who even cares?
“It’s not exactly rocket science is it, though, Callum?” I say, sarcastically.
Unfortunately, yet again, the line doesn’t land the way I hoped it would. Callum barely seems to register it.
“Thanks for proving my point, you utter child. Just because you have no respect for it, doesn’t mean it’s not a real job. A skilled job. A job that you learn by doing, that you develop the skills to do well in time. These, by the way, are skills you don’t currently have, because you haven’t put in the time, you entitled little brat.”
More than a few people are listening now. So many heads are turned our way, we might as well be in a fishbowl. And Callum isn’t done.
“Worry about yourself, Madison. Go do your job and make a sincerely attempt to do it well. Not just fast. Do it well. Stop imaging you know it all after five f—ing minutes in the business. That’s my advice to you. Grow. Up.”
With that, he slides his sunglasses back onto his face, settles back down into the lounger, and I am dismissed.
Fuming, and dismissed.
I feel my mouth open and close a few times, but I actually can’t think of anything to say, so I just stand there like a fish for a few moments, gawping. Then the shame kicks in and I turn away.
Everyone had pointedly turned back to their own business. No one around the pool makes eye contact with me at all, but I can feeling the shameful heat of their judgement in the air. It’s hideous.
I hustle over to the main resort restaurant, which is filled with people who didn’t just witness me get eviscerated by my boss and step into the dark, cool interior.
The dining room is dotted with giant TV screens. Most of the filming is taking place in the kitchen, and the action, it seems, will appear on screen all around us, but there are some hand-held camera operators in the dining room as well, and mics set up at all the tables.
I realize the show has us playing the part of extras. We are both part of the audience and part of the cast itself. And it seems like we will all be served the cooked contest results for our supper.
