The shades were drawn in Ralph Persimmons’s office. Gems of sunlight sparkled through the cracks. The handgun was out, glimmering brilliantly. Sitting in the hot seat I had the distinct impression of impending bad news. I delivered the draft of the New Orleans piece around 3:00 AM. It could have been in his possession for six hours at most. Thirty minutes would have been ample, though. Thirty seconds even—the time it takes to scan a single page of copy. I’d had my chance, a feature assignment complete with travel expenses, a make or break opportunity. What felt looming and precarious would soon be a reality: I was being fired.
I reminded myself of the why: only the pursuit of truth can ever validate one’s life. While a journalist, proud member of the media, words transcend the ordinary. They empower. They judge. When spoken true, they have the ability to aim the light. This is one’s journalistic duty, one’s ethical mandate, and worth fighting for. From the kernel of one’s being, through the protoplasm of one’s will, right to the last fiber of one’s existence. Somehow, out of a wan life, I had emerged.
The thoughts fizzled and popped like intestinal gas. Ralph studied his large handgun in the shadows. He sensed the fear, the disappointment, and the chagrin. But feelings were not the issue. Life was not the issue. Business was the issue. And like that nickel-plated death cannon, business held no room for sentiment.
I waited for Ralph to explode into a tirade before delivering the death blow. Instead, he grunted and set his gun atop the desk. He stood, and a bullet began its tinny roll across the lanolin, neared the edge, and fell to the floor with an ineffectual thud. Ralph disregarded the runaway. He leaned forward and slapped the top of a paper stack.
“I’ll just get my things,” I started, dismal.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “It’s genius.”
A feeling of wonderment came over me.
“You liked it?”
“Genius,” he repeated, stretching the circumference of my ego. “You’re young,” he purported. “That does show in the piece. And it’s a bit lengthy…over 3,000 words, I think.”
“You can’t use it,” I said, glum.
“Nope. Can’t use it on page four like I intended. It’ll have to go to cover.”
“Cover?”
“Cover,” he asserted. “Congratulations.”
Ralph’s gruffness did not undermine my excitement.
“Oh, sir,” I said. “That’s wonderful. I mean—”
“I’m not finished,” he barked. Sustaining a dramatic pause, he eased back into his seat and folded his hands across the desk. He drew in a deep breath and then proceeded to unfurl the dense knot of his carefully measured criticism:
“Number one: it’s too wordy. You must familiarize yourself with this phrase: Economy of Words. Learn it, memorize it, know it. If you must use an adjective, do so frugally, and never in combination with others. One descriptor is plenty. If you can’t describe your noun thus, you’ve got the wrong noun. Also, eliminate excess words. Say more with less. For example, instead of writing, ‘As fireman Richard Handy investigated the scene,’ write, ‘Fireman and investigator Richard Handy…’
“Now, I’ve gotta say, you’re young. You can’t help that, but it shows in your style. I mean there’s a lot of stuff out there that’s not as good as yours—this is an industry of hacks, after all. So I’m not saying your style is bad; it’s just not amazing. That’ll change. So, why isn’t it amazing? Well, your writing isn’t airtight. It’s not bad. It’s just not airtight. Of course, Frank will help you with that.”
Ralph paused.
“I see by your face that you’re getting down. Don’t. My job is to tear this paper apart—its content, its writers, and its meat and bones—to make it better. Take what I say to heart, but you should also know that you wrote a very good piece. I’m impressed. You have a natural ability to lay out the facts and meld the commentary so that your writing really flows. While your style is just fine, your ability to tell a story is superb. So, I wouldn’t worry.”
Ralph stood with his hands still folded, as if preparing to communicate life’s harsher realities.
“Now there are some…” choosing his words with care, “logistics. Names, first of all. You listed six boys you discovered in the bar. Brilliant. The part about opening a beer bottle on the waitress’s nipple piercing—brilliant. I loved it. The long and short of it is, though: we can’t print their names. They’re minors—we can’t do it.”
