Shareware Supreme Volume 6 #1/swsii.zip/swsii/201/RUBYV26.ZIP/RUBY26-6

Text File | 1993-09-25 | 10KB | 165 lines

Copyright 1992(c)
                WARNING: NO SHAGGY DOGS ALLOWED.
                         By B.J. Higgs

     "So let's hear your comments about this week's paper,"
dictated my pompous editor, the one I thought of as 'the troll'.
"Diane?"
     "I, uhhh, thought it was a really good one," Diane responded
promptly, with just the right enthusiasm. Diane uses 'uhhh' so
the listener won't have to sit in silence while she thinks of
what she wants to say. "The logo looks good, the indicators came
out very crisp, and, uhhh, it's just a good-looking paper. One of
the better ones."
     "Karla?" invited the troll.
     "Yeah, it's a good-looking paper. I particularly like that
parking garage story. That's a great story," she announced about
her own contribution to this week's really-good-paper.
     The troll agreed. There were murmurs of agreement around the
table, and Diane took the opportunity to say that she'd meant to
mention that, and, yes, that really was a good story.
     Then Karla pronounced it, once again, a great story, and the
scene recreated itself on around the table, as it did every week
of every month, since God was a child.
     Finally, the parking garage story became like the shaggy dog
joke. At least it did to me.
     You know that joke...kid has this dog, very shaggy. Enters
it in the local shaggy dog contest. First judge says, "My, that's
a shaggy dog." Second judge says, "That really is a shaggy dog."
Third judge says, "That's the shaggiest dog I've ever seen."
Wins. Goes to the county, city, state, national, international.
Judges all say the same lines and dog wins everything.
     Finally gets to the global shaggy dog contest. First judge
says, "My that's a shaggy dog." Second judge says, "That really
is a shaggy dog." Third judge says, "I don't think he's so
shaggy."
     End of story. Well, by this time, I think they're one the
same story, (the shaggy dog and the parking garage.) So, when I
get invited to put my two cents worth in, I say, "Nice paper.
Great parking garage story."
     Maybe because I was laughing. Maybe because he knows I
despise him so he likes to torment me. Maybe because he's
genuinely curious. Whatever, Laddie asks me, "What do you think
makes the parking garage story a great story?"
     If he'd asked Karla, she could have told him. The truth was,
I hadn't even read the parking garage story. Something in the
depth of my soul seems to have emerged from the primordial ooze
with an inherent disbelief that there is any such thing as a
great parking garage story.
     "I'll be damned if I know," I responded honestly.
     Is it any wonder Laddie hates me?
     Well, I guess in a sense, it is a wonder that Laddie hates
me, since I'm the only one in the room he actually hired.
Everybody else was already there when the great Landson ("Lad")
Randolph rode to the rescue of what was an already rather dull
little paper, and turned it into the ennui of ineptitude. Of
course, that was my opinion. In his estimation, he had everything
but nail scars to prove he was a savior.
     Lad was the kind of guy who'd write, "No further
investigation seems apparent." Then he might ask you to read his
editorial, and he'd argue with you about that sentence. Now, you
tell me, if you say seems, don't you mean, looks like, might be,
appears? Webster's third definition is: "apparent likeness."
     So why would you say 'seems apparent?' Apparent, according
to Mr. Webster, means 'visible, evident, obvious.' Are you saying
that no further investigation 'appears evident? appears visible?
appears obvious?' I mean, we're talking about a police
investigation. Are they waiting now until a situation appears
obvious, evident or visible, before they make a further
investigation? I, for one, would be downright disappointed in a
police department that didn't investigate something that appeared
obvious.
     Or maybe it means, they're investigating, but they're doing
it in secret so it doesn't appear obvious? I mean, I'd use,
"seems warranted," or "appears to be indicated," or "no further
investigation is being made because one of the boys got a line on
some real nice cooz at a little joint downtown, and the Captain
was buying the drinks." I wouldn't use, "seems apparent."
     Of course, I said as much, and that's part of how I came to
be Laddie's albatross. He didn't let me read his editorials
anymore, though, so there truly is a silver lining to every
cloud.
     I remember the first interview with Lad, before he actually
