a hug

“Where have you been?” August, the barkeep asked as I walked into his bar – August’s.

“He’s got a woman,” sniped permanent barstool No. 2 sitter Clarisa.

“That so?” August said looking at me.

“Yep, Clarisa explains it all,” I said with a grin. “Now give me a Shiner.”

August pulled out a can of Blonde, my favorite of the Texas brewery’s stock. I used to drink only the Bock, but it was me hanging on to the past. I stopped drinking it and started to enjoy Blondes. Much like in real life.

You see, I’d made it 40 years without going on a date with a blonde-haired woman. Kind of, fuck, who am I kidding, I proudly wore that as a badge of honor. When a lady asked me I’d say it with pride: “I’ve never dated a blonde. Kissed one once, but never dated one.”

That all changed one day in April. When I met a blonde. She didn’t fit most of my criteria. And it didn’t bother me at all. She was quiet, like me. Liked to brood in the corner and think about all the people around her, like me. She liked old garage bands. Once again, like me. And she wore these awesome boots. The kind that most likely could stomp on hipster’s feet when being bothered at a concert. Something I never considered, being a Samba tennis show only wearing kind of guy. And that sealed the deal.

We kissed on our second date. At a concert, of course. The bar spun around in circles while it was happening. Not due to alcohol or any other substances.

A few weeks later, my routine had changed. And it was starting to get noticed.

“You look tan,” August said.

“Well, not spending seven hours a day here, under the neon lights, can have that effect on ya,” I said.

“So, you going to the beach now?” Clarisa snarled.

“Well, I do live here,” I said. “It kind of makes sense that if one chooses to live at the beach, one should visit the beach at least every so often.”

“I hate the beach,” Clarisa said. “Fucking tourists everywhere. Leaving their trash behind. Making noise. Blocking traffic. Neon signs. Confederate flag bikinis and beach towels everywhere. Fuck the beach.”

“It sounds like you just don’t like people,” August said, pulling the handle on the draught Budweiser for another customer who was sitting in the dark a couple seconds ago, but now was at the bar. He looked at me, then looked at Clarisa. When I stared into my eyes, I knew who it was.

“Hey mayor,” I said a little too loudly. “How goes running the city?”

I had my run in with the mayor about a year ago. He had been building a brand new house right on the beach. It was an old school kind of design, meant to harken back to the days when anyone who lived on the island was either a fisherman, or worked with seafood or beer.

The only problem with the house, was it was too close to the water. At least by the standards the mayor himself had pushed through after the last hurricane.

“It’s a whole lot better without you poking around,” he snarled. “And to settle the debate you and the fine dame Clarisa are having – tourists suck. But their money certainly does not. Which is why we tolerate them for three months a year.”

“More like eight months now,” Clarisa said. “Because of you, mayor.”

“Not a lot of votes in this bar, are there?” he said with a chuckle.

“Mr. Letchworth,” I said, “I voted for you every single time.”

“Not hard to do,” August said. “He was the only one on the ballot.”

“True, my favorite barkeep,” I said. “But you can always write in a candidate. It’s lost on the American voter. The ability to vote for who you want to – always and forever.”

That phrase, as always sent me to the jukebox. Luckily, August had two of them. One with 45s on it, that he plugged in during non-tourist time, and the Internet one. I went to the Internet one. Put in a dollar and pushed the buttons.

The opening chords brought a groan from August.

“Not that again?” he sighed rubbing a glass with a dirty white towel.

“Always and forever, Each moment with yoooooooou… Is just like a dream, that somehow came through….”

“Sorry, folks,” I said. “I love Heatwave. How can you not like this song.”

“Damn, I think Jones is in love,” the mayor broke his mini-silence to say.

“Could be,” I said. “Never thought it would happen again. Well, I never thought I’d allow myself to do it again.”

“Why should a woman not hurt you?” Clarisa added.

“Point taken,” I replied. “I’m a bastard. A misanthrope.”

“But a fine tipper,” August interjected.

I raised my almost empty pint glass to August.

“It’s one of those things I learned at a young age. Tip well, and the bartkeep will keep your glass full.”

“Amen to that,” the mayor interjected once again.

“I’m still waiting for you to learn that one, Letchworth,” August sneered.

“You’d think, on the taxpayer’s dime, he’d be more willing the splurge,” I said. My reporter days, I found he had become quite adept at charging his drinking binges to the taxpayer. Amazing how many nights in the bar were labeled as “fundraisers” or “meet and greets with the constituents.”

I thought then that exposing it would make a difference. This was, of course, after the time newspapers had a reason for existing other than lining the owner’s pockets. Instead, it was lining a stock owner’s pockets, so exposing things turned into a bad idea.

“Don’t rock the boat, Jones,” one publisher told me. He was from what we called the “Lucky Sperm Club”, going back to the days of a single family owning a paper, and usually owning the agenda of the town. In those days, a newspaperman’s kids started out delivering the paper, maybe shot some photos or write a sports article or two before going to college. Then, he’d come back, work in the pressroom and mailroom for a while, then get a job as a reporter. Soon after, he’d be an editor. And when pops was old, he’d become publisher. The salad days.

Well, I enjoyed thoroughly when the non boat rocker got rocked one day. He was demoted and a few weeks later sent packing. Vermin he was. And he didn’t get a chance to flee the ship. Instead, he got tossed off into the ocean – but with a golden parachute. Robber barons take on different looks in different places. But they’re all robber barons.

