1964-01-27 - Bugle Basics
Summary: Jameson and Betty handle the basic rundown for the day.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
jameson elizabeth 


The hustle and bustle of the reporter's bullpen at the Daily Bugle is as hectic as ever. Always a deadline, and no matter what time of day, that deadline is always too close. Reporters type frantically at their desks to get final drafts of their latest stories to their editor, the advertising team argues amongst themselves about placements, and there's a constant din of any number of people on telephones to all corners of the globe. In the corner of the building, overlooking the city below through floor-to-ceiling windows, is the office of J. Jonah Jameson, as is clearly labelled on the door in bold letters. Most of the staff avoid this door like the plague, and inside the man himself sits at his desk, a thick cigar between his lips as he reads over copy for one article or another. Smoke collects near the ceiling, the air thick with it already, and he sets down the paper after a moment, forcefully striking the desk intercom with his fist. "Betty. Get in here pronto. Bring coffee."

*

"Yes, sir." A voice answers back through he box speaker, a 'bz-click' following as her finger leaves the connection button. It doesn't take the woman long before she's in the room, coffee in one hand, notepad and pen in the other. Bumping the door shut with her hip, her face twists at the cloud of smoke waiting to greet her. Coffee down, she moves to a break in one of the side windows and opens it, allowing some fresh, chilly air to circulate through the room. Turning, she notices the Surgeon General's report in his trash bin, ripped up and tattered. She frowns, brieftly, before the woman in soft pink clicks toward the front of the desk and offers Jameson a smile. "Yes, boss?" She inquires, pen at the ready.

*

"Shut the door." He doesn't look up from his desk for a moment, still apparently looking over the last few lines of the copy in front of him. The opening of the window gets the slightest hint of a sigh, but he doesn't comment on it. Betty was one of the few who could get away without a verbal dressing down for such things; if it had been anyone else though. He looks up, and removes the cigar from his mouth, setting it easily to rest on the ashtray before picking up the coffee, taking a sip. Only then does he look up at Betty, and for Jameson it's almost a smile. But it's not quite. "If I see one more cliche closing line in another one of Robertson's articles I'm going to break his damn fingers," he comments. "What's on the schedule for tomorrow?" He doesn't keep his own schedule, of course, relying on Betty to keep his appointments and affairs in order. Probably full of meetings, one-on-ones with various reporters, advertising representatives, printers, and people looking for handouts. All the things that were a necessary part of the business, but things Jameson loathed. Why couldn't people just do their damn jobs without needing him to hold their hand? "Oh, and I heard that Parker kid was in here again the other day."

*

Elizabeth had shut the door, but even so, she glances back to check. The comment about Robbie causes her to smile ruefully, those red lips pressing up and dipping dimples into her cheeks. "It's a mainstay, boss, the readers love it. Don't give him too hard of a time, hmm?" She scribbles a note down, however. "I'll let him know." Blinking, she brushes some brunette locks behind her ear before flipping back a few pages in her notebook. "Let's see…tomorow morning you have a check up with you doctor, then you have an appointment at the barber's office for your mustache. You'll be having an eleven o'clock meeting with the advertising boys for a pitch to their new lay out model. Then you'll be having lunch with your wife, I've already picked up her new dress from Macy's. It has been cleaned, and pressed, and should be delivered to your residence tomorrow afternoon." Making a few more check marks, she glances up at the comment about Parker, and smiles once more. "After lunch you'll be overlooking some copy for the Sunday publication and…I was hoping you'd have time to speak with Peter. He's a good kid, sir, and damn good behind a lense."

*

"Well, the readers are morons," Jameson shoots back. "But fine." He listens to her list off the day's appointments without reaction, until the mention of his wife, which gets a roll of his eyes. "Reschedule advertising. They're not ready to show, they'll need at least another two days," he says, sounding certain but not angry about it. They've always been over-eager, and under-prepared, and it wasn't a matter that was on a tight deadline. Not yet, anyway. "Fine, fine. Wait, what? Speak with Parker?" He lifts his eyes to meet Betty's, his terse words matching his expression. "Didn't I fire him? Why the hell would I want to talk to him again?" There's a look in his eyes that an experienced woman like Betty Brant would recognize; like a powder keg, just waiting for a match.

*

"Got it." She scribbles, notes, and crosses out sections of the schedule. "Sir, you fire everyone." She muses, sweetly enough. "I think you should consider bringing him back into the fold. With Brock MIA, you'll need someone that can give you the shots that sell the papers, sir. And, I happen to know that he has both Spider-Man, and the Fantastic Four in his portfolio now." Looking at her notes, she lowers the pad down, her hands crossing over her lap loosely. "No need to talk, sir. Just tell him to point and shoot. We need those shots, sir, and Parker is good at them. Clancey? Well…I can shoot better than him and I'm just a dame."

*

Jameson breathes out a long sigh, and furrows his brow. He was never big on second chances. "Fine. Have him bring his best shots on Monday." She was right, as much as he hated to admit it; the photographers left on staff after Parker and Brock just weren't up to the quality he'd come to expect. As much as he hated Peter, he couldn't argue with the photos. It stuck in his craw, as it were. "And tell him to leave the girlfriend at home this time, along with the attitude. We're a business, goddamnit, not a school dance." He picks up the cigar again, and sticks it between his teeth. "And I'm gonna want to see more than just local 'heroes'. Something with some teeth, or he's not getting through that door," he says with finality, motioning to his own door. There's a bit of a pause, and he breathes out a long huff of smoke. "Don't suppose we can find someone else to go to lunch with Mrs. Jameson."

*

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