Editor-in-Chief
John Smith
Fifty-one. That is not his name and he has never claimed it was; he just does not correct anybody. Two years of college, a stretch he calls trade publications, then a decade he skips. Reads constantly. Fact-checks. Nineteen years in and he has never once framed it as a mistake. His position is that he made an informed adult decision about a chemical, and the difference between him and the man with the Adderall script is a signature. He will defend that for six thousand words and most of it holds up. Also genuinely disgusted by people who will not hold a job or raise their kids, and does not see any tension there. Nobody on staff is paid.
Smith in the office. The stack on the left is sourced. The stack on the right is also sourced.
Contributing Counsel
Mark McGee
Sixty-three, maybe sixty-six — the number moves. Diesel mechanic, then hauling, then the thing he does not name that got him federal time. Two bids, one long. Off parole two years and proud of it. Fancies himself a lawyer; the procedural knowledge is real. People come to him with problems and he solves a surprising number of them. Keeps the shed immaculate. He will not let you in.
McGee at home. He asked that we not photograph the north wall.
Staff Physician, retired, contested
Sarah Whitmore
Forty-four. Internal medicine, a real practice, eleven years. She will tell you exactly what happened and the story is different every time and none of the versions include her. Still diagnoses people at a glance and is usually right. Lives with a roommate she is suing, or thinks she is suing. Tiffany is a real person who did something relatively minor in 2019.
Whitmore at the only place that still takes her card after ten.
Contributing Paranoiac-at-Large
Unnamed, Unknown
Late thirties. Will not give an age. Was an IT guy, actually competent. Has been correct about surveillance for about eleven years and it has destroyed him. Runs a mesh network. Keeps a paper log of every plate reader in three counties, and the log is accurate and legible and somebody should really be paying him for it. The Flock cameras broke something in him because vindication came with no apology attached.
The gentleman, from behind, as requested. Amy finds this funny.
Arts & Crafts
Karen
Fifty-eight. Genuinely one of the happiest people in the magazine. Retail management for a long time. A garage with roughly nine hundred pounds of rock in labeled coffee cans. The knowledge of local geology is legitimate and self-taught. Awake for long stretches and uses it productively, which nobody else here can claim. Issue three is pipe cleaners. No one has told her yet.
Karen with this month's acquisitions. The labels are systematic.
Real Psychology / Life Coach
Tera Larsen
Used to be a psychologist. Now files two hundred words of clinical certainty with no chart and no license. This month she and Sarah are best friends. Next month Sarah's column will have a new unnamed antagonist. The magazine does not acknowledge the soap opera. The readers do.
Larsen in the office. The hook on the wall used to hold a diploma.
Critic-at-Large
Joey the Plug
Thirty-four. Actually was a plug, for about six years, and was good at it — the title is retired, like a former mayor. Reads a lot, badly, no scaffolding: a Wikipedia deep-dive on neuroendocrinology, half a Bourdain book, something about terroir. Uses “unctuous” wrong with total confidence. His tasting vocabulary is genuinely developed. He can distinguish batches and he is right. He just wraps it in language he does not own. Believes McGee is a nostalgic old man with a burned-out palate.
Joey indoors. The sunglasses are a choice.
Staff Photographer
Amy Dockery
Twenty-nine. Three semesters of art school. Shoots a used Canon 5D Mark II and a 35mm f/1.4 that is her whole personality. Daylight is observational. Night gets the flash. Sober, or close enough that nobody asks. Follows Joey because the access is unrepeatable. The captions are the best writing in the magazine. Not dating him. Has said so.
Dockery, mid-turn. She did not ask to be in this one.