Nobody Reads This Page – “Scruples”

 

c.2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

“In a closed society where everybody’s guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.” – Hunter S. Thompson

 

As a rural child of the early 1960’s, my upbringing was somewhat different from those raised in more modern times. I entered the world while John F. Kennedy held the White House. The fact of this era being rather quaint and naïve, compared to the harshness of our world as it exists today, is often brought up by younger members of our brood. Generally, these moments do little except to redden my face a bit. And perhaps cause my head to tilt forward, in silent reflection. I ponder scriptural wisdom, such as offered in Proverbs 22:1-3.

 

“A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favour rather than silver and gold. The rich and poor meet together: the Lord is the maker of them all. A prudent man foreseeth the evil, and hideth himself: but the simple pass on, and are punished.”

 

Said in plain verbiage, a good reputation is worth more than any treasures one might amass while walking the earth.

 

For my parents, and generations that went before, this kind of bedrock philosophy governed everything about living. Giving your word to seal a bargain or make a promise was an act not taken lightly. Scoundrels were shunned. Sin marked an offender with a stain not easily erased. Conduct and integrity mattered. These truisms were preached high and low, and infused into our bloodline with permanence. To encounter those who did not come of age with such principles in effect was shocking and confusing. It made people like myself feel wholly separate from the base instincts of more populated, metropolitan areas.

 

I thought about this philosophical divide recently, after an article I had written in 2014 popped up during an internet search. The link did not look familiar at first, but upon closer inspection I realized that some of my unique content had been reposted on a newspaper website, sans accreditation. My name did not appear anywhere on the page. The column used two photographs I had taken to provide context. This odd disparity made me blink and rub my eyes with disbelief. I had been with the local weekly for 16 years, under two different ownership regimes and two different top-line editors. Was my tongue-in-cheek sidebar about a new pizzeria opening in Chardon worth that kind of escapade? I couldn’t make the connection in my head.

 

Was this some kind of mistake?

 

I took the use of my written product as a sort of compliment. Especially because it had been penned so long ago. Yet having the story rendered in ghost form with no byline, made me feel completely numb. Why expend the effort to highlight this humorous piece, while omitting the fact that I had authored it as a contributor? That cold wisp of neglect tingled my nose like a frosty breeze. I could not escape feeling cheated.

 

Eventually, this sleight-of-hand incident evoked older memories that I had buried out of necessity. Once, after sending a photo and cutline that related to the township where I lived, the paper published both as a news item. But there was no mention of the fact that I had been the photographer, and correspondent. When I raised this issue with my chief at the publication, his response was politely indifferent. He did not take my complaint seriously. I imagined him doing an eyeroll while smoking a cigar at his desk.

 

“Oh! I didn’t realize that you wanted any credit!”

 

I had to chortle slightly over this oblivious response. As a wordsmith, every nugget of creative prose had great value for me, personally. More so because it was literally my bread-and-butter. The foundation of a career that sprang from childhood days watching my genetic sire pound the keys of his Underwood typewriter. To casually diminish that kind of stumble seemed inexcusable for someone at the helm of a respected journal. Still, when considered against a backdrop of bigger projects, it did not hold too much importance. I wanted to retain my privileges with the journal. Therefore, I let it slide. My focus remained on making our next deadline.

 

When discussing my quiet woe with a fellow scribe, I quickly discovered that this kind of treatment was not unique. He spoke about opportunities that had been lost while he toiled away for a puny pittance of financial rewards. Yet someone of fewer chronological years punctured my balloon with a direct jab at being a ‘Boomer’ with outdated sensibilities. Her ability to target the yesteryear vibe of my thinking hit with the force of a drone strike.

 

“Is this your first trip through cyberspace? Sorry bruh, it happens all the time!”

 

The yield of this brutal honesty was to make my face burn. No! No! No! I did not surrender my moral code willingly. But a news story trumpeted by networks and bloggers came to mind, soon afterward. One involving Harvard’s president, Claudine Gay, finally stepping down. An individual who had been outed for using plagiarism to inflate the scholarship of her work. A misdeed cited at the highest levels of educational discipline, in America.

 

In the Ice household, one inhabited by teachers, preachers, doctors, and professors, this sort of seedy behavior would have been met with outrage and intellectual fury. With the miscreant being expelled and excommunicated in the offing. But now, when sniffed through a miasma of pop culture hedonism and self-interest, an opposite yield might result. I had to shrug and wince while feeling like a rube. Was my junior pal correct in her wry observation? By my own archaic standards, maybe not. Yet measured with the yardstick of fiery rhetoric, extremist conspiracies, high-tech hackers and anonymous activists with slick, Tik Tok promotions... perhaps. Their truth, their alternate facts, carry weight of a sort never imagined during the time of Camelot at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

 

“Sorry, bruh! Get over it!”