I had an assignment during my senior year of high school to write an open letter, so I chose to write a short story and title it: “An Open Letter to a John Doe.”
It was about a journalist who had a thing for a source she interviewed. The source reciprocated a lot of interest romantically for a few weeks before completely ghosting her. It was inspired by a guy in my class, whom I had a thing for and who had done the same thing to me.
I bring up this piece because of an experience I had the other day. I had just gotten home from a Northwestern News Network meeting and was sitting on my sofa, putting on the Grammys, when it occurred to me to text a source for a class assignment to set up a time to talk.
I didn’t expect him to reply so quickly. I also didn’t expect him to say we should speak right then and there. Considering he had almost 500,000 followers on Instagram, and I really needed to conduct this interview, I couldn’t say no. I asked him if he could give me 15 minutes, did some last-minute research and put a few questions together.
When he answered, I immediately felt like something was wrong. I swear I heard a woman’s voice on the other end. She wasn’t speaking, though. All was going okay when I began asking him my questions. His answers weren’t particularly special, but nothing felt off about the call itself.
Then, towards the end of the interview, the subject of his salary came up. I don’t remember how, but it isn’t important. He asked me if anyone was on the phone, which I thought was weird since he knew I was recording. I said no.
Then, after telling me some personal life details that didn’t have to do with his salary and would not make it into my story, he asked if I had FaceTime. Seriously, what was going on? I should have hung up, but instead I asked why he asked: “Do you have any memorabilia to show?” He said no, so I continued, at this point trying to wrap up the call.
But, just as I thought I was in the clear — good to get off the phone — he brought up the fact that I go to Northwestern. “I live super close to Evanston,” he said. “We should meet up sometime. Talk about some real shit.”
I wish I were making this up. I have never been more uncomfortable on the phone in my life. It felt like this man, who is older than 30, I might add, was in the room with me.
I awkwardly laughed and said, “Okay… alright…” And then, to make matters worse, he asked what that meant. After another very awkward pause, I started to thank him for his time, and he hung up before I could process what just happened.
A week later, I have actually sent him a couple of follow-up texts. He has neglected to reply — annoying but unsurprising. I guess he won’t be connecting me to other sources after all.
Reading that back, this isn’t really a case of life imitating art. Maybe I just wanted to get this story off my chest. Because seriously, how absurd? I know I’m a catch, but yeesh, what happened to professionalism? Not cool.
Sylvie Slotkin is a Medill junior and author of “Communal Shower Thoughts.” She can be contacted at [email protected] or by fax. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to [email protected]. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.
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