W orking on deadline. It's every journalist's romantic fantasy because we've seen too many movies where a handsome journalist (most of us are fat) dashes off a story (most don't "dash") that changes the power structure of the city, state, nation (this hasn't happened since Watergate), and they get it in just in the nick of time to calls of Stop! (or Hold!) the presses! (but modern presses never "stop")
At one end of the room, the one past my office door, is my editor's office. It's closed. He's at the gym. He'll be back and expecting this story on prime time television animated programming. Which I am supposed to be writing instead of this. When he does return I'll tell him "almost done!" and get started, on deadline, typing away like the thinner, more important man I want to be.