On any given day, even during the most violently cold weeks of December, there is a crowd of woolly-hatted tourists and hot dog sellers outside 1211—partly because of the celebrities being escorted in and out of the Fox studio and partly because of the “news ticker,” an LED display that wraps around the front of the building and displays scrolling news headlines twenty-four hours a day.
I felt like a celebrity myself as I pushed my way past the gawping and munching throng and through the revolving doors to the security desk. As the elevator pulled me up to the ninth floor with a metallic whine, I concluded that it made sense for The Times, one of News Corp’s most prestigious properties, to open its New York bureau at 1211. I pictured myself, white napkin tucked into my shirt collar, at weekly power lunches with “Rupert” and his inner power circle. Just in case The Boss was in the office, I had worn my least-stained tie and business suit.
Although I had never been inside 1211 before, I had formed an impression of it from the weekly column of Joanna Coles, The Times’s sassy and witty New York correspondent. It appeared under terrifying headlines such as “Englishmen v. American Men: Good Fun But Better Sex”; and “It’s Officiaclass="underline" Men Are the New Single Women.” Joanna’s weekly missive was accompanied by a picture of what looked like the star of several Hollywood romantic comedies: She had a knowing, skeptical pout (she was from Yorkshire) and an immaculate blond hairdo that undoubtedly cost several hundred dollars a month to maintain. I secretly fantasized that Joanna might be single and interested in a younger, slightly overweight reporter with receding hair (she was, in fact, engaged to a world-renowned author).
Joanna was infamous in Wapping for having negotiated a contract with the editor, Peter Stothard, that prohibited her from the menial task of writing news stories. The deal, envied by almost every journalist on Fleet Street, meant she could concentrate exclusively on her column and splashy features for the tabloid section. It was like a flight attendant refusing to serve drinks to anyone other than first-class passengers. I could only imagine how bored she would be by the prospect of working with someone who wrote about Wall Street mergers and acquisitions.
In the elevator, I imagined the glamour that awaited me: the huge Times logo above the reception area, the pristine glass walls, the splatterings of modern art, the chic office assistants, and the Conran furniture.
With a mechanical clank, the elevator’s chrome curtains opened. There were two smudged glass doors to either side of me; one leading to an open-plan work area and the other to a reception desk with a New York Post sign above it. The Post’s logo—slanted sideways, as if it’s in a hurry—made me feel like Clark Kent reporting for work at the Daily Planet. Behind the reception desk sat a stern African-American woman wearing white surgical gloves. I approached, scanning the walls for the distinctive royal insignia of The Times. There was none.
“Hi,” I said, rather breathlessly. “I’m the new man at The Times.”
“The what?” The woman didn’t look up. She appeared to be using a machete to open mail. There was ink on her white gloves.
“The Times,” I repeated. Then, unnecessarily: “The London Times. The Times of London. The Times—erm, newspaper.”
The knife continued its work. The woman’s frown deepened. I noticed a television set hanging from the ceiling, blaring out the military-sounding theme for the Fox News channel. I felt suddenly self-conscious and dizzy, like a schoolboy sent to the principal’s office. Did she not understand my English accent? Was it that strong? My God, I thought, maybe no one in New York—or the United States—would understand me. Perhaps I’m doomed to failure.
“Fair and balanced!” declared the television.
“The Times’s bureau is on this floor, isn’t it?” I asked as politely as I could.
Still no reaction. A muscular Fox News anchor began talking over the clatter of drums. Had I offended her somehow?
“Excu—”
“I don’t know, sir.” She dropped the knife, threw open a drawer, and thumped a telephone directory down on her desk—all in one flawless angry motion. “Times?” she said accusingly.
“Erm, yes.”
“Not listed.”
“That can’t be right.”
“Who is it, Sir, you wish to see?”
Finally, a chink of light in the dark. “Adam Jones,” I blurted. Adam was the Times reporter whose job I was taking.
“Oh—you mean Adam!” The trenches in her forehead disappeared and her barbed sneer became a gleaming wall of enamel. I felt an inappropriate amount of relief. “Let me call him for you. Please, take a seat.” One white glove picked up a telephone handset and the other keyed in an extension number. The woman gestured toward a cheap-looking black leather sofa. Next to it was a plastic potted plant. I was too nervous to sit. Perhaps, I thought, I had made a terrible mistake.
Eventually Adam appeared from behind the reception desk. He was a bookish man with angular spectacles and an overnight growth of stubble. “Welcome,” he said, shaking me firmly by the hand. I thought I could detect a hint of irony. Adam produced an electronic swipe card and used it to take me through the second glass door and into the office area. “This is it,” he said flatly.
The office looked like the set from an old episode of NYPD Blue. Its negative aura would have been enough to put a feng shui consultant in the hospital. Underfoot was a sticky, matted carpet on which had been placed brown metal-and-plastic office furniture. The air held a strong whiff of burned percolator coffee and pretzels as a handful of plants wilted under fluorescent strip-lights. I saw no sign of a Times logo anywhere—or, indeed, any staff, apart from a couple of young, bored-looking African-American messengers and an ancient mail room worker who was coughing violently while sorting grumpily through envelopes. His coughs were punctuated by the occasional “GodDAMNit!” followed by self-pitying groans. Bundles of mail—everything from handwritten letters to bulky, brown UPS packages, most of them addressed to The Editor—were stacked everywhere.
Adam winced.
I had known Adam in London. During my hellish first week as an intern there, he had reminded me of an intimidating third-year student at the university who occasionally handed out insider advice to freshmen. Because he seemed slightly distant and phlegmatic most of the time, I was immensely grateful whenever he warmed up and gave me one of his fireside chats. After a two-year stint in Manhattam, Adam seemed ready to leave, and I got the impression he was puzzled that I would want his job. I was surprised, however, that he’d agreed to go back to London to take my old position on the business desk. In fact, Adam had been secretly offered a job at the Financial Times and had no intention of returning to the Wapping printing plant.
Adam escorted me to my “office,” which turned out to be a cubicle cordoned off from the empty cubicles next to it by a brownish plastic-and-cork wall that also doubled as a bulletin board. This is what Douglas Coupland had meant when he talked about “veal-fattening pens” in Generation X, I thought. Behind the cubicle was a long tabletop covered in yellowing copies of English and Australian newspapers. “The loo’s that way,” said Adam, pointing toward an LED display hanging from the ceiling. It read: “31 calls waiting.” I peered over the plastic-and-cork cordon and came face-to-face with a woman sporting a New Jersey perm and leather miniskirt. She was painting her nails. She looked up and smiled. This surely couldn’t be… Joanna? I felt as though I had stumbled into an episode of The Twilight Zone. “No, Julie,” came the nasal reply, followed by a squawk of laughter.