“I have to say my piece one lasttime.”
“You’ve said it, I’ve heard it, and I’ve made my decision. Cream and sugar won’t change my mind. I’msorry.”
“You could’ve given me some notice,” I said. “You went and hired him without my input orapproval.”
“Bad PR waits for no man. The media is already having a field day with the exposé. They’re throwing around phrases likesexually charged workplace,chauvinism, andtoxic masculinity, whatever the fuck thatmeans.”
The words came at me like poison darts, and I had to stand there and take it. Because I’d done this to myself. I envisioned my mother making the sign of the cross after reading those things about her only son. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known what people thought of me, but even if she knew those things weren’t true, that didn’t make it hurt anyless.
“You promoted me years ago to turn this magazine around,” I said, “and that’s what I did, even though it cost me. You didn’t have a problem with hypermasculinity or objectification of women when it was making the companymoney.”
“Well, it’s notanymore.”
“But we can’t ignore that it got us here. That’s what has grown our readership. We’re a men’s lifestyle magazine that mainly covers beautiful women, some other stuff, and how not to fuck up with beautiful women. We’ve crafted an image of what goes on behind the scenes, and yes, it’s exaggerated, but it sells ourbrand.”
“Well, that ‘brand’ has come back to bite us in the ass. What was once an asset is now a liability. Not only has it garnered us national attention, but it’s also the final feather in the cap of a shitty year forModernMan.”
As if I wasn’t aware. My magazine had already been suffering before the exposé had gone and thrown punches at our content and my character. We had our moments like any group of men expected to report on our favorite topics, but we weren’t bad guys. “If you hire someone to come in and soften our image, we can kiss the magazine goodbye.” Along with my job and all the hard work I’d invested intoit.
“I don’t have to tell you subscription rates have not only stalled but have started to decline.” Vance blew out a breath. “Look, I know it’s been a tough year for you, but my hands are tied. You’ve had nearly four quarters to shift tactics, but after last week’s PR debacle, advertisers have lost theirpatience.”
What he wasn’t saying was thatI’dgotten us into this mess, but I knew better than to use my personal life as an excuse. Here, the bottom line ruled, and it’d been falling out from under us for a while. Being named in the exposé had only hurt our stock more. “Then give me an alternative, Vance, but don’t bring in some bullshit consultant who’s going to strip away everything that makesModern Manwhat itis.”
“There’s only one alternative, and it’s that I replace you, Sebastian. I don’t want to do that, but something has togive.”
“Replaceme?” I sat back in my seat and gaped at him. This job was mylife. I’d spent high school working my ass off for a scholarship to a top-tier university, and then my college years hustling to make every connection I could just for the chance at a summer internship in journalism.Modern Man, a struggling publication with small-time circulation, hadn’t been my first choice, but I’d been grateful for a job in research and fact-checking. And the magazine had been on the brink of failure until I’d worked my way to the top and turned it around. This wasn’t just my job—it was my blood, sweat, and tears. “We might not be standing here having this conversation if not for me. What about the past tenyears?”
“As our creative director, you made this magazine what it is,” he agreed, “but at the end of the day, it doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to the advertisers and the board, and they’re spooked. Dos Equis has already halved their budget, and Breitling is threatening the same if we don’t turn things around now. Accepting help won’t shrivel your balls, Ipromise.”
“It’s not a matter of pride,” I said. Did I believe that? Not really. But I’d always been good at making my case. “It’s that I know our reader inside out. You’re bringing a man onto my team that you didn’t even know we needed a weekago.”
Vance leaned on the desk with steepled fingers. “Let me be clear, Quinn. I’m not bringing anyone ontoyourteam. You’ll be running thingstogether. That’s how co-management works. And you better make it work, because if it doesn’t, you won’t survive the next restructure. Consider this an unofficialwarning.”
My heart pounded.Restructure?Co-management?It made no sense. So the last year had been a bit stagnant. That was the economy. Subscription rates had to slow at some point—anyone in the industry knew that. And maybe it was true that since Mom’s death, I’d been struggling to find meaning in what we did, but I shouldn’t have to lose my job overit.
I took an absentminded sip of my coffee and cringed. I’d only strayed from my beloved Dunkin’ Donuts for Vance. It was just another hit to my day, paying twice as much for a shittier cup of coffee before meeting my new babysitter. “If this goes south, it’s on your shoulders,” Isaid.
“I’m the editor-in-chief,” Vance said, “there’s so much shit on my shoulders, I might as well live in atoilet.”
“Hey, that’s good,” I said wryly, standing. “You should submit it to the jokesdepartment.”
I took my crappy coffee back to my office. There was no getting out of this. My team and I had been strategizing ways to reach more potential subscribers since numbers had begun to fall off last year, but so far nothing had stuck. As creative director, it’d taken years, but I’d perfected my team. I knew all of their strengths and weaknesses—knew that Garth worked best with a deadline, and Albert without one, and that Boris’s excitement waned unless I showed equal enthusiasm for his work. When they needed fresh ideas, I employed my dogs-and-dicks strategy. We ordered hotdogs and left our brains at the door as we sealed ourselves in my office todickstorm. No idea was too crude, macho, or gross. Poop jokes, double entendres, food fights, pranks. Once, a soul-baring discussion about how our moms had packed our lunch boxes had devolved into ranking hockey goalies by the sexiness of their wives. Maybe it wasn’t politically correct, but by the end, we generally had three or four useable topics for that month’sissue.
Story impregnation by ideaejaculation.
But would my co-manager see the brilliance of it? Was he too refined for dogs and dicks? Would he run crying to HR at the first sign of a crass joke? Break bro code and risk the safety we’d cultivated after years in avault?
After I’d trashed the coffee and sent an intern on an emergency run to reliable old Dunkin’ Donuts, my hometown staple, I went to my office to find Justin horizontal on my couch. “Don’t you have your own kingdom to lord over?” I askedhim.
“Yeah, but I already took my morning shit,” Justinsaid.
“I’m talking about your cubicle, not the bathroom. Why are you always inhere?”
“Booze. Couch. Privacy.” He sighed. “I never understood why you get a corner office to yourself, and I have to share a box with GirlyGarth.”
“Exhibit A—we’ve only been at work fifteen minutes and you’re already napping. You’re a shittyemployee.”
Justin sat up on his elbow with a pout. “You don’t meanthat.”
