Walking the Newsroom

Observations from a Slow Walk Through the Newsroom

Walked by Hampus Fickelton

First Round

This is not a meeting. Nor is it an inspection. It is simply another perfectly ordinary day at the offices of RABAGAS Magazine.

Hampus Fickelton walks slowly through the newsroom, carrying a green mug of coffee that has already lost a little too much of its best temperature. It is not undrinkable yet, but it will probably be a good idea to replace what is left in the mug by the end of the day's first round. Every now and then he takes another sip, as though it were some kind of metronome for the small observations he makes along the way. Short, unhurried steps that will eventually make up a full round of the newsroom, where he gathers enough inspiration to get through the rest of the working day.

Everyone else is sitting at their desks, working. Nobody raises an eyebrow when he walks past. There is something about the pace and energy behind his quiet movements, interrupted only by another mouthful of coffee or a brief moment of reflection and curiosity.

The others are, at the very least, present at their desks, which is about as close as anyone comes to a shared definition of work at RABAGAS Magazine. There are no middle managers hovering around, no HR department. The magazine's writers are here because they want to be. Or perhaps because they have nothing better to do.

Jonas is leaning over his notes and two computer screens with an energy that suggests he is either in the middle of a breakthrough or in the middle of forgetting what he was looking for in the first place. Ragna leafs through a stack of papers, stops, writes two short words with a red marker, and continues on to things that have not quite managed to write themselves correctly yet. Dag mutters quietly, engaged in an argument with something that could just as easily be an email to a potential interview subject as an existential obligation.

Ulrikk sits a little more apart from the others. He likes having his own "space", as he calls it. His monitor is angled as though it were an architectural project in itself. There is an orange HB pencil behind each ear, three notebooks open in front of him, and an entire ecosystem of colourful Post-it notes. He does not simply work in the room; he lets the room work with him.

And right in the middle of it all lies Baltazar.

A huge Leonberger. A massive creature, a calm presence of fur and weight that has permanently claimed ownership of the sofa in the seating area at the centre of the newsroom. He effectively forms the peninsula Hampus is walking around. It is the same sofa that is, in theory, the editorial team's shared space. In practice, it has become something of a diplomatic zone between man and dog.

Baltazar did not choose his position within any social hierarchy. He simply laid claim to it as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And nobody has managed to dispute it.

Hampus stops by the sofa.

And looks at the dog, who somehow appears to be focusing on absolutely nothing at all while still having complete control of the situation.

A kind of gentle authority.

Without any need for argument.

Hampus takes a sip of cold coffee.

Baltazar considers the absence of silence in the room.

The sound of keyboards, low conversations, Dag quietly swearing because he cannot find the attachment he meant to include in his previous email, the squeak of the wheels on an office chair somewhere in another corner of the room.

Hampus takes in the temperature of the room, which, as always, is a compromise.

There is something about the way everything is organised without ever being completely organised. Everyone is working on their own things, while at the same time simply existing within a system of small, unspoken negotiations: about light or noise, about the air in the room, and about chairs that either squeak in protest or glide silently across the floor in quiet frustration.

And in the middle of it all lies Baltazar. He negotiates nothing. He simply occupies his space. And he never barks.

Hampus moves on.

He finishes the last of his coffee.

No conclusion.

There is nothing left to do except hope that the coffee machine has decided to cooperate this time.

Second Round

A few hours have suddenly passed. A few more than Hampus had planned.

The lights are the same, but the room is not quite the same.

Things rarely move physically in the RABAGAS newsroom, but they do move in intensity and focus.

Hampus Fickelton begins another round of the newsroom. It has been time for a fresh cup of coffee for quite a while already, and he might as well inspect the progress among the magazine's hardworking introverted writers while he is at it.

Plants have always been a sign of whether something is working, almost working, or completely beyond hope.

In the corner they stand together like a small army of evergreens. Some of them more concerned with staying upright than others. All of them carrying the same quiet expectation of being noticed just enough to survive. But never so much that they become anyone's responsibility. Then there are those that have simply learned they get watered at the same time as the others anyway, so there is really no point making an effort.

Hampus stops by the steadily growing collection of greenery. One or two display a colourful flower or bud, but otherwise it is mostly green leaves of varying shapes and thicknesses.

Nobody really knows who waters them. More than one person, Hampus included, has tried to track down the mysterious benefactor without success. They simply stand there now, glowing in the shafts of sunlight that find their way through the skylights between the clouds.

They do not look unhealthy.

They look like plants that have accepted their fate as office plants.

Next to the office's own little rainforest begins the row of workstations, slightly outdated desks with their respective computer monitors.

According to Hampus, the direction people point their screens is an underrated form of social geography in itself. The way you angle your monitor says something about who you allow in, and who you pretend you do not have to relate to.

Vice versa.

Some monitors face outward or slightly upwards, like open windows. Others are turned inward or downwards, like small private rooms in the middle of a shared landscape of screens.

