Loretta James is wearing a vintage-looking kimono that probably costs more than Leila’s rent. She’s paired the robe with black combat boots (her signature), and a shirt that reads: If girls could kill. She moves like an old-school film reel: hypnotic, nostalgic, and a little bit on the nose. As I walk in, she takes the pen she’s been chewing out of her mouth and sticks it in her tightly wound bun. Her hair is electric red, the color of ketchup—unpoetic, I know, but the perfect descriptor. I can see it’s graying at the roots, despite the money she most likely spends trying to hide her age, which, coincidentally, I couldn’t find online no matter what keywords I searched.
Her office is pristine and minimalist, like a Rothko come to life. A giant framed Vinyl cover from the late ’80s hangs on the wall behind her desk. She’s got several big plants scattered around the room, but they’re all slowly withering in size and color. I wonder the last time they were watered—presumably the day her assistant walked out and never came back. There’s a single photograph sitting on her desk. It’s a still from her wedding, a close-up shot of her and her wife staring into each other’s eyes. As I take a seat across from her, she looks at me with that same intensity. She wrestles her jaw open to reveal a wide, inviting smile. I clear my throat.
“Ms. James, first off, I’d just like to say, I’m such a huge fan,” I begin, choosing my words carefully so I don’t come off as too much of a kiss-ass. “I’ve been reading Vinyl since I was a girl, and it’s truly changed my life in more ways than one. I used to hide a copy underneath my pillow every night when I went to bed then read it in the dark after lights-out. In fact, I have you to blame for my poor eyesight.”
I pause for effect, and Loretta lets out a small laugh. She keeps staring at me like a friendly alligator. My mouth feels dry.
“Anyway, I admire all of your philanthropic efforts so much. The bra burning you initiated across campuses in the early nineties? Brilliant. That spread of queer celebrities at home that documented them following their everyday routines, making coffee, feeding their cats? Truly iconic. And that recent article you published online about artist royalties and streaming rights was just—”
“Enough about me,” she says, scanning my body up and down. I suddenly feel self-conscious, and TBH, a little bit chilly. Why didn’t I wear a bra today? “We’re here to talk about you.”
With that, I launch into my whole spiel. I tell her I’m a first-generation Iranian American who was born and raised in Crown Heights, but that I now live in Chinatown on my older sister’s couch. I recall writing news clippings when I was a young girl, and sending my favorite authors fan mail—Judy Blume, Meg Cabot. I go on to talk about attending NYU and further exploring the city I’m so in love with, so inspired by. I don’t mention that living at home had a little something to do with it. I wouldn’t want her to think I’m desperate for anything, including money. I recount how hard I had worked as a journalism major, all the internships I completed at publishing houses, the freelancing I did for mediocre magazines like Iron Home and The American Family.
When I arrive at the present, I reluctantly explain I’ve been tutoring English. Loretta glances down to her phone, and I feel my throat seize. I’ve totally lost her. I knew my résumé would leave much to be desired, but I was banking on allowing my passion for writing and Vinyl to shine through and fill in the gaps. Instead, Loretta swallows a yawn.
As I wrap up my TED Talk, I notice her smile beginning to waver. She’s looking past my head and off into the distance. For a split second, she feels like just your average human, someone I’d spot on the subway and assign an entire narrative to. Perhaps her son had just gone off to college on the West Coast or her husband had cheated on her with his secretary. Her eyes are so expressive—a translucent, murky gray. She has the look of someone who lost something or someone vital, a woman missing a piece of herself. I’m not sure I’m the person who can give her what she needs. But I so desperately want to be.
“Look, I love your enthusiasm, kid…” She quickly glances down at my résumé. I assume she’s double-checking my name. “…Noora.” I guessed right. “But I need to be up front with you. Can I tell you a secret?”
Did I just hear that right?
“Of course! Anything!” I respond with a little too much enthusiasm.
Loretta inhales sharply. “As you’ve pointed out, I know a lot of things,” she begins. “I know the history of the Stonewall Riots in vivid detail. I’ve memorized Martin Luther King’s entire March on Washington speech. I can recount every annual Met Ball theme because I’ve attended every single one since its conception. Hell, I can even tell you what Gloria Steinem is like in person, because she’s a very dear friend. But you know what I just can’t, for the life of me, figure out?”
I can’t tell if she’s genuinely asking me a question or adding dramatic flair.
“Um, why people make mukbang videos?” I try.
“No,” she says with a sigh. “Well, sort of, I guess. Since I don’t have the faintest clue what you’re talking about.” Her shoulders droop slightly, causing her kimono to drag on the floor. I lean forward in anticipation.
“Young people. I just can’t understand today’s young people. Gen Y or Z or Gen LMNOP or whatever you’re calling yourselves now. Truly, I don’t have a clue how to give your generation what it wants.”
