Stranded

Interviewing

Cars were honking as they attempted to rush to work in the early morning of January 15th. People hurried to grab the fresh paper of The New York Times to receive the latest news, and no spare room was for by-walkers, forcing several people to borrow the road. Soldiers were admired as they entered the street - some even stopped for handshakes and brief conversations.

Among the hundreds of people on the 7th Avenue was Penelope Davies, who held a journal and a fountain pen in her hands. Having been circling the area for days in the hope of arranging an interview with, at least, one of the soldiers, Penelope was desperate for a piece of news. She intercepted multiple soldiers only to obtain a word or two of unnecessary information or an impolite snort or scoff. The vexation was rapidly developing in her mind.

It was then when her eyes landed on a young man in the uniform of the U.S. Air Force, heading towards the airport nearby. As she skittered towards him, with her heels rattling against the pavement, she prepared herself for note-taking.

''Excuse me'', she exclaimed as she approached the young man, and stopped as he turned around. ''Could I ask you for an interview, please?'' Politeness had obviously been forced into her voice.

''British, huh?'' the gentleman said with a smirk glowing on his face. ''What is a lady like you doing in New York?''

''I travelled here to work for New York World-Telegram, which I why I would appreciate a brief conversation with you, sir. I couldn't help but notice that you work for the U.S. Air Force. Could I ask where you - ''

''I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I must hurry.'' The gentleman, regardless of the hint of a smile, seemed rude to Penelope as he proceeded in his way.

''You do know that it is inappropriate to leave without saying good-byes or, not to mention, to introduce yourself?'' she questioned as she hurried after him. Then, completely unexpectedly, he turned around in the blink of an eye, and so they collided. He straightened his hat and she fixed her hair. The tension maintained even after Penelope took a step back.

''You seem like a clever girl, but I'm not falling for that'', he said.

''Well, you certainly seem cheeky. I bet my readers would enjoy hearing that'', she stated as she scribbled in her journal.

''Aren't you annoying.'' In a flash, he took the journal from Penelope's hand, and ripped off the page with a single row of cursive writing. By tearing apart the piece of paper and wrinkling the pieces, he ensured that the woman would not utilise it as a material. Only then he handed back the journal. ''There you go. It's rude write things about people whom you know nothing about. Have a good day, Miss.''

She held onto her equipment and watched him leave. With a feeling of shame and regret, Penelope proceeded in her task.

For the rest of the day, after being rejected by the oddly impolite soldier and several other soldiers, she attempted, and even succeeded, to gather excellent material for an article. Once she arrived to New York World-Telegram headquarters, she prepared a fine outline and wrote an article worth recognition. She believed that that very article would save her career.

However, next morning dreadful news reached Penelope as she entered her office - she had not been the only one who had provided the astonishing news. On the contrary, Mrs. Wilkins's story received more recognition than imaginable, and so the rumour of her promotion had spread through the headquarters. Penelope knew what to expect when her employer, Mr. Sanders, summoned her to his office, and she was not surprised to hear that her career was at stake. According to him, England's East London Observer would benefit from a new journalist, which was a chance Penelope should not ignore. However, she was given a chance to impress him. And she knew what to do.

That evening, Penelope searched the area nearby Glenn H. Curtiss Airport, with her journal and fountain pen ready for note-taking. She intercepted two soldiers for an interview, yet she was not satisfied. She knew that in order to maintain her career in New York World-Telegram, she had to publish an article worth appreciation for decades.

As the night proceeded, Penelope grew more and more desperate, and no peeks of juicy gossips seemed to be available. She returned to the headquarters right before midnight. She felt drowsy, her eyelids seemed heavier than ever before, and a headache was making its way to her. She collected all essentials in her purse, put on a jacket and gloves to protect herself from the cold January breezes outside, and headed out.

Before she could exit the building, however, her ears caught odd noise from an office at the end of the corridor. It sounded as if a desk was continuously hitting the wall. As Penelope approached the office, quiet moaning emerged. She pulled out her journal and fountain pen from her purse, and excitedly scribbled notes for her to remember later. As she was arriving closer and closer, she realised to whom the office belonged to - Mr. Carter, a colleague of hers, who she knew to be quite a ladies's man, did not surprise her by enjoying himself with whoever woman he was. Within the four months that Penelope had worked for New York World-Telegram, he had broken hearts so often that she had lost count. Therefore, as she finished her notes and stuffed her belongings back to her purse, she did not regret her decision to write an article more luscious than ever.