Nobody has explicitly agreed to this. Most people are probably not even aware that computer screens have lives of their own. Even so, the pattern is remarkably consistent.

Hampus takes another sip.

Baltazar is lying on the sofa.

He has been there long enough for it to become a question in itself. Is this still an ordinary afternoon's rest, or merely potential presence?

His tail gives small signals. Not restlessness, but a kind of direction. A clear transition from "Hey buddy, life is good." to "I might try somewhere else for a while."

Ragna notices immediately.

She says nothing. She simply responds with a subtle change in the rhythm of her work, translating the pace of the room into something Baltazar finds acceptable. He does not quite settle down again, but he postpones the decision.

Ulrikk seems to be finishing something. It is not always easy to tell where work ends and the ritual of finishing begins, but it always involves precision.

The pencils are put down and the eraser is nudged slightly into place. The monitors receive one final adjustment, not because anything is wrong, but because something can always be a little more right.

He does not get up just yet.

He checks the room first.

Jonas does not appear to be planning to go anywhere at all.

He leans back in his chair with his fingers interlocked and his feet on the desk. A position that is neither work nor rest, but something in between that belongs entirely to him. It is difficult to tell whether he is resting or thinking harder than anyone else in the room.

Probably both.

From a small office in the corner comes the sound of quiet humming. Dag Sandholt walks back and forth as though following an internal rhythm that requires no outside confirmation.

Hampus stops for a moment.

Then he lets Dag be Dag again, and the round ends without a conclusion.

The plants are still standing where they were.

The monitors are still pointing in different directions.

And the room continues to be a room that works.

Hampus finishes the last of his coffee.

Then heads back to his office.

Final Round

It is the next morning.

Unfortunately.

The lights are on. They have probably been on all night. But the room has not yet decided what kind of day this is going to be. The air lingers somewhere between night and working hours, as though the office itself needs a few extra minutes to get acquainted with reality.

Hampus Fickelton begins his round.

The morning round.

With the green coffee mug.

The coffee is piping hot and almost tastes of adventure, but the silence in the office does not.

Ragna and Baltazar have not arrived yet.

Ulrikk and Dag have not arrived either.

Their absence is not felt as emptiness, but as a subtle shift in the room. The empty sofa is still there, yet it somehow seems larger than usual. Even the plants look a little less certain of themselves when nobody is there to notice them.

Everything is in its place, but not quite in use yet. Which is hardly surprising, because the working day has not really begun.

Jonas is sitting in exactly the same position as yesterday.

His feet on the desk.

His upper body leaning back in the office chair.

His eyes open.

But there is something in his gaze that suggests they are not entirely present. Hampus pauses for a moment, wondering whether this is wakefulness or some temporary interruption of consciousness that has taken the shape of office work.

There is no reaction when he snaps his fingers beside Jonas's head.

He is asleep.

Jonas breathes steadily and his chest rises and falls. The room accepts him as though he were a permanent fixture.

Someone really ought to tell him he sleeps with his eyes open.

Hampus takes a sip of coffee and wanders on.

The little forest of plants is slowly waking up to a new day, but they seem to have realised there is no point stretching towards the windows just yet. Outside, the rain is falling heavily enough to drum softly against the skylights.

The computer screens have the same social geography as yesterday, only with a slightly more morning-like quality around the edges. Ruth has clearly been by to clean, because every surface is spotless apart from the one-metre radius surrounding Jonas.

The temperature is pleasant, though that may simply be the coffee. He takes another sip and thinks: Nothing is ever completely stable, but everything pretends that it is.

The door suddenly opens.

Dag walks in carrying his briefcase. As always, it looks a little too full of both documents and thoughts that have not quite found their place. A crumpled sheet of paper sticks out from one side.

He stops when he sees Hampus.

They exchange a brief nod.

Then a silence that is not uncomfortable, merely unresolved.

"You're up early," says Dag.

Hampus shrugs.

"Or late finishing yesterday," he says. "No, I just ran out of coffee at home," he adds, raising the mug as evidence.

Dag smiles a little, though it is more a reflex than a reaction.

He sets the briefcase down. It lets out a small, satisfied click, as though it has finally been allowed to rest.

"It's quiet today," Dag says, sounding slightly uncertain.

Hampus looks around the room.

"It's always quiet. It just doesn't sound like it."

He takes another sip.

Dag nods slowly, as though considering whether that was an observation or a conclusion.

"I've noticed you hum more these days," Hampus continues.

Dag chuckles.

"Maybe that's what happens when you stop receiving information you never asked for."

Hampus thinks about it.

It is not necessarily a theory.

But it sounds like one.

They stand there for a moment without filling it with anything important. Hampus takes another sip. Just the room, the lights, and Jonas in the background, who still has not quite decided whether he is awake or merely consistently present.

He walks back towards his office, and Dag opens his briefcase.

The round is once again complete without anything in particular having happened.

Except for everything that happens all the time, without anyone saying it out loud.