I sit there a second, soaking up the silence.
“I’m sorry, but that’s not true,” I blurt out. “You have done so much incredible work catering to my generation over the past few years! Your coverage of the midterm elections? It was like my bible. Seriously, when I was in college, my home page was your site. And what about all the investigative pieces you’ve been publishing lately? The interview with that scam artist that every single other platform picked up? Or what about the music streaming rights piece that every—”
“Okay, sure.” She cuts me off again, this time visibly flustered. Her face is flushed, and her left knee begins to jitter. “Those were lucky one-offs. But on the day-to-day, our issues aren’t selling to the right demographic. In fact, they’re not selling at all. These are dark times, Noora. Can you understand what I’m getting at?”
I process her words. She’s warning me. But about what, I’m not sure.
“Just tell me what you need.”
She blinks twice. That smile is still slapped across her face, but somehow, it now looks more like grimace.
“What I need? I need an assistant who can whisper all the right things in my ear. I need someone who will run to my side, day or night, for the good of the cause. I need someone who is willing to pledge their sword, or rather, their pen, to fighting for me and the magazine’s success. I need a warrior.”
She’s tapping her left foot so furiously, it feels like the entire building is beginning to shake. Loretta James is single-handedly starting an earthquake below Fourteenth Street. I begin to respond, but for the third time, she interrupts me.
“Noora, how many Twitter followers do you have?”
“I, uh.” This is awkward. “I don’t have a Twitter account.”
“Oh.” Loretta’s mouth hangs open in shock. “What kind of aspiring journalist isn’t on Twitter? How do you expect to connect with the industry? How can you promise me you’ll have your finger on the pulse of what’s hot?”
“I HAVE A BLOG,” I practically scream, this time cutting her off.
My brain begins to buzz. I’m having a SaulPaul-esque revelation. I finally realize what Loretta is looking for. She doesn’t need an assistant. Serving the reader is not her primary concern. An aspiring writer can offer her very little. What she wants is a Gen Z state representative. Someone who can explain what TikTok is to her team. A young savant who can show her how to properly use Snapchat. She needs a woke wunderkind.
“I have a blog. I’m a blogger. With a pretty good following.”
Loretta immediately perks back up. She sits straight, pushing her shoulder blades together like a company member of the New York City Ballet. Her head bobs as she nods, which seems more threatening than encouraging.
“A blog?” she asks curiously. “Are you, then, an influencer?”
It takes everything I have to keep from cringing.
“Well, I wouldn’t call myself an influencer,” I explain slowly. “I have about twenty-five thousand followers.”
Okay, I fudged the numbers a bit. Sue me.
“Oh,” she says again, disappointed. “That’s not that many.”
“I know.” I need to ride off the high of the last two minutes. “But I know things. I know how to analyze data—how to check to see what people are searching for, what they’re interested in reading. I can analyze KPIs—you know, unique visitors—and optimize content to make sure it searches well. And when it comes to targeting audiences, I know exactly how to engage your prime demographics. I’m basically, like, an influencer whisperer. It’s a small network. We all know each other.”
I’m straight-up talking out of my ass, but what else am I supposed to do? She’s slurping up my bullshit like an Aperol spritz. I watch her bouncing in her seat as if she’s rolling at Coachella. I can hardly believe this is happening. The Loretta James is confessing to me—a broke, unfortunately hairy recent college grad with no real career prospects—that she’s out of her depth.
My brain finally catches up to my mouth, which has been practically running off to Queens. “Plus, I am, like, at the forefront of every movement right now. I’ve organized peaceful protests for Black Lives Matter. I’ve actively collected signatures for the #TimesUp campaign. I donate to Planned Parenthood every single month. I marched for our lives.”
I hate that I’m using real philanthropic initiatives that I care about as leverage. But, hey—at least I’m not lying. I really do care about social justice. Is it wrong to use that to my advantage?
I watch the corners of her mouth begin to ascend. Folks, Loretta James is beaming at me. Her knee bopping and foot tapping suddenly come to a halt. She lets out a long exhale.
“I like what I’m hearing. But I need you to know something, love. We’re at war. We’re in survival mode, my team and me. And if I hire you as my assistant, I’m going to need more than just your passion and knowledge. I’ll do everything I can to protect you, but it will require your dedication. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I slowly nod my head then transition halfway into shaking it. I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“While you work for me, you work exclusively for Vinyl Print. I’m saying that under absolutely no circumstances—and I mean zilch—are you to take on any projects without my approval. Well, of course, you can write whatever you want to write about on that blog of yours. In fact, write away on your blog! The larger the social media presence you have, the better for the company. But when it comes to your work, I need your focus here. Not writing the next Harvey Weinstein exposé for Digital. Here, on my calendar and the Print team’s next lineup. All I need is someone who can make my life easier, not harder. Is that so difficult to understand?”
