He walked into the front foyer of the Telegraph, gazing around at his numerous coworkers whom he meets everyday on the hour. Some of the people passed him as if he was a ghost, but cared he not. Why should he? Anyway, he walked toward the main elevator and squeezed his way in bumping into people along the way. Once he was in, he saw that Lady Luck must have been on his side because the first stop was to his boss's office. In this newspaper publishing business, the head honcho was a strict, old man named Mr. Steven King. The only way he got his position as the top of all other boss's in their district when it came to running a Telegraph is because he had written a few novels that were big hits, but ended up not amounting to much. Still wanting to be in the business of writing, he got a job at the Telegraph and overtime, became the boss. What can you say? He knows great writing from shit.
Clive got off and walked to the receptionist, Ms. Roberts. She sat at this wooden desk punching keys into a computer. More than likely making appointments for Mr. King or trying to find a husband. Poor woman. She is old, single, and probably going to retire soon. It kind of broke Clive's heart that this is how she spent her life: being a slave to a old geezer like Steven King. She looked up from her faded gold spectacles toward him and released a heavy, tired sigh.
“Yes, Mr. Brown?” she asked, obviously annoyed by his presence.
“Yes Ms. Roberts. I am here to speak with Mr. King. Is he available? If not, please tell him It is Clive Brown with his next article for him to look over.” Ms. Roberts checked the schedule, trying to see if there was an opening. After a few minutes and a groan from her aching back, she got up.
“At this moment of time, Mr. King is in a meeting with some high tops from out of state. When he is done, I will drop your name by for him to check into. Until then, wait until either I or him calls for your service. Understand young man?” Clive nodded his head and turned on his heel to walk out. The first place he went to was the lounge to grab a cup of coffee. He needed a large one to get threw this day. As he went for a cup, he noticed one particular coworker that worked with him regularly.
“Hey, James.” Clive said to James Lewis as he walked toward Clive.
“Hola, Clive my boy.” He said as he put his arm around Clive's shoulders. “I am telling you, I am about to get out of this shit hole faster than you can fuck a duck!” If there was one thing Clive detest, it would have to be profanity. But not wanting to seem like a nagger, he just ignored it.
“Oh, really?” Clive responded after he finished pouring his cup of coffee and adding a few sugars and cremes. “And how my tubby friend did you do that?”
“By doing what everyone has the power to be but no one seems to realize: Become a living God. Now, I know what you are thinking: What does this lunatic mean? Well, when you write stories you are creating a world. You are creating characters and controlling their lives like how God controls our lives. Basically, I have been writing a story for a long mother fucking time and know I found someone that wants to publish it!” Obviously, James was happy. He threw his right fist into the air with excitement.
“Well, when you get out of here, send me a post card, will you?” Clive said as he left the lounge to go into the typing room. It was in this room that he felt the clearest. As he looked around, all he could hear was the sound of people smashing the keys of typewriters to create their articles to get publish in the Sunday newspaper. He found his desk as usual next to Dan Sox, writer for the sports section and Mathew Laurence, writer for the crimes section. When he sat down, he noticed Mathew turn towards him.
“Got those reviews done yet or are you going to try and punch them out in three seconds flat?” Mathew said as he punched out the last few sentences of the latest development in a recent prostitution case that has been going around. In this town, it was illegal to be a prostitute.
“No, but I am three seconds from smashing your face into your typewriter if you continue to ask about my workers. In fact, I just came back from Horror King's (Steven King's nickname) secretary who has gotten me in to see him in a little while to present my review on the latest Beethoven tribute concert a few nights ago, which, by the way was amazing, and the latest novel by Jimmy Pat and Annex Grain.” Clive had a smile on his face as he leaned back on his polyester office chair. All Mathew and Dan done was started laughing like morons.
“Dude, do you truly think King even cares for that stuff?” Dan asked while trying to remember to breathe. “No! He does not! He cares about things like the stock market, the latest crimes, and sports updates. THAT is what is going to sell papers! Do you wonder why you are very rarely published in any of the issues? Because you write about things that no one cares about! Why he even hired you is purely beyond me.” Clive wanted to beat Dan up so much, but then he remembered that he has a job, a house, bills to pay, so beating him up may come at a later time.
When the talk was over with, Clive began punching out his next review. Yes, it is true that his articles are not really that much noticed. But the reason why Clive tries so hard to become successful is because he had the keen instinct that sooner or later art forms like theater and novels will come back and when they do, he wants to be their to write the first major article and be the one to transcendent into the next years to come.
His new article was going to be this play he saw at an old, worn down theater called La Theatre Surpreme. The play was called “Death Forever” and it was about a loved one coming back out of death to be reunited with their dearly departed. He was half way threw his review when he got a call that the Mr. King wanted to see him.
“Wish me luck, Gents!” He said with excitement as he rushed straightening his jacket and tie as he flew into the elevator. He took a few seconds to get his breathe back as he went higher and higher into the realm of unknown. The reason why this was unknown is simply because if this did work out, he might be able to get a respectable job in this newspaper emporium.
The elevator hit the top floor very roughly, causing Clive to almost fall out and spill all over the floor. He looked up and saw Ms. Roberts extending her right hand toward the double doors that lead into the chamber room that housed Horror King. Taking a deep breathe and giving a rushed thank you to Ms. Roberts, he straightened himself as he pushed open the doors and interned the room.
The entire room was littered with paper, cigar smoke, the odor of beer, and books. By the desk was the old, graying man that was presumed to be Mr. King. And by the looks of it, he was chewing out some writer that must have written a very terrible article that did not in the slightest impress Mr. King.
