Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Job Offer’

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

“Sometimes, the only avenue to find truth is through a fantasy in fiction.” - Anonymous

 

I had been working in the Icehouse home office since early morning. Feeling ambitious for the day, I began my routine over a breakfast of fried eggs and canned sausages, with toast. A garnish of Thailand sriracha found at Dollar General made it zesty enough to match my mood. But as I sat in front of my keyboard, and began to read through e-mail messages that had been ignored throughout the week, a chirping noise interrupted.

 

My cell phone screen lit up with a number and identifier that had long been forgotten. One that indicated the caller was my previous employer, from the Claridon Treble Clef. A newspaper that had endured for over 100 years. When I answered with a hint of surprise making my voice crack, Editor-in-Chief Johann Pavlovia blurted out a greeting that hurt my ear.

 

“RODNEY! HOW HAVE YOU BEEN, MY FRIEND?”

 

I couldn’t decide if his query was a legitimate ask about my health status, or simply a perfunctory salutation.

 

“Umm... I feel great, actually. So, what made you call? We haven’t spoken since 2014, right? Isn’t that when we parted company?”

 

He began to wriggle with embarrassment. But recovered quickly, having once been a lawyer.

 

“Please, please! Don’t chide me for being absent-minded. I’m a poor correspondent, okay? A mutual friend who used to work here mentioned that you had revived your online journal. That intrigued me, because our circulation figures have been in decline. I thought perhaps it was time that we reconnected!”

 

My nose began to tingle.

 

“Johann, the whole industry is in decline. But you know that of course...”

 

He seemed not to be concerned with the shift in public interest away from print media sources.

 

“Decline, schmine! I pay it no mind! Look, people who really care about reading the news still want our kind of in-depth reporting. You can’t get that from a college student in their pajamas. We are serious about the business!”

 

I wanted to avoid sounding sarcastic. Yet couldn’t help myself.

 

“What I recall is that you were laser-focused on selling advertising. Everything else, like content, fell by the wayside, so to speak...”

 

My typesetting jefe lost his temper over hearing such candor.

 

“FAKE NEWS! FAKE NEWS! I NEVER PUT ANYTHING ABOVE HAVING TALENTED WRITERS ON OUR EDITORIAL STAFF! ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!”

 

My stamina wasn’t strong enough to argue.

 

“Okay then, I’ll ask this one more time, why did you call?”

 

Pavlovia cleared his throat and coughed at the phone. I was certain he had lit a cigar while relaxing at his oversized desk. An artifact with oak accents carved by Amish craftsmen.

 

“Rodney! Do I need an excuse to call an old chum? Really, I just wanted to make a confession. I miss having you on the payroll. Your column series was unique, to say the least. I think with subscriptions dwindling, it might be time to revisit your material. What I’ve read on the internet looks good, very familiar. Al Luccioni from Pittsburgh, Mr. X, and working on old pickup trucks. It sounds a lot like your creative output from 20 years ago!”

 

I rubbed my eyes while finishing a cup of coffee.

 

“Johann, you gave me the brush-off, remember? I sold a lot of copies for you, apparently. But it didn’t seem to matter. I was tired of the streak after so many years. You were tired. I always got more attention from reposting my work in cyberspace, anyway. Face it your weekly is strictly a local gazette...”

 

His temper flared again.

 

“WHAT? COME ON NOW, YOU WORKED FOR THIS WEEKLY! SIXTEEN YEARS, CORRECT? WE INDULGED YOUR FLIGHTS OF FANCY! IT WAS OFTEN LIKE BABYSITTING A CHILD! I TOOK HEAT FROM LOCAL MOVERS AND SHAKERS WHEN YOU GOT OUTLANDISH IN YOUR PROSE. BUT I STAYED THE COURSE. GIVE ME SOME CREDIT!”

 

My face had started to burn.

 

“Until you didn’t...”

 

He was grinding his teeth while speaking. The sound tickled my ear.

 

“Rodney, be reasonable. Editors try things, you know? We tweak the plan, to see if it will drive sales and get us recognized by the newspaper associations. We were winning awards at first, I’ve got gold plaques all over this office wall! It made me look like a genius!”

 

I sighed loudly and bowed my head.

 

“Great! So, why call me now? You’ve got it all figured out...”

 

My erstwhile editor grumbled to himself.

 

“Yeah, well, there are things I couldn’t control. Advertisers dropping out, readers no longer paying for content, our prestige evaporating. You know the drill! It’s funny to consider, your move to an e-format for that little blog you produce came just at the right time!”

 

I laughed softly while pondering his tone of regret.

 

“Three blogs, 34 books sold by a trio of different publishers. Not getting rich, I’ll admit. But keeping active, I enjoy the work. It was always about staying fit, intellectually. My favorite aunt who lived by the Ohio River used to say, ‘Keep that pen moving!’ It matters to stay in the continuum...”

 

Pavlovia sounded like he was clapping.

 

“Yes! Yes! That’s my point. You need to be back in print, people have wondered why you ever went away. I see the clicks you’ve been getting. And the reposts on Twitter. Umm... I mean X!”

 

His deference sounded completely insincere. Yet I wanted to be gracious.

 

“I appreciate the kind words. Still, having no guardrails to keep me confined has been a relief. I wouldn’t go back even if you paid me a reasonable salary. Not what I was making before...”

 

My former boss almost choked on his stogie.

 

“See here! I always pay a fair wage to everyone on this staff! We all share in the rewards of journalistic excellence!”

 

I had turned completely red.

 

“My neighbor across the street is 84, maybe our senior resident of Thompson Township. She told me once that her subscription to the Treble Clef had expired. It didn’t seem worth keeping. This beloved old matron actually called the paper ‘stale.’ Isn’t that an amazing assessment? She’s lived here since the 1940’s. She remembers having the Geauga Times Leader delivered to her home. She remembers working at the IGA on our square. She remembers President Truman celebrating victory over the Axis in WW II. And, she got bored with what you’ve been slinging out in those pages of newsprint. I didn’t know how to respond. She doesn’t have a computer. Therefore, I’ve run off hard copies of my work, just so she can follow along...”

 

Editor Pavlovia sounded like he was having an epileptic seizure.

 

“PRINTED OUT YOUR WORK? FOR FREE? THAT’S SUICIDE, MAN! COME BACK IN THE STABLE, AND SELL YOUR COLUMNS FOR REAL MONEY! I’LL WELCOME YOU WITH OPEN ARMS! THINK OF THE OPPORTUNITIES! WE’RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER!”

 

My stomach felt sour. I wanted our conversation to end.

 

“I’ll take your offer as a high compliment. I mean that sincerely. But, no thanks. I’m where I need to be now, where I want to be...”

 

There was a growl of indignation and failure as he accepted his defeat. Then, a loud squawk on the line. I imagined him stubbing out the expensive smoke, in his gold ashtray. I delivered a parting gesture of comity, though he was no longer connected.

 

“Thanks, Johann! Have a great day!”