Coffee and Powerbars - Life as a Journalistic Wench

I’m caught on that tipping point between dream job and living hell. I’m over at Downtown Express, a respectable weekly where reporters get a start (or die).

The ride has been fun - a bit droning - but fun nonetheless. I check in every morning, admittedly at my own leisure. My clock counts common sense, not seconds. So I’m in when I need to be, not supposed to be. And I do what I need to do - file my stories on time. Not want I’m supposed to do - look busy.

I’ve gotten some stories published that I’m proud of, and some I filed in my sleep. But I’ve realized the damn grind this job can be. I’ve always said manual labor is easier than the brain-frying hum of a laptop. It’s beyond numbing.

The standard classical music you hear when you’re “on hold.” Acting dumb with elected officials. “Will this show up in the newspaper?” Yes. “Don’t put that bit in.” Ok. “How’s the [blank] story coming along?” No idea, but it’ll miraculously happen somehow. “What’s your reaction to [blank]’s comment…” That doesn’t answer my question. “Well, that’s the best you’ll get out of me.” Swine.

If I’m lucky, I’ll mangle an assignment until it forces me to leave the office and interact with human beings. This is fun. Getting people to let their guard down and say something irrational and stupid is harder over the phone.

At 3pm, I’m a zombie. By then the Powerbars have tapered off and the 4th cup of coffee sounds right and awful. Cocaine and/or speed sound like reasonable options. It’s a warped, sick, and disgusting profession. I recommend it to everyone who has ever asked one question too many.

There are priceless moments. The tech guy tells you the wifi you’re stealing belongs to Russell Crowe. “I hope he doesn’t throw a telephone at you.” You get a thank you letter from a blind man you profiled, telling you how much he loved the picture of him and his seeing eye dog.

But it’s hard. Damn hard. But I’m lucky.

I’ve realized there isn’t one character in the office I wouldn’t spend a day with. They can be unsavory and a bit irrational. Sometimes strange, often whiny. But upstanding nonetheless. If these are the people that inhabit the journalism world, then I’m proud to be I’m among them. I’ve yet to meet someone here I wouldn’t have a beer with.

I have no idea where this will all lead to, other than having my name in ink several times. But I came here to get a start - not to die.