It's a Wednesday, or maybe a Thursday. I'm actually not sure anymore because over the past seven years my brain has effectively been turned to mush and my soul sucked out right through my sternum. (YES! my sternum! that's how hard they sucked! My soul went right through the thickest, hardest bone in my goddamn chest!) But I'm damn certain it wasn't a Monday, when normal people might start their first day of work.
On This particular Wednesday or Thursday, I'm armed with a notepad and my only partially functional Nikkormat camera, which is loaded with generic 200 ISO film from some shitty place like Walgreens or something. I might have also had a writing implement, but more likely I forgot that important tool of newspaper reporting and had to borrow one from my subject, in this case a 5th grade teacher who had just returned from China with what I can only assume was a marginally elevated understanding of Chinese culture. Oh, and a handful of trinkets.
Um...let me back up a few days. Actually, I suppose I should explain myself and my unfortunate overuse of expletives. Here's the deal with the profanity: my dad was in the merchant marines, meaning he was a sailor. And he swore like one, as the saying goes. I learned everything I know about cursing (and yelling at people, especially other drivers) from him.
This job I'm writing about....it was seven years of unbridled insanity. I swear this to you. I know everybody says their job sucks. I know everybody has (or at least has had) the worst job in the world. But I got feedback from outside on this one. Everyone who came into contact with this place - and that was many, many people, as it was a newspaper - told me it was the worst work environment they had ever seen. I'll let you judge for yourself. So onward.....
In the beginning it wasn't so bad. Really weird, but not mind, body and soul crushing. It begins like this: I've graduated from college. I need a "real" job. The job hunt is a drama unto itself, but I'll spare you. I'm sure all of you have been coated in the slime of entry-level job recruiters. If I wanted to edit car dealership commercials for a pittance, I'd start my own fucking business.
Ok, back on track, Claire. Sorry. I tend to digress. So, my search turns up a job at a newspaper in a small town outside of Austin. I don't have a degree in journalism, but I do have one in radio-television-film. The two are related, right? And I can write. I learned the fine art of the five paragraph paper in the third grade. I graduated to 12-page research papers in the eighth grade. I went to a prep school that believed in no God higher than a well-presented thesis. And yes, I would digress in those, too, and never got a grade higher than "C."
So I send in my resume. And fuck my ass, I get a call. For a gin-U-wine (<--inside joke with myself) job interview! I scramble around for the right outfit. I'm a jeans and t-shirt type, so scraping up professional attire is sort of anxiety inducing. But I find something. I then drive 30 miles through windy roads, trailer parks and cow pastures following directions provided by the editor, who I'm beginning to think might be Ed Gein or something. But then I burst through the rural decay into the bustling metropolis (pop. 7000) that is my destination. This isn't so bad...very historical, lots of oak and pecan trees...maybe the newspaper is in a historical building on Main Street! Maybe the editor is some sort of hippie-turned-academic-turned-hippie-again who left his job as a journalism professor to edit a newspaper in a small Texas town known for its hippie roots. This could be fun. The newspaper is NOT in a historic building. It's in what amounts to a tin can. I later found out it had once been a laundromat. Awesome. The hippie editor part I nailed. Sort of. He had a thin, wiry ponytail that trailed down his back. His face was covered by a mass of gray and grizzled hair that hung down to his chest. His skin was dry and wrinkled and flaking off in sheets. His fingers and beard were stained with the tobacco of a million Skydancer cigarettes. He was missing his front tooth. He did, however, have a way of speaking that commanded attention. He had a deep voice and a light Texas drawl that I can't possibly describe for anyone who doesn't live in this wacky state. He was intelligent and articulate, and seemed slightly bemused by me, the job interview and the work that was going on around us. His attitude put me at ease. I should have fucking run. Which brings me back to where I began. He didn't hire me on the spot, but he didn't send me away with a promise to "let me know." Instead he gave me an assignment. "There's a teacher at the school district who just got back from China," he said in his deep drawl. "Go interview her, take a few photos and bring me an article. If you do good work, you've got a job." I think he gave me the school district's main phone number. Possibly the last name of the teacher. Certainly not her first name. Then he sent me on my way. I guess that's how they did it back in the 1890s or whenever he first got into the newspaper biz. And because I'm a Jew and therefore cursed by God (g-d for you strict types), I did good enough work to get hired. And that's where I end this rant. I'd be awfully surprised if anyone actually reads this. To those of you who had the misfortune of discovering this blog and the patience to read it, I feel I owe you an explanation. I'm writing this stuff because lately I've been feeling like I wasted seven years of my life, which makes me very angry. Yes, I know, I know it's a learning experience. But it's one I let continue for six years too long. So I'm going to write about every fucked up thing that happened in that place until I'm laughing my ass off and not angry anymore.
Stay tuned for Chapter 2, wherein a staff of 12 spends a month wondering why that strange city girl keeps showing up and using one of their computers.
