What the newspaper doesn't want you to know...
This is a column written by a co-worker of my dad's at the Courier Post. It was never published...for reasons that are probably obvious. I figure the least I can do is publish it here.
Well, they laid off a bunch of people at this newspaper last week.
I was lucky enough to keep my job. But now, as I prepare to write today's column, I'm not sure what to do.
I could act like last Tuesday, the longest day ever, just didn't happen. I'd find something funny and offbeat and simply be dishonest with you -- and with me.
Or I could give you my take on this trauma.
But that seems wrong, too.
What happened, happened to others. Sure, they were friends and co-workers for years and sometimes decades, but this was their ordeal, not mine.
To me, when you go through a tragedy like this and the guy at the next desk doesn't, that's a distinction that matters.
And this misery is coming to thousands of people in all sorts of industries across the country - folks who can't stay at the jobs they love, who can't find the work they need.
So give me a minute and I'll find today's jokes.
Or maybe I'll just offer a glimpse at this sobering experience:
Working the night shift, I come in that day at the tail end of tragedy.
I learn the cutbacks, expected sometime in early December, are going on from a young reporter in a hallway. His eyes are so wide I notice them from about 50 feet away.
The newsroom feels empty and still. And so many things seem wrong.
The desk opposite mine, normally covered with dozens of pictures of a little kid playing baseball? It's bare.
The woman who always smiles and says good night? Already gone.
And all of those journalists who usually appear unfazed by daily accounts of suffering and setback? They look staggered.
Some people -- and maybe a lot in my business might disagree, but I think it's hard to find villains here. The economy's near collapse, dragging advertisers with it. The newspaper industry's especially troubled, dragging our personal finances with it.
And competition? Well, that's not taking a break.
But the impact of these broad forces is intensely personal.
In the newsroom on this day, some people who should be working can't work. They gather and talk about the people who cried, the ones who didn't see it coming, the ones we can't imagine going.
Across the room, a red-faced man practically throws a mug into a cardboard box. I silently hope: Make him the last one.
Meanwhile, others continue to prepare the next day's paper. Deadline's coming even if staffers are leaving.
For instance, a copy editor is leaning over his desk, laying out a page. He's the guy who winces each night when I spring some late-breaking story to upset his careful plans.
"You're killing me, Jim," he always says. "You're killing me."
Now, he's about to get an awful tap on the shoulder.
He meets briefly with an editor whose own face shows the day's pain. Then he shares a few quick hugs and practically bolts from the room, all while I'm locked into a phone interview.
I never say goodbye. Not to him, not to anyone.
And frankly guys, it's killing me.
Jim Walsh's humor column runs on Mondays. Reach him at (856) 486-2646
or jwalsh@courierpostonline.com.
Well, they laid off a bunch of people at this newspaper last week.
I was lucky enough to keep my job. But now, as I prepare to write today's column, I'm not sure what to do.
I could act like last Tuesday, the longest day ever, just didn't happen. I'd find something funny and offbeat and simply be dishonest with you -- and with me.
Or I could give you my take on this trauma.
But that seems wrong, too.
What happened, happened to others. Sure, they were friends and co-workers for years and sometimes decades, but this was their ordeal, not mine.
To me, when you go through a tragedy like this and the guy at the next desk doesn't, that's a distinction that matters.
And this misery is coming to thousands of people in all sorts of industries across the country - folks who can't stay at the jobs they love, who can't find the work they need.
So give me a minute and I'll find today's jokes.
Or maybe I'll just offer a glimpse at this sobering experience:
Working the night shift, I come in that day at the tail end of tragedy.
I learn the cutbacks, expected sometime in early December, are going on from a young reporter in a hallway. His eyes are so wide I notice them from about 50 feet away.
The newsroom feels empty and still. And so many things seem wrong.
The desk opposite mine, normally covered with dozens of pictures of a little kid playing baseball? It's bare.
The woman who always smiles and says good night? Already gone.
And all of those journalists who usually appear unfazed by daily accounts of suffering and setback? They look staggered.
Some people -- and maybe a lot in my business might disagree, but I think it's hard to find villains here. The economy's near collapse, dragging advertisers with it. The newspaper industry's especially troubled, dragging our personal finances with it.
And competition? Well, that's not taking a break.
But the impact of these broad forces is intensely personal.
In the newsroom on this day, some people who should be working can't work. They gather and talk about the people who cried, the ones who didn't see it coming, the ones we can't imagine going.
Across the room, a red-faced man practically throws a mug into a cardboard box. I silently hope: Make him the last one.
Meanwhile, others continue to prepare the next day's paper. Deadline's coming even if staffers are leaving.
For instance, a copy editor is leaning over his desk, laying out a page. He's the guy who winces each night when I spring some late-breaking story to upset his careful plans.
"You're killing me, Jim," he always says. "You're killing me."
Now, he's about to get an awful tap on the shoulder.
He meets briefly with an editor whose own face shows the day's pain. Then he shares a few quick hugs and practically bolts from the room, all while I'm locked into a phone interview.
I never say goodbye. Not to him, not to anyone.
And frankly guys, it's killing me.
Jim Walsh's humor column runs on Mondays. Reach him at (856) 486-2646
or jwalsh@courierpostonline.com.