9/30/03I couldn’t believe my luck. I opened the Sunday classifieds to find an ad for an editorial position where the only requirement was that applicants have a music degree. I called first thing Monday morning and lined up an interview for the following day. Upon arrival, a mousy woman with frizzy hair led me to a vacant office and handed me the first of several miniature exams.
The testing took several hours– I understood the reasoning behind the grammar, punctuation, and spelling tests, and the editing portion was to be expected. I suppose the math test was somewhat relevant as well, but the science and geography exams seemed strange and almost insulting. I failed the typing test, which had to be done on a typewriter. All I know about these machines are that my parents have one buried deep in a closet somewhere and my grandfather used to sell them for the Royal company decades ago. My frantic attempts at working the delete button were unsuccessful.
By the time the publisher finally agreed to see me, I had a splitting headache from missing lunch. He spoke in a low, gravelly voice– I had to strain to listen. After a while, I gave up and stared at his long bushy eyebrows instead, fascinated by the way they wiggled like caterpillars under his thick scholarly glasses.
The following day was more of the same. I took note of all the feedback, used the few editing guidelines I had been given, and I was hired. We settled on a salary and, figuring that the paperwork would follow, I left smiling and called my family on the way home.
10/8/03
Aside from the standard tax forms, the paperwork never came. The publisher (a.k.a. the Old Guy) studied neither music nor writing, but was an attorney before taking over the family business– the lack of paperwork was intentional. We get six holidays off and 10 days paid vacation a year; sick days, personal days, and even jury duty is all docked from our vacation time. We’re supposed to be paid on the first of every month, but the checks are handed out as early as the 29th or as late as the 3rd depending on the Old Guy’s mood. Direct deposit is not an option.
Aside from the standard tax forms, the paperwork never came. The publisher (a.k.a. the Old Guy) studied neither music nor writing, but was an attorney before taking over the family business– the lack of paperwork was intentional. We get six holidays off and 10 days paid vacation a year; sick days, personal days, and even jury duty is all docked from our vacation time. We’re supposed to be paid on the first of every month, but the checks are handed out as early as the 29th or as late as the 3rd depending on the Old Guy’s mood. Direct deposit is not an option.
10/10/03
We stayed late to finish the magazine last night; each article is printed on glossy paper, run through a Waxcote machine, and mounted onto a board. It seems odd to be straightening page numbers, pictures, and titles with a compass, ruler, and paper edge. We have (primitive) versions of all the necessary software– it would be much quicker to make the pages on the computer, especially since the Old Guy is such a perfectionist– we had to redo each board 6-10 times before he was finally satisfied. I also find it strange that we don’t have internet access–if we need to get online, we either have to work from home or the library down the road.
We stayed late to finish the magazine last night; each article is printed on glossy paper, run through a Waxcote machine, and mounted onto a board. It seems odd to be straightening page numbers, pictures, and titles with a compass, ruler, and paper edge. We have (primitive) versions of all the necessary software– it would be much quicker to make the pages on the computer, especially since the Old Guy is such a perfectionist– we had to redo each board 6-10 times before he was finally satisfied. I also find it strange that we don’t have internet access–if we need to get online, we either have to work from home or the library down the road.
10/13/03
The offices face a beautifully landscaped courtyard, but mine is directly in the Old Guy’s line of vision; every time he looks up from his desk he sees a row of shrubs, and me. If I’m leaning back in my chair or out of the room for more than a couple of minutes, I’ll get an accusatory phone call for not working. I’m sure it’s just because I’m new, but it makes me paranoid nonetheless.
The offices face a beautifully landscaped courtyard, but mine is directly in the Old Guy’s line of vision; every time he looks up from his desk he sees a row of shrubs, and me. If I’m leaning back in my chair or out of the room for more than a couple of minutes, I’ll get an accusatory phone call for not working. I’m sure it’s just because I’m new, but it makes me paranoid nonetheless.
10/16/03
The future heirs of the publishing empire run rampant around the office building. They know they’re superior to the hired help and have no qualms about disrupting the workplace. Even though I don't have the paperwork to prove it, changing diapers and babysitting are so not a part of my job description. Ever since my stint as a costume character in high school, I have little tolerance for other people’s bratty offspring. The piercing shrieks that interrupt meetings and editing sessions and resound through this office-turned-daycare make me want to hurt people. Little people.
The future heirs of the publishing empire run rampant around the office building. They know they’re superior to the hired help and have no qualms about disrupting the workplace. Even though I don't have the paperwork to prove it, changing diapers and babysitting are so not a part of my job description. Ever since my stint as a costume character in high school, I have little tolerance for other people’s bratty offspring. The piercing shrieks that interrupt meetings and editing sessions and resound through this office-turned-daycare make me want to hurt people. Little people.
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