"What do you think she will look like?" The question exercised us at The Leader for several weeks before our new reporter Kelly arrived. The clues were a name and a resume. Three of us also had a voice at the end of a phone line.
"What do you think she will look like?"
The question exercised us at The Leader for several weeks before our new reporter Kelly arrived.
The clues were a name and a resume. Three of us also had a voice at the end of a phone line. Not much to go by, but it's funny how a name conjures up a face.
The prevailing picture was of a blonde, probably around 5ft 2ins. One or two saw a rangy city girl, although they were probably just trying to be different.
Someone found an online photo of a Kelly Brooks, but since it contradicted the blonde image nobody lent it much credence.
"So what do you think she will be like?"
Ah yes, that other question. She will be bubbly, enthusiastic, charming, engaging – all those types of wonderful things was the general consensus, although several cautions were thrown in.
Just suppose, God forbid, just suppose she was that arrogant brand of big city journalist determined to show tiny town people how to run a paper and get a life.
Just suppose she marched into The Leader in Mussolini boots, exclaimed "what the heck are you dreamers up to?" and began an overnight revolution. Just suppose …
Fascinating, isn't it, how a new employee changes an office dynamic, making everyone a little excited, a little intrigued, a little on edge?
In my previous jobs, a new arrival meant a period of intense showing off in the newsroom: certain staff upped their decibel levels and strutted about, gesticulating and uttering occasional profanities, meeting their criteria of a macho journalist. This would happen whatever the newcomer's gender.
With Kelly, this hasn't been the case, from which I extrapolate the following: showing off tends to be a male thing … and journalists are particularly susceptible.
My efforts to quell my own delusional tendencies have been aided by a pomposity alarm system rigged up throughout the building by colleagues: it will sound off like a million sirens at any hint of a journalist with an oversized ego.
Of course, what my colleagues don't appreciate is that inside-the-head movies are immune.
I have one playing right now. It's called "Kelly's Hero" and stars an Englishman (not exactly someone in mint condition, but a hero in his little world), who is no longer the new boy at his paper. Overnight he has become wise and knowledgeable about Barrhead. He knows about court, school board, town and county council, all the exciting aspects of his trade. He gets to drive the new reporter Kelly about in his mean machine called Violet. He is Kelly's hero, he is …
Okay, enough of that. I'm just kidding. At least, I hope I am.
Now to something altogether more serious.
Kelly's arrival means the gals to guys office ratio is 8:2, or 9:2 counting Violet.
I now feel under enormous and mounting pressure to do something bold, drastic and superhuman for my threatened gender.
I changed the water cooler bottle the other day with only minor spillage. That seemed mighty impressive until one of the girls performed the same feat minus spillage. Or so she told me.
Must do better, I told myself. I could try shoe inserts to reach a commanding six feet. Or I could trade in Violet for a truck. How about a tank?
While I ponder my options, I'll shore up my spirits with a rerun of "Kelly's Hero."
Turn off the lights (okay, they were already off), unfurl the screen and let the action begin.