“No, no, no, you useless mule! God Almighty, how many fucking times do I have to tell you? If you are going to do an interview, ask real ball-busting questions! This shit like: “Are you single?” or “Were do you see yourself in future years?”, now, this one almost made me shit my pants “How is your personal life?” is what is making this fucking newspaper company a fucking joke in the fucking eyes of all the other fucking newspaper companies! If you come back in here again with that worthless shit, then expect to loose your fucking job! Now, get the Hell out before I throw you out!” And with that, the young writer was so shaken that as he left, Clive could see a small tear falling off of his youthful face. This made Clive worry because if this is how strict and hard Mr. King was, then how was he ever going to get a better job here and probably make some heavy money? Money that he desperately needed? Any who, he took a deep breathe and walked foreword.
“Hello, Mr Steven King.” He said as he extended his arm to this man that was behind that desk. He looked at his hand and snorted a very disapproving grunted and motioned him to sit down. Clive was embarrassed, thinking why was it he done such a pathetic move. When he was finally seated, he started flipping threw his portfolio looking for his latest article. As he was in the mist of looking for it, he saw the chubby hand of Steven King arise.
“Look kid,” King said with a heavy sigh as he took a shot of Brandy that was on his desk. He always had a thing for alcohol. “I see things like you everyday thinking that they have a big shot chance of making it with some highly polish article. But as I told you before, I do not want a reviewer in my paper. What do you think that will amount to? Nothing! People read the newspaper for grisly deaths, the weather, and sports. If you want to voice your opinion, then get the hell out of my office and buy a soap box and preach from their.” Clive was starting to hate this man more and more. But he had to put his feelings aside and try his hardest to convince this man that he is worthy of being published.
“Mr. King,” Clive said with a heavy sigh. “Yes, I am perfectly and utterly aware of your beliefs and views of my art of writing that you strongly have pure faith in is, as I am positively sure you will agree to be worthless. But I do ask that you included one of my reviews into your paper and you please listen to my reasoning as I convince you that I need to be published. You see, in this day and age there are so many choice of books, plays, and arts that most people can not either make up their mind or tell between what is magnificent and what is worthless. Take for example two articles I have written: one for the play for “Death Forever” and “Heaven And Hell”. Now lets say that the plots of doomed love and battles of good and evil spark your intellect, but you have no knowledge as to which one is worth the pretty penny in your pocket. Then all you have to do is buy an issue of the Telegraph, flip to my section read my thoughts sense I am, if I so boldly can say so, an expert between good productions and slop, and then you know which is good. In this case, the play “Heaven And Hell” is the better because of the musical direction, the portrayal of the characters, and the vocal work of a small, powerful metallic voice of a man named Gesu. Now, while “Death Forever” was a good enough production, the acting was sloppy, the music was not at all fitting for the tone of the story, and the overall plot was extremely unoriginal. Now, you observe, if you were someone that did not know, you would read that and take my word for the better. And that goes with concerts and literature! With all of that clear in your mind, I urge you to accept my offer and work to be published in your magnificent magazine.” Clive was speechless. He had run out of breathe talking so much that he was craving either a cup of water or a sip of coffee. He looked into the face of the man whose future in this job rested soley in the hands of. Mr. King stood up, his back cracking so loudly that Clive was sure people outside would hear it as clear as a note on a flute. He walked around until he was beside him, resting his chubby hand on Clive's thin shoulder.
“Please, please follow me young man.” Clive stood up, straightening his tie as he walked with Mr. King. “You know, I was thinking: you did convince me!” Clive, excited, looked up and saw with a gleaming face the mug of a man who was just smiling, then started doing something Clive did not expect: he started laughing. “You convinced me to say this: Next time I see you, write some real news and stop writing this worthless fucking shit! Now get the fuck out of my face!” With that he picked up poor Clive by the back of his shirt and threw him out of the office.
Clive was in a state of shock and pure disappointment. He tried so hard to get approved to be a regular, and this was his result: failure. He needed that money so bad, but now could not figure out how or were he was going to get it. Taking a needed, nice deep breathe, he went and returned to his typewriter, awaiting the roar of disappointment he awaited. Mathew and Dan looked at him, but did not say a single word. They felt that it would not be in their right mind to make fun of someone who just had another hope and dream smashed by the chubby fist that was their boss.
“Here,” Mathew said handing Clive a ice cold bottle of water. “I take it you just felt the stinging sting of rejection from your boss? Well, do not worry about it. All of us here at one point or another felt that exact same pain. Just, do what he wants and then you will - “
“Then I will quit!” Clive yelled. “Why should I do what I do not want to do just to be a sell out? I would rather make little money doing something I find pleasurable than get paid to do something I find hellish to me and my views!” Clive chugged down that entire bottle of water and threw it against the wall. He extended his hand and Dan gave him another. It took some time that felt like centuries until he finally calmed down from his little out burst. He looked around and saw the worried faces of his coworkers, thinking about if he should apologize for that little stunt he performed.
“Clive, I think you need to take a little break. You have been working non stop for God knows how long and on your soul, it is driving a little insane. Look, it is Five o'clock. Go out and have some fun. Get some stress off of your well being.” Mathew and Dan both looked at each other and gave Clive some money only with the instruction he does something fun to night. But Clive already had something in store. Closing down and sealing up his belongings, he left his type writer and headed outside. Once he reached his destination, a little touch of worry over came him.
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