came to work at the paper, and everybody thought he was a nice
guy. That was before he changed all the beats around, revamped
the whole layout of the paper, delineated content down to a fine
frog hair, and began to pester everybody about what they were
working on half a dozen times a day.
     "Do you think, 'interesting business-story' is an oxymoron?"
he asked.
     "Yes, I sort of do," I answered truthfully. "I don't think
it has to be, but, for the most part, I think it is."
     His eyes glowed. He began to wax profound about stocks,
bonds, banks, business loans. I should have seen the writing on
the wall. He sent me home with a paper, and asked me to grade it.
     I did. In writing. Frankly. At the close of my synopsis, I
pointed out that business and boring were not synonymous.
Writing, I said, was writing and it was as good or as bad as the
writer made it. Topic, I said, was unimportant. He must have
agreed, because he hired me, and then set out to promptly
restructure my viewpoint.
     Finer men than Landson have died at this pursuit. I do not
seem to be a willow. Nonetheless, you have to give him F for
effort.
     By the time the parking garage story came around, we were
sort of at the armed truce stage, smiling smiles at one another
that looked more like rictus than anything else.
      The end was not long in coming. One day, Laddie went one
step too far. He'd decided, he said, it would be best if I
conferred with him on all my stories in the future.
     See, Laddie didn't like surprises. He didn't like front page
stories that came in on Monday or Tuesday when he'd already
squared off the front page in his mind's eye. He didn't like
independence, individuality and creativity. He wanted dollar
figures and facts. Period. I thought he should get computers to
write copy.
     I took his proposition home with me and thought it over.
Well, I meant to.
     This relationship was a study in sick, and I, for one, was
becoming a bit disgusted with myself for continuing to play.
     What I actually did was go over to the chamber of commerce,
tell them I could no longer work for that pompous ass, and agree
to do freelance writing for their newsletter. Then I typed up my
notice, nice and neat, and put it on his desk Monday morning.
     I never looked back. Sometimes the pickings were slim...in
those first months I might get one or two stories a month that
paid anywhere from $200 to $400. But I was writing about what I
wanted to write about, business stories not excluded. I just
wrote them with feeling and personality...something that made
Laddie tremendously uncomfortable.
     I still write what I enjoy, and today I make a little bit
better money doing it. Which is maybe why this thought came to
mind, and I'm writing about Laddie tonight.
     I don't want to go into the uglies Laddie did. Suffice to
say he never took the heat for his own mistakes if there was an
employee he could sacrifice. He was the guy you could count on to
turn his back while someone else fired you, something he proved
with a hapless employee shortly after I left.
     But, like my grandaddy used to say, "The sun don't shine on
one dog's tail all the time." Laddie lost another employee and
wasn't allowed to replace her. Now he was down to three
reporters. Then, one wrote a letter complaining about the
newsroom atmosphere and saying she could no longer work in it. He
decided that was a resignation. She said it wasn't. He said, "I
take it as one."
     She wrote another letter, announcing that it wasn't and she
considered his announcement that such-and-such would be her last
day an involuntary separation. He had to come back and tell her
the company wouldn't fight her unemployment claim, a chore I can't
imagine he enjoyed. She left, and he was down to two reporters. He
got a part-timer, and then he had 2.5 reporters. I think she lasted
about six weeks, and he wasn't allowed to replace her, either, so
now he's down to two reporters.
     He had to cut a copy editor, and it drove him to tears. He
collapsed in the news room, and had to be carried out on a
stretcher and spent a few days in the hospital. The paper pared
its budget to the bone, gave everybody office supplies for
Christmas, and at the end of October they were down about a
quarter of a million in projected income.
     Come to think of it, I should be feeling sorry for Laddie.
Maybe that's the true test of sainthood. If so, I still have a
long way to go to find enlightenment.
     I don't find it impossible to feel sympathy for an ass, but
I do find it impossible to feel sympathy for a pompous ass.
                               END