My editor types with one finger. He’s wearing a ball cap and a dirty t-shirt. The same shirt both days. He can’t remember my name. He’s not Hispanic, but he is harder to understand than any of the non-English-as-a-first-language people in the office. By any, I mean three. I think I am their fourth employee as of now. You would think that might mean I had a host of stories to write. But I haven’t quite figured out where the reporting part comes in yet.
Today was my second day.
My 83-year-old editor started the Hispanic Link News Service 33 years ago. A kind heart with a passion for change and inspiring others – but it seems when you have been in this for as long as Charlie has, the concept of daily news stories lapses. The concept of time in general. He lives upstairs in the same apartment building as our office, and the Link is his life. He never goes anywhere else, so there is no incentive to get things done in any sort of time frame.
Maybe it is the foreign (no pun intended) pace, or maybe it’s the piles of stuff everywhere. But my patients is at its end and it is only day two.
I’m not a neat person, but this reminds me so much of The Orion (my college newsroom, and basically a overstuffed underground lab) that I honestly thought I was in a basement until I realized their was windows.
Though I should feel at home, there are even spoons everywhere.