The Spectator

Chapter 1: What Not to Do at a Job Interview

     The high rise the New York Spectator calls home stretched up from where Ella Vazquez stood to impossible, dizzying heights. She swallowed hard and put her eyes back in front of her. She was already nervous, staring up at where it seemed the building really was scraping the sky would only make it worse. Continuing her original course, she pushed through the lobby doors.

     If she were being honest, the Spectator hadn't exactly been her first choice in her job hunt. She obviously wasn't planning on being quite so honest with her interviewer. Oh, no, there would be nothing but deference and brown nosing on her part, but... let's be honest here, this wasn't the Times. Or the New Yorker. She wasn't going to kid herself, she knew that the applications she'd submitted to those venerated establishments would probably never get a reply.

     In fact, she'd even been kind of surprised when the Spectator got back in touch with her. The job market in journalism was saturated with college-graduate hopefuls. She was one wannabe journalist among millions.

     Ella wasn't sure what floors the Spectator was on, so she approached the front desk concierge who politely pointed her towards the elevator... which had its own operator. Awed as she was by this upper class amenity, she wondered why people couldn't be trusted to push a few buttons on their own. She flashed the man a smile as she settled against one of the elevator railings.

     "Good morning!"

     "Good morning, miss. Where are you headed?" He asked.

     "The Spectator's lobby, please," She couldn't help her smile from getting wider at the sound of that phrase. What if she actually got the job? She took a sip from her Starbucks now and allowed herself a moment to fantasize— ahem, visualize— a future here. She could see herself now, drinking coffee while she pored over rough drafts, all scribbled over in red ink... So what if the Spectator was a glorified tabloid magazine in broadsheet format? She'd be published and the thought of it was enough to make her shiver with excitement.

     When the elevator came to a stop, the Spectator's lobby was smaller than she'd expected. It wasn't as grandiose as the high rise location would imply. It was beautifully furnished, though, all serious dark wood with a traditional but very clean aesthetic. A '40's newsroom modernized. Bustling with activity, it fit perfectly with her little fantasy.

     She moved towards the receptionist to let her know she was here for her interview. It was a short enough distance but she didn't make it. Instead, she was promptly stopped by somebody tall and broad shouldered who had no business walking around bumping into her. Her coffee flew out of her hand, spilling all over her pristine white button up as well as the floor. She couldn't help but exclaim some choice obscenities just as a male voice cried out:

     "Oh God, I'm so sorry!"

     She looked up from staring at the mess on the floor, ready to snap at whoever had just done this to her and remind them to keep their eyes on the fucking road— but her words left her when she found herself staring into a pair of blue eyes. A pair of handsome, oddly familiar eyes, actually. It took her a moment to realize that he was talking to her.

     "Are you alright?" He asked.

     She looked down at herself as though to confirm, grimacing at her ruined button down, her soaked hand, and the puddle on the floor, before she replied.

     "I'll survive, but I don't think we can save my cappuccino..."

     "I'm so sorry-- Here, have it dry cleaned," He had his wallet out quick as a flash and shoved a fifty dollar bill at her before stalking towards the receptionist.