Here, I interceded:
“What do you mean we can’t do it? They were in a public space. I have witnesses. I—”
“Let me stop you. Those boys were not in public. You found them in a club at a private event. I’m still not clear as to how you got in, but that I love.”
“I don’t understand, Ralph.”
“Look, Brennan, you’ve got a lot to learn. We can’t print those boys’ names. This is the Biloxi Inquirer; remember a little speculation is good. Besides, we don’t have the weight the Times or the Post has. We print the names of those boys, and you—me, this whole paper—will be out of business by nightfall. You’re in a whole new world out here, Brennan. This is the nitty-gritty. No names this time. And something else I just thought of. You can’t use the word ‘Penis.’”
“I didn’t use that word,” I insisted.
“You didn’t?”
Ralph took up the crinkled copy I’d given him and leafed through the stack until he’d found what he was looking for. Following his finger’s lead across the text:
“Ah, here you write: Peter M--- reported [quote] the lights went out.. I had just begun to relieve myself [nice touch], when there was a horrible cry from out in the hallway. SUDDENLY, my PENIS was roughly gripped and then yanked. I was punched in the stomach, slapped, and left there in pain, all curled up on that filthy bathroom floor [end quote].”
Ralph looked for a response, his face inquiring, Now what do you have to say?
Ralph’s heavy stress on the words “suddenly” and “penis,” and my having lied about using the word “penis,” caused a nudge of glee. I laughed.
Ralph ignored the outburst and continued coolly:
“While you no doubt enjoy the spectacle of your writing, there is need for emphasis on this particular point to which I will return now: the politics of this paper are a touchy issue. You see—how do I say this?—we rely on certain endorsements to keep running and have so for many years. Now we don’t necessarily push a particular political view. By that I mean we don’t use our paper as a propagandized calling card. After all, we aren’t the New York Times. With our staff’s accumulation of wide-ranging views, I like to think of the Biloxi Inquirer as a truly bipartisan publication, expressing all views and, namely, addressing only the facts.”
With this he smiled wryly.
“You have to be subtle. Say whatever you want, but say it indirectly. No names. No blatant finger-pointing, but damn, son, you sure did get those boys in a pickle. Which leads me to the title…
“This is of course entirely another matter—my final matter of discussion. In newsprint…especially on the cover.”
Ralph paused in time to let this sink in once more—just long enough for a resounding sparkle of surprise and giddiness to rise once again from my cockles.
“Title is of the utmost importance. It is the main derivation of success. The eye-catcher. The curiosity snare. The lure. A title must be alluring and educating both, informing the reader at a glance of an article’s contents, but in a way that will beckon for them to discover more. Instill in the casual observer the need to know more of what that gripping title speaks. I call it the insatiable plebeian itch. Your working title—“D is for Dirt”—satisfies none of these requirements. Of course, “dirt” is precisely what it is, and that is precisely what people want. But they don’t want it called dirt. Dirt is…well, dirty sounding. It’s bad karma to obsess over and find extreme delight in dirt. Do you see what I’m saying?”
Although sight and sound are quite different, never logically correlating…a nod.
“Good. Besides, dirt is non-specific. You need to be more pointed—remember, an alluring glimpse—and be catchy, too.”
“What do you suggest?”
Ralph perked up at once. He had been moving toward this very moment, praying and pushing for that very question to come forth and allow him the grace of seeming less imposing and more candidly insightful. Feigning consideration:
“Well, let’s see. Maybe something more loaded…uh-huh…yes, I have it. ‘Future Republicans in the Dark.”
A gleeful snort ushered out of him, followed by a joyous clap.
“That’s it,” he announced, as if only now conceiving of this idea and finding it compulsively astute, the absolute perfect choice. “It’s going to print.”
With that, Ralph Persimmons came around the desk, gruffly shook my hand, and rushed out of the office.
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