<"I Find...
Your Lack Of Faith...">
<The Highwayman, 12-27-19>
Your Lack Of Faith...">
<The Highwayman, 12-27-19>
Suggested Soundtrack: "Murder Most Foul" (Bob Dylan)
<Storyteller's Note: The following account, though strictly personal and anecdotal, is true. The names have been changed, masked or omitted to avoid retribution from the guilty.>
<i.>
...The constant jibes of, "I'm your boss, not your enemy," whenever the Chief hauled you into the Star Chamber, to which you thought, What's the difference? Either way, I get a shit sandwich.
...The compliment sandwich style of his first evaluation, one that celebrated your writing abilities, even as it tore down more nebulous qualities, like an alleged unwillingness to attend company functions. You don't recall any being offered, but never mind. Such inconsistencies didn't slow down the Chief a whit.
...The time that you got wildly berated for "not being a newsroom leader," prompting you to remind Chief Tightly Wound: "I think there's room for only one, and right now, that seems to be you. I don't see room for another."
...The resigned hiss you heard from the Chief's mouth, as he explained his real issue with gay marriage, an idea that his fundamentalist brain didn't accept: "Oh, it's coming eventually, all right. Think of all the extra work we'll have to do." That's just like him, isn't it? you thought then. Even as you stack our plates higher and higher, you're really upset about potentially taking on one more task yourself.
...The colleagues that began disappearing as Chief Tightly Wound fired them after a few months here, a year there. Others quit as soon as the sulfur hit their nostrils, like the news director whose face turned chalk white, after she heard him go ballistic over the phone. At whom, you never knew, but you never saw her again. She was gone the next day, and one day, you knew it would be your turn.
...The strange, almost selfish relief you felt after leaving the Bugle's front entrance for the last time: No longer do I have to answer all those stupid questions. Why "we" aren't doing this, or doing that? Why aren't "we" running this story, or not running that one? No need to care, because that royal "we" doesn't include you anymore.
Oh, and I don't have to get there by 7:00 a.m., and stare at that jug-eared prick anymore. These days, you can stay up till 7:00 a.m., which feels a hell of a lot better.
Not that you bought the whole casual Friday bit, anyway. By the time your last year at the Bugle rolled around, you always arrived with the same prayer on your lips: Dear God, if you're really out there, get me through today without any screaming or yelling, without some drama or incident. Such places lend themselves to many descriptions, but "casual" isn't one of them.
Links To Go:
Jobs To Nowhere (Take III):
When The Hammer Drops
https://ramennoodlenation.blogspot.com/2018/08/jobs-to-nowhere-take-iii-when-hammer.html
The news catches you off guard. Something's up, you sense, when The Squawker calls you over to the computer, where an obituary and an accompanying news story are already minimized, waiting for your brows to furrow together, puzzled. "Hard to believe, isn't it? But I found it just now, and figured you'd want to see it," Squawker tells you.
You quickly skim both items, yet even now, your eyes have trouble taking in the news. But there it is, in black and white: Chief Tightly Wound, who booted you off The Daily Bugle's perennially troubled, perpetually unstable, penny-pinching island, has died. For those who need the back story, please consult the link below ("Jobs To Nowhere [Take III]: When The Hammer Drops").
From what you glean, the end came suddenly. The Chief's tribute doesn't say how he died, but the basic facts involved being rushed to the local hospital, in extreme distress, where he died shortly after his arrival. The Bugle's story doesn't say so, but your own hunches point to a heart attack as the likely scenario.
You hadn't seen Chief Tightly Wound since that final Star Chamber Conference, where he berated you one last time, for sins real or imagined, before he dropped the axe over your head (figuratively speaking, thank God). "Have fun doing it all yourself," you told him, as you pushed your camera and front door key across the desk in his general direction.
Since then, you'd only seen the Chief a couple more times, including one surreal moment in the local emergency room, where you went after cutting your foot in a stupid household accident. You never noticed him sitting halfway across the room, until somebody else pointed out that fact later. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?" you'd asked. "I could have had one more crack at him."
"That's exactly why I didn't tell you."
"Fair enough," you sigh.
From what you glean, the end came suddenly. The Chief's tribute doesn't say how he died, but the basic facts involved being rushed to the local hospital, in extreme distress, where he died shortly after his arrival. The Bugle's story doesn't say so, but your own hunches point to a heart attack as the likely scenario.
You hadn't seen Chief Tightly Wound since that final Star Chamber Conference, where he berated you one last time, for sins real or imagined, before he dropped the axe over your head (figuratively speaking, thank God). "Have fun doing it all yourself," you told him, as you pushed your camera and front door key across the desk in his general direction.
Since then, you'd only seen the Chief a couple more times, including one surreal moment in the local emergency room, where you went after cutting your foot in a stupid household accident. You never noticed him sitting halfway across the room, until somebody else pointed out that fact later. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?" you'd asked. "I could have had one more crack at him."
"That's exactly why I didn't tell you."
"Fair enough," you sigh.
<ii.>
Honestly, though, you hadn't given the Chief much thought lately. You'd left the Daily Bugle's rural confines long ago, for another job in your former hometown. That one fizzled, too, but you'd transitioned to self-employment. The first few years were filled with various psychic stresses, financial and non-financial, but the last three years or so stabilized, as you seemed to learn the game.
Still, you can't help but wonder: How's this one playing out? A quick online search yields one other tribute. It's not from the Daily Bugle (where the Chief lost his job, after it merged with its county rival next door, leaving one editor to preside over both papers -- not two).This other tribute comes from a suburban weekly, where the Chief had been working as a stringer after his freefall from grace.
