The sluggish river below looks dark and polluted, but I move closer to it on the slick concrete. If I can just get a closer look ... are those English letters alongside the Korean ones ... right by the Fuck the World! invitation?
I am leaning at a dangerous angle now, and the soles of my hiking boots are ready to give up their grip any second. But I can’t pull myself away. The letters are drawing me forward irresistibly ...
“That’s right, by God,” a voice behind me says. “Fuck the world!”
I jerk around, nearly losing my footing in the process. A vagrant is standing nearby with a plastic trash bag over his shoulder. He is gaunt and grizzled against the overcast sky and he wears a black raincoat over a hooded sweatshirt.
I scramble back up the slope toward him.
“You’re damn straight,” I say.
“It’s the World that keeps men such as us from doing what we want, eh?” the vagrant says.
“Right,” I agree.
Is this the “yeah, yeah” man I saw on the way to Victor’s house? Impossible to tell with the hood. If it is him, he’s left his mental fog sufficiently to engage me in conversation.
He laughs, displaying bad teeth. Then he takes out a filthy cigarette butt and sticks it in his mouth. His gnarled hands move with surprising gracefulness.
“You got a match?” he says.
I feel an extravagant burst of empathy for the old bum. Is this where my future is taking me? Will I, too, end up destitute and alone wandering some God-forsaken river to nowhere?
“Don’t smoke that!” I say.
I take out my pack and give him several cigarettes, then I light one for each of us.
“You’re a true gentleman,” the man says.
We stand smoking quietly for a while, observing the dismal landscape. This area seems to be the very heart of the Bum Nation. Here, I am beyond the edge of everything that is worthwhile. My new acquaintance spies a beer can lying in the weeds and adds it to his bag.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any spare change?” he says. “You see, I don’t have enough returnables, and ...”
“Sure.”
I give him my beer money.
“Thanks, pal!” A smile spreads across his leathery face. “I hope it comes back to you.”
***
The moment I get home, the phone rings. It is Betty calling from her office with the knickknacks on the desk and the Agent of the Year awards on the wall.
“You studied journalism, right?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah.” I recall the single Journalism class I took my freshman year.
“I’ve got a lead,” Betty says. “It’s just a small bi-weekly newspaper, but it might be a good foot in the door. Interested?”
“Yes,” I say.
Why not?
35: Cub Reporter
The next day, I drive fifteen miles to the small, semi-rural community of Rosewood.
Twenty four hours earlier I’d been standing under a graffiti covered overpass talking with some poor vagrant. Now I am zipping along the same freeway wearing my best clothes, headed for the Clarion newspaper office. I avert my eyes as I pass over Dead River.
After some initial confusion driving around the town, I stop at a strip mall drug store and ask directions from the assistant manager. Her name is Lynn, according to her name tag.
“The Clarion office? Sure, it’s close by,” she says.
She comes outside with me and points across the road toward an enormous three-story house. The place looks something like the Norman Bates residence from the Psycho movie, except that it is made of brick. Tacked to the side of this monstrosity is a newer, one-story structure.
“Over there,” she says, “It’s in the office wing, next to the insurance agency.”
I don’t waste much time looking across the road, as Lynn provides a far more attractive vista. She has jet black hair, almond eyes, and an excellent figure that even the drab store uniform can’t hide. She seems a bit older than me, later 20’s – enough maturity so that she could teach you a few things. I try to see if she wears a ring, but she has placed her left hand inside her vest pocket to protect it from the chill air.
“You’re not from around here?” she asks.
“No. I’m interviewing for a reporter job.”
“Well, good luck ... ”
“Tyler,” I say.
“Good luck, Tyler. I hope you get the job. Stop in and see us again.”
Man, she doesn’t have to say that twice!
I drive across the road and park in the dirt lot beside the Norman Bates office wing. With a certain amount of unease, I approach the door marked Clarion. A thunderous racket issues through it. I open the door, and the noise becomes ear splitting. The place is dim and empty except for a lone, middle-aged woman banging away at the keyboard of some diabolical machine.
“Excuse me!” I call over the noise.
She looks up, and the racket mercifully stops.
“I have an appointment to see Mr. Vance Cooper,” I say.
“He’s out on a story,” she says. “Have a seat.”
She directs me to a chair in front of a large, battered desk with an overflowing ash tray.
“Thanks,” I say.
I sit down, and the infernal racket resumes. I pick up the previous issue of the Clarion. It is a 32-page tabloid with the motto “Ringing True” written along the top. Beneath it is a list of the areas served – Rosewood and a few neighboring communities.
The lead story concerns a US congressman who was in town speaking about federal flood relief. The heavy rains have overflowed nearby rivers causing much property damage. Inside the paper are more items of local interest – school events, business news. The garden club announces that it is canceling its meeting, “since many of our members were flooded out of their homes.”
Special features include:
Straight Talk from the Mayor – A tough anti-crime message above a photograph of Mayor Stroh seated at his desk, jabbing a pencil at the reader.
Cogitations, by W. J. Presnell – A jumble of impressions about sports, social issues, politics, etc. A picture of an older guy in a baseball cap accompanies the column.