Out of nowhere, Loretta’s gray eyes begin to brim with tears. I’m tempted to reach out and give her a hug. They remind me of the New York City sky right before it rains—simultaneously calm and chaotic. I want to offer her an umbrella, a lifeline. I hope we can both weather this storm together.
“Loretta, you have my word,” I say, with conviction. “If I were to be your assistant, I would do whatever it takes to prove my loyalty. Anything.”
The second the sentence slips out of my mouth, I want to take it back. But it’s too late—Loretta’s already holding my words captive, daring me to eat them. What exactly am I agreeing to? I’ve never wanted to be a lackey; I want to be a writer. I crave deadlines and late-night coffee breaks and bonding with sources who later become dear friends. But what other choice do I have? It’s either serve Loretta, a veteran publishing hero and literary savant, or get told off weekly by brats who will never know what a “library” is. It’s all going to be okay. I’m just doing what I need to do, saying whatever I need to survive. My oath isn’t binding. It means nothing.
Loretta’s eyes briefly glaze over, but she shuts them tight. When they reopen, she’s smiling again, satisfied with my answer. She suddenly grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze.
“Excellent,” she says. “So lovely to meet you, darling. What a bright young thing you are! You can see yourself out.”
And with that, she stands and gestures to the door. I rise, following her lead. Before heading out, I turn around and dip into a strange half curtsy. I immediately regret it. Why couldn’t I have just shaken her hand like a normal person?
“Thank you for everything,” I squeak before running out the frosted door.
Somehow, the world has stood still. The Vinyl offices look exactly the same way I remember them upon entering. It’s as if the last twenty minutes or so never happened.
“How’d it go?” Saffron approaches me, eager for dirt.
“Um,” I stutter. “I’m not really sure.”
I look down, trying to mask my own tears. But I can feel them coming, hot and wet, flirting with my lashes and caressing my cheeks. What was I thinking? Did I just lecture the editor in chief of a prestigious magazine about growing her own audience? Did I teensplain blogging to her? That’s like walking into Cirque du Soleil and being like, “Let me show you how to do a cartwheel!”
Saffron walks me back to the elevator bank. As I turn around to exit, they surprise me by going in for a big bear hug. I surprise myself by reciprocating.
“It’s going to work out,” they reassure me. “I can just feel it. You’re one of us.”
I thank them for all their help then press L for lobby and walk to the appropriate elevator. It arrives and I step in, taking a long look at the entryway one last time.
“Hey, Noora?” Saffron calls to me, just as the doors close. “Follow me on TikTok!”
I ride down in silence, wallowing. I think about Leila, anxiously waiting for word about how the interview went. I hate letting her down. Maybe she’ll pity me, since I’m such a complete, utter failure. She might treat me to a night at Thai Diner, my favorite Thai restaurant this side of the East River. We’ll get drunk off Moscow mules and people watching, then waddle home, bloated from overeating. All I know is I want to eat and drink this day away until I have to tutor for an entire week to pay it off.
I reach the ground floor and step out of the elevator, making sure to wave good-bye to my new security guard friend, Superman. At first, he tries to avoid my line of sight, stoic like a member of the queen’s guard. Then he notices my tear-streaked cheeks and awkwardly waves back. I never even found out his name, and yet, I’ll miss him.
As I walk out of the SPP Tower, a wave of anxiety hits me. Or is it a literal heat wave? It’s mid-July, after all. The weather only gets hotter as summer drags on.
My mind meanders around the day’s events. I hit play on a recap: the pink decor, the unassuming desks, the Digital team’s infectious giggles, Howard Man’s bursting biceps. It all feels like a blur, a dream I once had. The details are blurry, but the feeling of excitement and taste of nausea remains. In fact, I can even hear Saffron’s phone buzzing in the corner of my ear.
Or is that my phone buzzing? I snap out of my Netflix special just in time to take the call.
“Go for Noora,” I say, immediately regretting it. What am I, an infomercial? I look down at the number. Unknown. I hope I haven’t just bought into a scam.
“This is Alyssa from Shifter-Pearce Human Resources,” a voice says. The person on the other end of the line sounds so robotic, their message feels automated. “We’re calling to inform you that you’ve been offered the job of executive assistant to the editor in chief of Vinyl magazine. Should you choose to accept, you will receive an email with your official offer letter in one to two business days.”
“YES,” I scream, not caring who can hear. “Yes, I accept!”
“Thank you,” the voice says. I feel like I’m on the set of the next Mission Impossible. “Can you start on Monday?”