She was having a very hard time understanding her internship.
The reporter she was paired with chewed raw aspirin – constantly – and appeared to live in a dumpster full of half-drunk whiskey bottles and cheap suits.
He ceaselessly referred to her with demeaning pet names like sweetheart, toots and, on more than one occasion, “sugar tits”. And If she didn’t have his exact right mix of coffee and bourbon waiting for him every morning, along with a fresh pack of Pall Malls, he’d start into a tirade about how women never should’ve been allowed out of the kitchen, let alone into a newsroom.
To say she hated this man would have been a rather obscene understatement.
But when they started working, when she saw how he would let a story completely engulf him, and not stop until he’d gotten what he was after; she had to admit she respected the man, but just enough to make her hate him even more.
On the last day of her internship, she confronted him, demanding to know why he’d been so horrible to her.
He regarded her for a moment and sipped his bourbon coffee.
“Because now nothing will shock you. Sugar tits.”
I know a lot of people who work for local newspapers and TV stations. Nearly all of them have a story about some one like this in their newsroom. This one is for all of them.