A page near the back contains funeral home ads, obituaries, and a horoscope. Mine reads:
You will become impulsive with a member of the opposite sex. You are inclined to stir up animosity.
I glance at my watch. The interview should have started ten minutes ago. I return to the paper. Below the horoscope runs a little wire service filler:
American Finds Lost Tribe
Manila – Former U.S. Peace Corps volunteer Jon Glass has reported discovering a previously unknown tribe in the Philippine rain forest. His sighting is being investigated by government authorities.
A heavy-set man of medium height enters the office. He walks somewhat awkwardly, as if weight and a touch of arthritis hamper him. I stand to shake hands. The pounding of the infernal machine comes to a blessed halt.
“So, you’re here?” he says. “Good.”
He plunks down at the desk and lights a cigarette. He looks late 50’s or so. His face has a craggy, unhealthy look, and the tip of his nose is a bit enlarged, as if he knows the true meaning of a drink.
“The bus drivers are picketing the School Board office,” Vance says, then pauses for a minor coughing bout.
He has some kind of Southern accent – a soft contrast to his rough features. I take an instant liking to him.
“Go check things out,” he says. “Get the drivers’ side of the story.”
“Well, uh ...” I say.
He pushes a battered Nikon across the desk.
“Take some pictures. Then stop at the police station and check for any new crime reports.”
“I ...”
“When you get back, write up the stories and give them to Phyllis for type setting.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
I pick up the Nikon. It seems like a cann
on ball, much heavier than svelte little Jewel Eye. Phyllis begins pounding away at her machine again. I retreat to my Nova.
“Looks like I’m hired,” I muse as I pull out of the parking lot. “That was some job interview.”
In a short time I am outside the town, driving through an area of woods and marsh land. A police car jumps me.
“You were driving 47 miles an hour,” the cop says.
“So?” I say.
“This area is inside the town limits.”
“Here?” I gesture to the uninhabited terrain.
“Yes. The speed limit is 35,” the cop says.
He writes me a ticket for an eye-popping fine.
“Have a nice day.”
The officer departs cheerily.
My pay check walks off with him. I start driving again – slowly. A bit farther down the road a sign reads: Speed Limit 45.
About twenty bus drivers, all women, are carrying picket signs as I arrive at the School Board office. When they find out I am from the Clarion, they crowd around me like groupies pressing in on some rock star.
“We’ve been working all year without a contract,” one says.
“We don’t get paid for extra runs to the Board office,” another complains.
I try to write their comments on the note pad I’ve scrabbled out of the Nova’s glove compartment. The picket leader comes to the rescue by pressing a written statement into my hands which details their grievances. I take some pictures. The Nikon’s light meter is unfamiliar to me, and the lens focuses opposite to my Pentax, adding to my discomfiture.
I go to the police station next and ask to see the crime reports. The chief is unappreciative.
“Where the hell’s Vance?” he asks.
When I explain that I am the new Clarion reporter, he grudgingly shows me the reports. Not much is in them – seems like the Mayor’s get tough policy is paying off.
Back at the office, I bang out my stories on a small manual typewriter and hand them to Phyllis. Then I lean back and stretch, pleased with having survived the first day of work. Thoughts of a luxurious hot shower move through my mind.
Vance comes out of his office area.
“I’m going home now,” he says. “The town council meets at 7:30, Tyler. I’d like you to cover it.”
I shrink down in my chair. “Sure, Vance.”
“See you in the morning, 7:00?”
I nod.
“Welcome aboard, Tyler,” Vance says.
Then he’s gone. I feel stunned, as if Mr. Itami has just finished knocking the hell out of me. Phyllis chuckles.
“Don’t worry, Tyler,” she says, “things aren’t usually this hectic. We’re going to press tomorrow.”
I leave the office and wander two blocks to the Riverside Inn, a crusty old place that must be close to a century old.
The atmosphere inside is relaxed and smoky. The bar top is made of darkened, thickly varnished pine boards. When I rest my hand upon it, I feel the stored vibration from generations of drinkers. An older guy wearing a baseball cap is sitting farther down amid a couple of admirers chattering away. I recognize him as columnist W. J. Presnell.
He frequently precedes his remarks with the formula “My Editor” – meaning Vance, presumably.
As in:
“My Editor liked my last column so much he said it oughta be syndicated!”
or:
“My Editor thinks we should start publishing on a weekly basis, he says there’s a bigger demand for my columns and such.”
I consider introducing myself, but decide to postpone the honor. Instead, I finish my beer and retreat to the quieter environs of a little café next door for dinner.
Then a stroll through the darkened streets.
Rosewood is still a simple place, but like any small town in the orbit of a giant metropolitan area, development will overtake it eventually. The nearby freeway attests to that. But for now the town is peaceful and remote.
Darkness overtakes the leaden sky, and the buzz of street lamps competes with the muffled freeway roar. People watch television on the far sides of picture windows. A scratch rock band plays in one house; guitar licks seep out a basement window. A man passes me walking a dog.