“Jones, what the fuck are you thinking about now?” the mayor interrupted my fine memory.

“Your wife,” I said. “On your boat right now. Living in your house. While you’re hear.”

He came up to me. I thought he was going to punch me. And I’m not fighter. I can write that I won a fight, like Hemingway could. But, I couldn’t really do it. And I have no idea if he could either, but the shotgun he took to his face at the end – self inflicted – may answer it for me.

But instead of punching me, he hugged me.

“You saved my life, Jones,” he said. “You saved my life.”

That hug, it soon turned out, was the best thing to ever happen to me.

Home

For some reason the “Race for your life, Charlie Brown …” song entered my  mind just as I entered the office. It stayed there, echoing over and over as he spoke to me.

I knew my resume wasn’t up to snuff. I was qualified for the job I was interviewing for, but I hadn’t show it at all. But for some reason, Mr. Steven Jacobs IV decided to call me when he got my credentials in an e-mail one day.

“Mr. Jones,” he said over the phone three days earlier. “I’d like to bring you in for an interview.”

I, of course, immediately said “Certainly, Mr. Jacobs.” And we arranged a time for me to be in Raleigh for it. I was beginning to become familiar with the city, after living in the state for over a decade now, that city had always eluded me as a place I was comfortable. Now, having made the weekend trek there every other weekend for over a year, it was becoming quite easy to navigate.

“So, then, Mr. Jones,” Jacobs said as Charlie Brown kept racing in my skull, “what exactly do you think about my company?”

It had been a long time since I interviewed somewhere and they asked me actual questions about the company itself. In newspaper interviews, it was always about getting a feel for a person. That’s why I never prepared for a newspaper interview. I had that shit down pat. I could talk the talk and look a hell of a lot more confident than I ever was sitting in whatever shitty chair I was in. And believe me, the chairs were always shitty. Except the time I interviewed at Media General. The first ones, yes, when I was in the newsroom. Those chairs sucked. But by the time I got to the head honcho’s office, he had chairs that cost more than my monthly salary at any job I’ve ever had. And you wonder why the company was/is in disarray.

I started pulling stuff from my couple of Google searches the night before. Being sure to drop plenty of strategic key words. Something a friend of mine said was useful on resumes. “It gets you past the robots,” he quipped.

I didn’t buy into that, so I would write elaborate cover letters. All of them telling a story, because that’s what I did. Told stories. Some of them true, very true. And some of them lies, utter lies.

“Employers don’t want stories,” a career counselor said to me. “They want you to prove you’re going to bring something to the company.”

When she said that, I zoned out. Probably missed a bunch of great things she had to say. But, that just irked me. And reminded me of one of my favorite books of all time – “The Confederacy of Dunces.” And from it, one line : “Employers sense in me a denial of their values.” And since I was a wear my emotions on my sleeves kind of person – except with relationships, especially early on – this was a problem.

“I see you really know my company,” Jacobs said.

“I try to be an informed person, especially when it comes to matters close to me,” I replied. “It’s part of the journalist in me.”

I felt a twinge of regret for saying that. I was harking back to the “good ol’ days”, something which did not serve me well. All employers look at my resume and see a career journalist. So why do they want to hire me to do the complete opposite?

After about an hour of talking, Jacobs gave me the tour. It took all of six minutes and thirty-eight seconds. I timed it with my cell phone. Why? Because it distracted me from that damn Charlie Brown song.

Then, all of the sudden, Jacobs pulled a fast one. At least that’s how it felt.

“Jones,” he said. “Wait here just a minute.” And he vanished. I was in the middle of some kind of stock room. Dark and full of boxes. Stacked to the ceiling filled.

About two minutes later, he called me.

“You answer a phone on an interview?” was the first words he said.

“Not usually, but my caller ID said it was you,” I retorted.

“Heh,” he said. “I like the way you think on your toes, Jones. Come back to my office, so we can talk real stuff.”

D’oh. I had not paid any attention to our stroll through his offices and had no idea where his office was. It took me five minutes to find another person, and immediately I asked where Jacobs’ office was.

“There’s no Jacobs here,” the young lady said.

I was startled, then I said: “sorry, Mr. Jacobs.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhh,” she said with a snort afterwards. “You must be the new guy, huh? He was just talking about you.”

This wasn’t cool. I had no idea if I was going to be offered a job, and if so, whether I’d take it. But before my pride or ego could get any bigger, she talked again.

“How long has it been since he left you?”

“Oh, about 10 minutes,” I replied.

“You failed the test,” she said.

“Huh?”

“You’re supposed to find him in five minutes or less. He read it in some book on management he read in college. Says anyone that can’t find him in five minutes can’t have a job in this company.”

“Really,” I said unbelieving.

“Yep.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Four minutes and 44 seconds,” I said.

“He times you?”

“With a stop watch.”

She pointed me in the right direction and I found him.

“Well, well, well,” Jacobs said. “You’re more tortoise than hare, I see.”

“I am bald.”

No laughs. Not a good sign. Even a bad joke should be laughed at under these circumstances. He looked me up and down, then stuck out his hand to shake mine.

“Good luck, Jones,” he said. “But you’ve got to be able to think on your feet to work for me. Even if you’re just picking up my laundry.”

I went back home and opening up a 16-ounce Lone Star can. I was saving them for a big shin-dig, but sometimes you just have to have a drink. That was one of them.

The next morning, I got up and went back to the newspaper. Even though it smells bad and everyone hates each other, it felt like home.

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.