Say the Word(24)

I’d ignore the bleeding crater in the left side of my chest.

I’d write my column and laugh over margaritas with Fae.

I’d fill my apartment with pretty things, and maybe even get a pet.

I’d live in the light.





Chapter Nine





Now


I got to work an hour early the following morning to compensate, at least in part, for skipping out yesterday afternoon. The imposing steel and glass skyscraper that housed the Luster offices was a modern architectural gem, with fifty floors and a gorgeous asymmetrical design that sliced into the Midtown skyline like a knife. The building, known best as Harding Tower, served as the global headquarters for Harding Corporation, the largest mass media conglomerate in the United States and, consequently, the owner of Luster and about 300 other popular magazines. From television talk shows to magazines and newspapers, Harding Corp’s combined subsidiaries alone accounted for nearly 20% of all media consumed by American citizens. Luster was just a small piece of that pie — namely, the piece that targeted women in the 18-35 demographic, who cared about things like cellulite, sex positions, and celebrity meltdowns.

The Luster offices spanned three floors of the building, with the different departments — art, photography, production design, advertising, fashion, and marketing — dispersed among them. My fellow columnists and feature writers claimed the 39th floor, which was essentially just a large open plan crammed full of sleek dark-stained wood cubicles. There were no solid walls, only floor to ceiling windows that looked out over Central Park on one side and the rest of Manhattan on the other. Screw the corner office Jeanine occupied — my lowly cubicle had arguably one of the best views in all of New York.

On the left were the editors’ offices — Jeanine’s included — and a large conference room, partitioned off with glass-block walls to maintain the illusion that we were suspended in the air above the city. The only windowless wall, adjacent to the bank of elevators, served as a living, ever-changing storyboard for future editions — chock full of photo proofs, notes, drafts, and ideas. Placements were always shuffling as the timeline came together; I’d leave for the night with one of my columns slotted on page 27, next to makeup application tips, and return the following morning to find that same article close to centerfold, framed by the “Who Wore It Better?” and “Best Dressed” sections. Nothing was ever permanent until the entire draft was sent off to the presses, and even then things could be pulled at the last minute, if the higher-ups ordered it.

It might not have been my dream job, but I couldn’t deny that working here was an adrenaline rush — the thriving atmosphere bred the feeling that things could change at a moment’s notice. The fashion industry was constantly evolving; what was in last month could be passé within the span of a week. There was also the problem of our readers who, for the most part, possessed the attention span of goldfish. Keeping up with the demands of the masses took strategy, time, and commitment for anyone who chose a career at Luster.

Trend-spotting was a priority.

Daily Tweets and Facebook updates were a must.

Ferreting out the competition’s material was a necessity.

Professional clout was determined by number of Instagram followers, not one’s work ethic.

In the old days — also known as the pre-internet era — a columnist might’ve written a few stories in the span of a month, which would be sent out all at once for the next print edition. Now I wrote a few stories in a week — sometimes in a single day — to release on the Luster website and social media pages, with one or two larger stories set aside exclusively for print. What didn’t get put into circulation via Luster’s outlets was posted on my personal blog, “Georgia On My Mind,” where I detailed all of my hilarious, somewhat embarrassing culture-shock testimonials. The blog had amassed thousands of followers in the past year alone. Apparently, people loved to read about — and laugh at — the trials and tribulations of a country girl adapting to city life.

Point was, the workday didn’t end at five or start at eight anymore. Before I’d even slurped down coffee — hell, before I’d even gotten out of bed in the morning — I’d checked my social media accounts at least once.

The world had changed. The entirety of the publishing industry had changed. And you could either adapt alongside it, or be left to the wayside — hell, it was practically the company motto. Fae and I liked to say that there was an invisible, implied contract along with the paper ones we signed before our first shifts here — a set of expectations never voiced, but harshly enforced: You don’t want to work 10-hour days?

That’s fine — there’s someone else who’s happy to, and probably at a lower pay grade.

You don’t want to come in on weekends?

Hey, that’s cool — so long as you don’t mind when someone else is given that promotion you’ve been wishing for.

You don’t want to spend your entire paycheck on designer heels?

Good for you — go get a normal office job where you can wear all the comfortable shoes you want because image isn’t important.

This was Luster. It was materialistic, catty, competitive, and trendy. Darwin would’ve loved to spend a day observing my coworkers: it was survival of the fittest at its very best. High school reincarnated.