The people in these houses will be reading my words in tomorrow’s newspaper, I realize. The crowd at the Riverside Inn will hold opinions influenced by what I wrote. For the first time in my life, I feel like I have some pull.
I walk down a grass alleyway and leave the residential area. Some sort of industrial facility looms out of the darkness, huge and silent, an abandoned cement plant or something. It beckons mysteriously, promising adventure to anyone brave enough to enter.
My sense of nascent power suddenly evaporates, replaced by a corrosive envy.
So, Jon has found a lost tribe!
That could have been me making the discovery – if I hadn’t turned back at the first hint of trouble. Those damned insect bites! And why did Gloria have to be so cute? She’d kept me at the Foundation when I should have been striking out into the forest.
The whole thing is a conspiracy to keep me from accomplishing anything. All I needed was a break ... and more guts.
“There are two kinds of people,” a nasty interior voice says. “Those who win, and those who only announce the victories.”
These thoughts are paranoid and unfair I know, but that don’t lessen my frustration. I double back toward the city hall, passing a large Catholic church with its crucifix-topped spire challenging the night sky.
Well, I am here now, and I’m going to take maximum advantage of whatever opportunities await.
The city council meeting is a rancorous event. Much finger pointing about who botched what during the recent floods. Then the DPW union president reads a statement claiming that he’s been unfairly denied a promotion. He ignores numerous reprimands to calm down and has to be ejected from the auditorium. I snap a picture of him being escorted out by the same police officer who issued my speeding ticket.
Next, the Planning Commission chairman resigns because he has not met the residency requirement. And finally, the mayor announces that he will not be seeking re-election. He thanks his supporters and says that, no, his decision has nothing to do with his recent fraud indictment.
So much for the law & order administration.
36: Settling Down
“I think it would be fun to run a newspaper.” – Citizen Kane
Among other duties, I interview the Brownie troop leader, the fire chief, and a lake side resident who rescued two teenagers from a sinking boat. The guy already enjoyed a reputation for daring rescues, having previously saved some drifting chickens during the floods.
“I just pulled the boys out,” he says. “The same way I did the chickens!”
Vance delegates most of the reporting work to me and uses his own time to sell advertising space. Phyllis handles the Garden Club news along with operating her diabolical machine. W. J. Presnell delivers his column two days before we go to press. His work is so bad that it is actually good and enjoys a following among the readership.
In my ramblings, I locate a small general aviation airport with a skydiving business.
“I’ve always wanted to try skydiving,” I tell the owner.
“Take an introductory jump,” he says. “We go all year, weather permitting.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
He nods. No doubt he’s heard that line before.
Vance takes quite a liking to me. We hang out after work at the Riverside Inn, sometimes with W. J. Presnell. Vance drinks prodigious amounts, smokes even more, and waxes philosophical.
“Let me tell you, I’ve been through the mill and back again,” he says. “Biggest damn fool mistake I ever made was to get married!”
Seems his wife in North Carolina had dumped some years before when he was away on a business trip.
“I’d always wanted to run a newspaper,” he says, “and one was avail
able up here. Also, I wanted to get as far away from her as possible.”
He purchased the bankrupt Clarion and slowly rebuilt it. Maybe the paper could expand into a weekly if the ad revenue keeps increasing. In five or six years he hopes to retire and hand the paper off to some “vigorous young person.”
I get the impression that he has me in mind for the vigorous young person role, but six years seems like an eternity. Hell, I can’t even look at a green banana and visualize a time when it might be ripe.
To mark the end of hunting season, some duck hunters run a tournament at the nearby state game area. I slog along with the Nikon, taking pictures and dodging falling shotgun pellets. Guys compete in sneak shooting, layout shooting, and other blasting events. They also conduct boat races on the frigid marsh waters. I keep Jewel Eye with telephoto handy in case of a capsizing, but no go.
The injustice of my speeding ticket rankles me, and I decide to contest it in court. The defendant ahead of me is a real jerk. While drunk, he’d driven his pickup truck through a suburban neighborhood at sixty miles an hour and crashed onto somebody’s front lawn. He receives harsh treatment.
The judge is in a foul temper when my turn comes, but his mood rapidly changes. I explain about the poorly marked speed limit and the assumption any reasonable person would make that he was outside the town boundary – especially a reporter like me who was after a news story for the Clarion. Wheels turn in the judge’s head.
No sense pissing off this guy, he’s thinking. I don’t need any bad press for the next election.
He voids the ticket. I leave the courtroom feeling proud of myself.
Police cars soon disappear from the ambush spot, and the 45 mph sign is moved up to it’s proper location. Ah, the power of the press!
Our new issue comes out soon after. I peruse it happily, still basking in the glow of my triumph. Inserted after my duck hunter story is a wire service filler:
Saint Nick Robbery Foiled
Portland – Ho Ho Ho! Santa Claus came early this year, wielding a shotgun. A bank robber, dressed in a Santa outfit, was running to his getaway car with a bag of goodies when an onlooker tackled and disarmed him.
Jon Glass was waiting for a bus when the Saint Nick robber ran by.
“I thought it would be interesting to stop him,” Glass said afterwards, “so I took him down.”