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c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(12-24)
Libby Raal had always been a voice of social consciousness at the Cleveland Plain Dealer. Her columns were penned with fiery rhetoric that reflected a bent toward progressive thinking and radical ideas. Yet when the American electorate chose to give Donald J. Trump a second term in Washington, the desperate tone of her writing intensified. She ranted online at Reddit and other sites for many days. Then, composed a manifesto for her newspaper employer that tested the limits of journalism.
Editor-in-Chief Magda Poleski gave her a private audience, as the holiday season approached. She tried hard to be fair in passing judgment. But seemed to tread too lightly for the liking of her popular scribe.
“Libby, I’ve always appreciated your courage at the keyboard. Our subscribers are drawn to the realism you project. This time though, I have to say that circumstances are somewhat... well... different.”
The counterculture maven was shocked to hear a hint of dissent from her supervisor.
“Maggie, don’t tell me you’ve been duped by that orange charlatan! He’s a monster! The old moron should be in prison, not the Oval Office!”
Poleski nodded in agreement. She had to brush the frosted mane out of her eyes. Her pulse quickened with an episode of vertigo.
“It’s not a matter of me being tricked. Our circulation numbers have dropped. Some readers think that we’re stuck in the 1960’s. Populism used to drive new-age ideas in this country. Now though, it has taken on a different character. People have become disenchanted with government institutions. They think many reforms have failed to deliver on the promise of a better life for all...”
Libby spat curses while narrowing her gaze. Her pierced eyebrows tightened severely.
“Are you nuts? Nobody likes that crusty, old liar! He’s a convicted felon, an insurrectionist, and a con man!”
Her leader at the publication nodded once again.
“Yes, and he’s also about to be our 47th president...”
Ms. Raal jabbed at the air with her longish, purple nails.
“You’ve got to take a stand, Maggie! This is a time to fight, not surrender! Our audience is waiting to hear raw truth without any inhibitions getting in the way! You know it, I know it, and anyone with living brain cells knows it! Show some courage, woman! Let me speak freely! Let me speak from the heart!”
Poleski shrugged and sipped her Starbucks coffee. She was not in a mood to argue.
“Mr. Trump won the Electoral College, but also the popular vote. Are you aware of that, my friend?”
Libby squawked like a wounded fowl. Her neck tattoos throbbed with muscular spasms.
“YES, DAMMIT, YES! I KNOW ALL OF THAT! HE SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN ON THE BALLOT! THE GUY IS GUILTY OF TRYING TO OVERTURN AN ELECTION! HIS CRONIES WANTED TO HANG VICE PRESIDENT MIKE PENCE! HE’S A FASCIST HERO! GOD HELP US ALL, FOUR YEARS OF HIM WILL RUIN THIS NATION FOR GOOD!”
Her editorial director sighed heavily, and looked sideways, across the office cubicle.
“Michael Jordan once said, ‘Republicans buy sneakers, too.’ I could paraphrase that to read, ‘Republicans buy our paper, too.’ There are so many news sources out there today, this isn’t like the era when we could weave opinions into our articles and get away unscathed. People ask questions, they have contrasting opinions, they defy the safe logic of olden days...”
Libby huffed and tapped her sharp nails along the desktop.
“So we just give up? That’s the answer? We let idiots like the Mar-a-Lago menace run roughshod over truth and liberty? I can’t believe you’d go for that kind of surrender!”
Poleski sat her tumbler of java aside. She folded her hands, and whispered a final confession.
“This whole industry is in flux. We’ve added an online component, and trimmed our schedule of print issues. People don’t trust us anymore. Not like when I was a little girl, reading about Watergate, the Oil Embargo, and war in Vietnam. We’ve got to compete for the attention of readers now. It isn’t just that they might watch television or listen to radio instead. It’s a matter of confronting websites, podcasts, streaming content, and posts on social media. How can we be seen and heard in an environment where creators are publishing their material in real-time, 24 hours a day?”
Her professional scribbler snorted and slapped the broad workspace with a flattened palm.
“MISINFORMATION! DISINFORMATION! CHEAP FAKES! DOUBLETALK! OUTRIGHT LIES AND PREVARICATION! IN STREET LANGUAGE, BULLSHIT!”
The seasoned editor did not project any disagreement. Yet after leaning forward in her roller chair, a note of clarification resounded.
“See, we used to be able to throw those words around. Even four years ago, not that long in the past. But things have evolved. There is a running debate about government limits on free speech. Seething unrest left over from the COVID-19 pandemic. It’s a mix of rebelliousness and fear. I don’t like it at all, not one little bit! But you can’t just pretend that it doesn’t exist. Would I say that in a public forum, or under oath? Absolutely not! I wouldn’t even admit it to the owners of this paper. Still, it’s the reality we face. It’s the reason Trump got another chance to sit behind the Resolute Desk...”
Ms. Raal was near the point of a cardiac event. She had flushed red like a ripe tomato.
“NO, NO, NO, NO! I DON’T BELIEVE ANY OF THAT! I DON’T BELIEVE IT!”
Editor Poleski smoothed her silk blouse and took a last sip of cold coffee.
“I’m going to kill your piece for this week. Let things quiet down for a few days, you know? Mr. Trump will be in office very soon. We’ll report honestly on what transpires. I just don’t want opinions to creep into our news content. That era has ended. I’ll leave it to Fox News and MSNBC to offer a slanted view of the future. We’re in the business of providing information. At least, we used to be... I think this is where we’re headed. Back to the daily grind! So, thanks for coming to this meeting. Your pay packet won’t be affected. Be ready for some new assignments, and a fresh perspective!”
After leaving the offices, Libby stomped all the way to her Toyota Prius, leaving a trail of Doc Marten footprints on the concrete. Her vehicle was alone in the parking garage, downtown. A faded, ‘co-exist’ bumper sticker had tattered and split, on the rear hatch.
She shouted with the words of Michael Moore echoing around the abandoned chamber.
“DUDE, WHERE’S MY COUNTRY? WHERE’S MY DAMN COUNTRY???”
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