SNAP: The World Unfolds

She was showing initiative so I had hopes for our relationship. 

Another woman rounded the pod and stopped when she saw me.  She was thin, her lean torso accented by a wide belt slung at an angle across her hips.  She wore a layered tank top over a short flouncy skirt and pointed flats that looked elfin.

“You must be the new ME,” she said.  Her voice was more alto that I expected and I heard just a trace of East Coast.

“I’m Maxmillia Gwenoch, Maxie,” I nodded. “And you are...?”

“I’m Carola Whitsun.  I’m the senior editor for our German edition.”

“You don’t have much of a German accent.  What’s your background?”

“I’m from Connecticut.  I went to school at Vassar.  My family came over from Austria right after the war.”

“That explains the accent.  Are you fluent in German?”

“We spoke German at home and I did my master’s in European Literature at Tubingen.”

“And now you’re working with a magazine that’s been called tabloid journalism.  Why?  Do you like it?”

Carola paused.  “I do.  I wanted to be involved with something now and hot.  The whole of Europe freed up when the Wall came down is moving so fast.  There are people making a lot, I mean a LOT of money who are setting a new style and it’s just cool to be able to watch them.”

Her enthusiasm was catching.   Someone I definitely wanted on my team.  I just hoped the other senior editors were as interested and vibrant.

“Whitsun?” I asked.  “That doesn’t sound much like a German name.”. 

“It’s not.  My folks picked it when we came.  Right after the war, German names weren’t very popular even though ours was Austro-Hungarian.  I was also told we were part of the Esterhazy family, from right on the Austrian border.” She laughed. “I’ve wondered about being a long-lost countess or something.  That’s another reason I work for SNAP.  I may be meeting my relatives!”

Jazz showed up with an armful of supplies and a large coffee.  In my office I got acquainted with the various equipment while she was stashing things.  A knock on the doorframe made me jump and I looked up to see several people.

Jazz turned. “Oh!  It’s the executive committee!”

The door people sorted themselves out on my sofa and chairs and I saw that it was two men and two women.   They were all dressed in LA business; men in designer jeans and black t-shirts, the women in short, tight skirts and four inch heels—maybe Jimmy Choos?  I could see I needed to take a serious look at my wardrobe, as soon as the movers delivered it.

One of the men I’d already met took the lead.  He was the Executive Editor, Chaz Sanderson, who hired me.

“I’m glad to see you, Maxie,” he raised his eyebrows.  “Getting settled in?”

“Beginning.  Jazz has been helpful here at the office and as soon as the movers get her I’ll be glad to get out of the hotel.”

“You found a place OK?”

“I bought a condo in Santa Monica.”

“You may not be seeing it too much.  I’m planning that you’ll be on the road a lot.  We ran into Carola on the way over so I know you met her.  These are the other senior editors, Gordon Townsley handles the U.K., Francois Sartou is the French and Mira Jorges is Brazil.”

I knew the different editions slightly because I followed their coverage areas.  The U.K. leaned heavily on sports and members of the aristocracy; Brazil was a lot of samba and visiting jet set as well as polo and soccer; French was film (including the Americans who’d moved there like Johnny Depp and the Brad Pitt ménage), and all of them filled in with the minor ranks of local aristocracy, the beautiful and the rich.  These senior editors directly supervised the foreign offices and had worked their way up to the Mother Ship.

We shook hands all around, mumbled pleasantries and Chaz herded us toward the back of the room talking about lunch. I was disoriented but followed the crowd until, at the back of a corridor, Mira waved her badge, pushed a button and another set of elevator doors opened.

“After lunch,” Chaz looked at me, “Jazz will take you to HR.  Get all your paperwork finished, get your badge and get a layout.  This is the elevator you’ll use.  It’s in an ‘Employees Only’ room in the garage.  Secure and private for any of our subjects coming to visit. Your badge will get you in everywhere.”

Off the elevator, we pushed through the “employees” door and were on the second floor of the underground garage, with a limo waiting.

Lunch was Spago.  “It’s trite,” Chaz acknowledged, “but it’s still a ‘be seen’ place.  You’ll need to know the staff and the freelancers who hang around.”

Lunch was also tablehopping and several languages with Chaz as the ringmaster.  He and Carola ordered steak tartare, which they pushed around on their plates while the rest of us picked at salads.

HR took up a chunk of the afternoon.  Jazz stuck her head in at 5 and told me I was expected on the 19th floor for the daily content meeting.

“I can’t work without a plan,” I snapped.  “By the time I get back, I better have a daily and weekly schedule compiled.  I need a copy on an e-calendar, my PDA, and my paper desk calendar.”

Jazz’ lips thinned, but she murmured, “Yes, Maxie, uhhh, Boss.”

The 5 o’clock content meeting consisted of several producers and two anchors from the SNAP Show, the senior editors of the print magazine, two blog editors, both the print and the TV art directors and the show’s director.  Chaz chaired it “because you’re new, Maxie,” leading me to fear that this would be my job as well.  After introductions, the TV people opened their schedule for tonight’s show.  The print editors went through the plans for the next issues and the art directors threw digital prints on the screen.

It seemed like an awkward group—larger than I was used to working with—but one of the things that set SNAP apart was the seamless flow between the print, broadcast and blog personas.   There was one identity.  The consumer knew stories on the nightly show would be reported in more depth in the magazine that hit the newsstands on Saturday.  Conversely, the magazine acted as a teaser for the next week’s shows, a symbiotic relationship not lost on advertisers.

After the meeting broke up, I stayed on the broadcast floor to watch Jazz’ madhouse for an hour.  There was a sense of controlled pandemonium as the story producers and tape editors carved things into split second segues and I was glad I only had to deal with space, not time.

Waiting in my office when I came back down were my badge, a desk calendar with schedules of regular meetings and a note from Jazz.  “Boss, I’ll be right back.  Ran out to grab a coffee.  If you want anything, call my cell and I’ll pick it up for you.”

I walked out into the large room.  Muted voices, clacking keyboards and phones with ringtones that sounded almost like rushing water replaced the silence.  Even individual cell phones didn’t ring.  I’d have to ask Jazz about that.