You already knew that Chief Tightly Wound was a full-time freelancer, though his wife taught in the local school system. Though he undoubtedly found his comedown from full-time work shocking and stressful, she still pulled in a good salary, and he could stay on her insurance. He hadn't fallen on the breadline, even if he was no longer the breadwinner.
Both tributes are telling, as you feel their authors straining to say something positive about the man. Tellingly, past and previous staffers focus on the technical stuff, leaving out the personal tidbits, for the most part. They're all straight out of the Last Train To Clicheville:
A good writer who had many more stories to tell. A fine editor who made me get my game up, though I didn't always like how he did it. A fierce competitor when it came to getting the job done.
How fierce, exactly? Well, one rival correspondent recalls the Chief literally shoving him out of the way at a game, in hopes of taking a better photo. Yup, you tell yourself, sounds like the Chief I knew and hated. No surprises there. For a moment, you're nearly tempted to write the editors of both papers, and tell them: "Okay, now that I've stopped laughing so hard, tell me what the man was really like."
You decide not to waste the time and keystrokes it would take.
Both tributes are telling, as you feel their authors straining to say something positive about the man. Tellingly, past and previous staffers focus on the technical stuff, leaving out the personal tidbits, for the most part. They're all straight out of the Last Train To Clicheville:
A good writer who had many more stories to tell. A fine editor who made me get my game up, though I didn't always like how he did it. A fierce competitor when it came to getting the job done.
How fierce, exactly? Well, one rival correspondent recalls the Chief literally shoving him out of the way at a game, in hopes of taking a better photo. Yup, you tell yourself, sounds like the Chief I knew and hated. No surprises there. For a moment, you're nearly tempted to write the editors of both papers, and tell them: "Okay, now that I've stopped laughing so hard, tell me what the man was really like."
You decide not to waste the time and keystrokes it would take.
Work Work
Work
Work...
...Die
<iii.>
For a day or two, you push the subject out of your mind. You've run those loops over and over in your brain often enough over the years:
...The Wednesday staff meetings that ballooned into 45-, 60- and eventually, 90-minute gab fests, as the Chief droned about "managing your time," while you rolled your eyes, and looked at the clock: For God's sake, man, let us get back to work, so we can keep on churning out this stuff you don't pay us enough to produce.
...The compliment sandwich style of his first evaluation, one that celebrated your writing abilities, even as it tore down more nebulous qualities, like an alleged unwillingness to attend company functions. You don't recall any being offered, but never mind. Such inconsistencies didn't slow down the Chief a whit.
...The time that you got wildly berated for "not being a newsroom leader," prompting you to remind Chief Tightly Wound: "I think there's room for only one, and right now, that seems to be you. I don't see room for another."
...The resigned hiss you heard from the Chief's mouth, as he explained his real issue with gay marriage, an idea that his fundamentalist brain didn't accept: "Oh, it's coming eventually, all right. Think of all the extra work we'll have to do." That's just like him, isn't it? you thought then. Even as you stack our plates higher and higher, you're really upset about potentially taking on one more task yourself.
...The colleagues that began disappearing as Chief Tightly Wound fired them after a few months here, a year there. Others quit as soon as the sulfur hit their nostrils, like the news director whose face turned chalk white, after she heard him go ballistic over the phone. At whom, you never knew, but you never saw her again. She was gone the next day, and one day, you knew it would be your turn.
...The strange, almost selfish relief you felt after leaving the Bugle's front entrance for the last time: No longer do I have to answer all those stupid questions. Why "we" aren't doing this, or doing that? Why aren't "we" running this story, or not running that one? No need to care, because that royal "we" doesn't include you anymore.
Oh, and I don't have to get there by 7:00 a.m., and stare at that jug-eared prick anymore. These days, you can stay up till 7:00 a.m., which feels a hell of a lot better.
<iv.>
The best part comes last. The moment your Bugle job disappeared, so did your interest in continuing to wear the blue, gray and black T-shirts that they gave out for casual Fridays. Not that you bought the whole casual Friday bit, anyway. By the time your last year at the Bugle rolled around, you always arrived with the same prayer on your lips: Dear God, if you're really out there, get me through today without any screaming or yelling, without some drama or incident. Such places lend themselves to many descriptions, but "casual" isn't one of them.
Yet the Bugle hasn't stood immune from the chill winds of change blowing through the news business. At the time of your axing, the Bugle had shut down its on-site press, outsourcing it to an out of county printer. Later, you heard that the Bugle abandoned its headquarters -- which it owned -- and moved into a far smaller one, in the industrial park, on the edge of town.
All the dog-eat-dog-ism, it seems, that that the Chief preached -- "Every reporter in America is working harder," "Manage your time," "Overtime is not an option," and your own favorite, "This isn't a charity" -- couldn't save the Bugle from drowning on dry land, its so-called mission swamped by a toxic work atmosphere, and a tsunami of red ink. Well, the Chief's gone, you think. He can't hurt anybody else anymore.
Still, you can't say that you got nothing out of the deal. Those goddamn T-shirts, right, that you wasted no time hacking and ripping into oblivion, because you never wanted the Bugle's name and logo to grace your chest ever again.
Let the county landfill handle the overflow, you tell yourself. Chucking those blue, gray and black discards into the bin feels oddly satisfying, doesn't it? Just as well, you figure. -- The Reckoner
Links To Go:
Jobs To Nowhere (Take III):
When The Hammer Drops
https://ramennoodlenation.blogspot.com/2018/08/jobs-to-nowhere-take-iii-when-hammer.html
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