How To Destroy The Universe

At work

'...in other words, you're a fucking idiot.'

The words stayed in my head and replayed on a loop. Fucking idiot fucking idiot fucking idiot fucking idiot. Yes, indeed, I am. The thing is, I forgot to take a picture of Stanley Doyle during the interview. It's was so simple. And yet, sitting in the office on a Thursday morning, sipping my Starbucks cappuccino (decaf), I felt horrible.

Robert McKinsey, the Chief Editor at New Observer – whom we called Bobby-The-Belly behind his back because of his size – was giving me a psychological beating during our weekly planning session. Bob was known for never choosing his words when talking to his subordinates.

'Do you even realise how serious this is?' he asked and all the eyes in the fluorescent-lit room stared at me. Behind his back were two yellow neon letters – NO, representing the magazine's logo.

To me, it looked more like a cry: 'No, you can't be creative here, no you aren't allowed to voice your opinions, and no – just go fuck yourself.'

A fly appeared on the desk near me. It started scratching its palms as if mocking me.

'–I mean,' I started, trying to come up with something reasonable to say in my defence, 'Can't we just take some of his old photos? And, you know, photoshop it with mine?'

The idea sounded much smarter in my head.

Bob shakes his head. 'No. We can't do that. And you know why. We've discussed how important it is for us to have original content. Do you want Cristina to put a photoshop piece of shit on our account? Dude, this is just ridiculous! Why are you ever working here?'

Good point. Why was I still working here?

For starters, it's hard getting a journalistic job that not just pays well – but is also meaningful and allows you to meet people like Stanley Doyle. This magazine, whose editorial policies haven't changed in decades, strangely did both. Which was why I felt OK swallowing my pride from time to time and not pay attention to its corporate culture.

I guess you just can't have everything work out in your favour all the time.

As I thought this, I wondered why they haven't fired Bob-the-Belly yet. Was it because his brother was a partial owner? Or was it that because despite his size and sweaty armpits underneath expensive Zegna shirts, he slept with most female staff on our floor? For instance, Cristina, who he just mentioned, and who was our head of PR – read: posting photos on Instagram for $60,000 per year after tax – was a girl from Moldova who, as rumours said, frequently came late to work in Bob's car.

Probably neither, I've decided. They keep him because they're afraid that if they fire him, he'll ask for an enormous severance package and then go to Discovery and make most of his 'fans' jump ship alongside him.

'I'll see what I can do,' I finally said with a sigh, looking for the fly who mocked me only to find that it disappeared.

I wished it would lay eggs in Bob's nostrils during his sleep.

'No, you won't. Here's what you'll do,' said Bob, putting most of his weight on the table and looking me straight in the eye. 'You'll call up Stanley's agent. Or secretary. Or whoever is in fucking charge of his precious scientific time. And you'll arrange a shooting with him–'

At the word 'shooting', I suddenly remembered yesterday's strange encounter at the park. Goosebumps assembled in an army and ran a marathon on my back.

'–and do it today. Understand?'

I shivered and felt a strange sensation in my pants.