Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins.
Episode 1
It was summer. It was hot. The air conditioning could not keep the second-story newsroom comfortable. All the men in the newsroom had their shirts open at the top, and the women wore summer attire more suited for a picnic.
Rich sat at his desk typing a story he hoped to finish by 5:00. It was 3:55. His phone rang. He picked up the receiver.
“Rich Larsen.”
“Larsen, this is Briggs. Come to my office.”
Briggs was the news editor. He had worked at the newspaper for twenty years. He dyed his hair black and had a comb-over. He fancied himself a ladies’ man. If he hired three reporters, two would be female and attractive. One of them would end up living with him until she found another news editor at a larger paper. Rich disliked that environment. His former boss, Sam White, back in Rockland, was all about good reporting and writing. Rich thought the guy he was about to see thought ‘adverb’ was the root for ‘advertising.’
Rich rapped on the door and stepped into the office. Briggs sat in a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck with his sleeves rolled up. His shirt was soaked with perspiration around the armpits. He bobbed his head and smirked.
“What’s up?” Rich said.
“You know I have you in here more than anybody out there,” Briggs said.
Rich said nothing. Where is this conversation heading? He wondered.
“Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” Briggs asked.
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at. I don’t keep track of who goes in and out of your office.”
“Look,” Briggs said, leaning over his desk, “the only reason I hired you is that some professor at the university knows a guy who knows a guy who said you were good. And the owner said so.”
Rich stood up straight. He looked around the office as if he hoped someone might hold up a cue card so he would have something to say.
“You’re not getting it, are you?” Briggs asked. “Don’t you ever read your articles after they go to print?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” Rich said.
“I take your screed and turn it into a polished piece of well-written news.” Briggs attempted a half-smile.
Rich felt as if he were being lectured by a high school English teacher in front of the class. Everyone in the newsroom is listening, he thought with certainty.
“Haven’t you ever wondered why you haven’t got a raise?” Briggs asked, tapping a pencil against his desk. “You could make my job a lot easier if you’d learn from your mistakes. Your reporting is blah. You don’t have what it takes to craft a story. We have volunteer folks out in the community who send us better stuff than you write.”
“Sir,” Rich said, “I just get my story and write.”
“Well, the reason you haven’t got a raise is that you don’t write well. If you’d take the time to read what I edit and put in print, you might see where you could improve.”
“I’m sorry that I put that extra load on you,” Rich said apologetically.
“No raise in almost two years—doesn’t that tell you something?” Briggs said.
“If you want me to quit, just say so.”
“You see, Larsen, it’s not smart to ask someone to quit or fire someone who is hired as a favor to the owner.”
“Well, sir,” Rich said, “I’ve read what you’ve edited, and by the time it hits the print, it’s pretty much unreadable.”
Briggs slammed his hand on the desk. “You smug punk,” he snapped. “I should give you your walking papers now. I checked you out. I don’t know where you went to college, but you dropped out of school around here a few years back. How’d you ever get a diploma—two box tops of Cheerios and fifty cents?”
Rich heaved a deep breath through his nose. He blinked slowly. He didn’t mind harsh criticism if it was actually directed toward improvement. However, he was certain the real reason for the harshness was jealousy. Briggs had never learned to write well and never had to.
“Get back to your desk and start putting an edge and pizzazz in your writing,” Briggs ordered. “I don’t want oatmeal. I want bacon and eggs. And I want the bacon to sizzle.”
“Sizzle,” Rich smirked.
“Yeah,” Briggs said. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. He laced his hands behind his head. “Some people would say it’s hot; others would say it sizzles. That’s the difference between good writing and what you sent me.”
Rich clicked his cheek. “I worked under a man named Sam White for three years,” Rich said. “He won a Pulitzer and taught at Harvard. He taught me everything I know about writing. He told me I was pretty good. I only know one way to write—and that’s the right way. Is that what you wanted to see me about?”
Briggs flicked his hand like he was shooing a fly. “Get back to your desk.”
Rich slowly backed away. He hesitated just outside the doorway. He was about to say something, but did not. He returned to his desk and continued typing his story.
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