Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Workplace’

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-23)

 

 

For many years while I wrestled with the bonds of gainful employment - a career often described as my ‘real job’ - there was a gloomy sense that an escape might never come. Because I had been a creative writer since childhood, raised in a household full of authors and poets and public speakers, my ultimate goal was always to spend life slinging ink professionally. I never thought of anything else with the same amount of ambition. Tinkering with cars and motorcycles, plucking away at musical instruments, or even the work opportunities I discovered as a retail store manager were all less attractive by comparison.

 

I had my father’s template deeply imprinted in my personal DNA. Sitting at a typewriter keyboard, surrounded by the home library, was my idea of paradise.

 

So, when a position opened at one of our local newspapers, I literally jumped at the chance to schedule an interview. I reckoned that my resume and job spiel would impress any potential employer. Particularly because I had already been a regular contributor for a weekly journal in Chardon, since 1998. The General Manager on-site seemed gracious, and friendly. I liked him immediately. Soon afterward, I was hired. The experience happened quickly, and left me breathless in its wake. But my family and friends were thrilled.

 

At first, laboring as a full-time department head proved to be invigorating. I maintained my connection with the previous paper, because it was in a different market area and therefore, not considered a competitor. My new responsibility was to handle sports content for five of the individual weeklies that were produced by our company, in Ashtabula County. This meant that I coordinated contributions from stringers who attended local games. And wrote other original stories, when needed. I handled payroll for that group, by tabulating what they had penned, and then submitted the figures to our central office in Jefferson. I added regular columns on relevant subject matter, which included my own thoughts and those of two other content providers that I considered to be dependable and dedicated. The effect on our readership was dramatic. Compliments were plentiful. I felt a sense of accomplishment at having revived my section from the doldrums of neglect and associate migration. The turnover associated with our industry meant that team members would typically labor and learn long enough to hone their skills, and then disappear.

 

I expected that my studious management of the section would yield greater things, as time progressed. And indeed, those in charge did appear to be supportive. I began to wear more hats, by taking over two extra publications which were both sold in Lake County. I learned pagination, and started organizing my part of the paper, instead of submitting it to another editor for assembly. Eventually, I handled special sections which made it possible to write about music and entertainment. This gave me confidence and also, a greater sense of fulfillment.

 

But as weeks and months passed, I realized with chagrin that the publisher and chairman had a somewhat calloused attitude toward those who were on his staff. Owing undoubtedly, to the revolving door that affected our acquisition and loss of human resources. Talent was everywhere. Places to seek employment in the field were not so numerous, however. As he once said in a meeting, “I have a drawer full of resumes here!” I knew that he must have been speaking the truth. Yet the declaration made my stomach hurt.

 

“There are computer programs that can compose sports reports, Rodney! I don’t actually need anyone to run your department!”

 

That moment left me feeling crestfallen, and somber. Because after yearning for a spot to pursue my chosen profession with zeal, I realized in a bout of red-faced sobriety that it was simply another workplace. Another ‘real job’ to be listed on my roster.

 

The upshot was that family needs overwhelmed my own preference for wrangling with the printed word. I made more money, and had better benefits, as a business supervisor. Therefore, with my head down and my cap in hand, I returned to the occupation of a salaried supermarket steward. It left me frosted, inside. But wiser for having experienced my dream, first hand.

 

Happily, in later years long after my management adventure had been completed, I found that the joy of wordsmithing still retained its appeal. With no guardrails imposed from above by bean counters and subscription hawks, I had graduated to a peak of journalistic liberty. Things that I knew would attract attention, and motivate readers, were available without arguing. I could offer unique content in real-time, without having to explain that feedback from those in the marketplace was gold in our pockets.

 

This drive-by encounter with sports reporting also highlighted something revolutionary about the genre itself. As a ‘casual fan’ of athletic competition, I had always included other angles on each story, to broaden and brighten our editorial creations. To provide stale scores and statistics in a verbal monotone was something that might have excited those concerned more with financial reports than the quality of our contributors. But it gave me the chills. I wanted to be entertained by the spectacle of trained competition, and also by those who documented such events for posterity. When I remade the sports pages of my paper with that proletarian disposition, the reaction was emotional, and positive.

 

While reflecting on this personal episode, and working at a food emporium in Geneva, I discovered a Cleveland station dedicated to that sort of content. A fellow at night identified himself as Ken Carman, someone in his 30’s. He and his on-air cohorts delivered a wealth of pertinent information about football, baseball, basketball, and hockey or NASCAR races. Yet the vibe that truly snagged me as a listener was their ability to connect that data-stream with tales from their own lives. And memories offered by the audience. They were not shy about passing out asides and offhand remarks, like nuggets of candy. These treats greatly enhanced the core message being broadcasted. I would tune in when driving home at night, once our sales day had ended. Their inventive banter always dispelled my own regrets over having exited the field of journalism. I was validated as a hearer of truth and good cheer. It mattered to be connected, through my dashboard radio.

 

Karma won out, at last. For this writer, the revolving door had finally stopped spinning.