The voice

I walked into the newsroom. It was cold. And quiet. The silence was eerie. I couldn’t get past it. I started running. But the room got longer with each step I took. The cubicles higher with each glance to the side.

“Stop!” a voice boomed out from nowhere and everywhere. “What do YOU think you are doing!”

My heart skipped a beat. It felt like it was going to just stop working right there. That this once proud place, a place full of life and hope and laughter and tears that now could pass for an airport terminal at 3 in the morning – except a terminal would at least have a janitor vacuuming late at night still – would my final resting place. Symbolic for sure. Because I’d certainly given my life to something that didn’t appreciate it, but certainly kept feeding on it.

“WELL?” the voice boomed again.

“I’m just trying to do my job,” I said. I don’t even know why those words came out of my mouth, but they did. Almost like an instinct they came.

“Didn’t you get the memo?” the voice said with a slight chuckle.

“No, I received no memo,” I said. I hadn’t checked my e-mail at work in months. It seemed pointless. All it was ever filled with was bad news. So, I just didn’t do it anymore. Guess there are consequences to every decision you make.

“That’s not good,” the voice said. “You were terminated, but you are still here. And by now, all of the security guards have been terminated too!”

“So what you’re saying is, I have the run of the place?”

“No! You must leave. NOW!”

“No. You’ll need to come down from your office and do it yourself.”

“But … “ I heard the hesitancy in the voice, it gave me confidence to continue what I was doing. A plan was starting to form in my mind. “I am not in a position to do that. You must leave.”

“I’ll get right on that, chief,” I said. I looked at my cell phone. It was a work paid for model. It appeared to still be working. This, of course, was a shock. I started dialing a number.

“What are you doing!” the voice sounded worried.

“I think you know exactly what I’m doing,” I said with a smirk and a middle finger in the air. I felt good and stupid doing that at the same time.

“Hello?” a voice on the other end answered. “Who is this?”

“It’s me, dumb ass, you’re editor,” I said.

“What? But the paper closed down yesterday?” a very confused Paul responded. “Randy, is this some kind of perverse joke?”

I thought about it for just a second before answering. I’m sure Paul saw my work number calling him and expected it to be someone from corporate hounding him one last time. But no, it was me. And I had a plan.

“Paul, it’s me. Just but on your clothes and get your ass over here,” I said.

“Over where?”

“The office, man. The office.”

“But…”

“No fucking buts man. I walked in and found everything here still. I didn’t even know about the firings yesterday. Hell, my key card still worked the front door. I guess that night on a barstool paid off for me. They seemed to have forgotten about me.”

“Oh shit. So, what are you planning on doing? Taking some shit or something. I mean, those computers are fucking ancient man. And you can only use so many reporter’s notepads.”

We both laughed. It felt good.

“Hell no brother,” I said. “We’re going to fucking put out one last edition.”

“How? What? You and me?”

“Of course not, asshole. After yesterday, I’m betting everyone I call will come down here.”

I was mostly right. Three people had already moved out of town. One day later. Man life goes on quickly for some folks. But I’m a dwelling. And this is my dwelling. Another guy said he was too drunk to fuck, let alone put out a newspaper. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, but said “If you sober up, or just get ornery enough to come in, do it!”

After about 45 minutes, a skeleton crew of reporters had arrived. As did two photographers. I simply said “You have 6 hours to write whatever story you want. It can be whatever you want, but it has to have impact.”

I said 6 hours because that’s about how long I figured it would take “the voice” to figure out we were doing something. I was still talking to it, and as long as I kept it occupied, it didn’t seem to think I was doing anything.

“Why won’t you leave?” it asked me again.

“Because this is my home. What would you do if someone came in and took away your home?”

“That’s silly. It’s just a job. Not your home.”

“You see,” I said to the voice, not knowing why I was trying to reason with it, “That is exactly why you don’t get it. We’d die with this place. Yet you still want to just kill it off.”

“It’s about profits,” the voice boomed. “Everyone in the office heard that one.”

“Yes, I understand that. But there is a difference between a profit and a sustainable profit. All you want is the first, damning the second to a quick death.”

“It does not matter. It is done.”

“You’re right,” I said. It had been six hours now. We were ready to go to press.

“Where are you going?!” the voice said as I left the newsroom. Heading straight for the press.

I flipped a knob and it roared to life. It was an older one. Reminded me of all those old movies where they had papers being printed with the headline of whatever dramatic moment needed to be portrayed on screen. Doing that with a web page or a cell phone app in a movie will never be the same.

“Noooooooooooooooooooo!” the voice boomed. “You can’t do that!”

“Too late,” I said.

Soon, the real last edition rolled off the presses.

We put them in the backs of our cars, with the circulation sheets from the night before printed out. An army of reporters, photographers, copy editors and desk clerks; press operators and sorters; janitors and secretaries. We all smiled as we left this time. We’d be delivering the news. And that’s all we ever wanted.