I
Henry Mittleman had hung a poster of the periodic table of elements on the wall above his desk. It was a fold-out from an old issue of Popular Science. The magazine was in the waiting room at his doctor's office and was several months old so he didn't really think that anyone would miss it. He couldn't really recall the last time he learned
anything
of real importance, he had learned the first four of the elements, but it was hung in hopes that it would make him look a little smarter in the eyes of the rest of the staff at the Los Angeles Empire. He was pondering this, and a litany of other things when Chief Scratchet stopped yelling and, looking down at Henry, said something that brought him out of his thoughts.
"I just don't think that the news paper business is your cup of tea."
The flesh color started returning to the tough old editor's red face, the release of this news had been burdening him for more than a year now. He was the editor of the sixth largest paper in America, a fact that he didn't ever forget, and this was the hardest decision he would have to make all day. He knew that this news would crush Henry, and he couldn't stand to see the disappointment on the young reporter's boyish face. Turning away, Scratchet walked over to the bottle of bourbon on his desk and poured two glasses, keeping his back to Henry long enough to finished off one of the glassfuls without missing a thought.
"You just ain't cuttin' the mustard kid," Scratchet said this then turned around and offered the medium built young man the drink.
"Listen Mr. Scratchet, you know how much it means to me to be a newspaper reporter, especially here," Mittleman said, as he shook off the drink held in front of him.
"Take it," Scratchet demanded, the hooch warming his thoughts. "The first time old O'Grady fired your father and I, he got us drunk before having security come up to drag us out and throw our asses to the curb."
He paused then looked down at the vacant face of Henry, set the glass down and walked over and poured another for himself.
"Before your old man died I told him that I would watch out for you; make sure that you became a good, news man. Hell, you write as well as anyone I've ever read. It's your imagination that gets you into trouble. There is nothing fictitious about this business. I've got one point three million readers that want the dirty, honest truth, as corrupt as it may be. And I've got advertisers that demand that these people get it." He realized he was compiling a list of facts rather than saying what really needed to be said. "Even I'll admit that it was a little funny when you would enhance the classifieds, but then it moved on to creative control on the obituaries, and then today, on the front page! Above the fold!"
Henry had to be careful in his reply, he had seen Scratchet lose his temper before and if he wanted to keep his job then his only chance was to get him liquored up enough to start talking about the glory days of the newspaper business.
"Your father and I started out as news paper boys for the New York Times. We fought over the same corner for a week before we realized that we could sell more papers if we worked together," Scratchet paused and stared at his glass, then sat it, unfinished, on the desk.
Henry knew what would be coming next. Closing eyes, he tilted his head back and forced the bourbon down his throat. He felt better, but worse as he cleared his throat to speak.
"You know whatch," the burn of the bourbon had attempted to steel his first sentence. He re-cleared his throat and started over. "You know what my problem is?"
Scratchet knew better than to answer.
"I'm sick of this place. The news never changes and it's been the same since I was a kid. It's always Hollywood, crop reports, or maybe an occasional gangland-style murder. Everyone is on the take with everyone else. I even thought I'd try reporting on that story but apparently the paper is involved in the same take."
"Welcome to the big city kid. It only took you twenty-four years and you've already figured out how the whole world works. It takes some people their entire lives to figure that out. It's a start."
Scratchet knew that he had a fire to put out with the front page that had slipped by him. He knew that he had to take care of the situation with Henry first, though.
"Where would you write if you could write any where in the world?" Scratchet asked.
This was an easy question for Henry, one that he'd thought about since he first learned to write.
"A small town, I guess, somewhere far away from the greedy hands of corruption. I want to find a place that still holds on to some semblance of integrity; a place where the stories are real and have meaning, and people care. When I first started working here, not as a paper boy, but after college, as a reporter; the first thing you told me was that there is no such thing as a small story. I still believe that that is true. I also know that there is no place in our big paper for these so-called small stories."
Henry's words inflated him to a straight-up-sitting-position; his humbled slouch now replaced with a renewed sense of meaning and glowing thoughts. Scratchet was sitting on his desk with his head down; he had heard this speech too many times before.
"I think you're drunk. And I think you are a lightweight," Scratchet said as he stood. "I also think that you are right." The editor stood and brushed back his white hair with his ink-stained hands. "All the same, maybe you should consider writing fiction. You oughta go over and see Mack Sennett, see if you can get a job writing for the movies. You'd probably be great at that. If it ever gets out that you were the one behind today's stunt, you won't be able to get a job writing on the wall of a shitter, so we'd have to act fast"
"I'd rather write shit-house verse than to write for the pictures," Henry said, now standing, even with his boss, and mentor. "I'm just a writer with small town ideals, living in a big city?"
After a few seconds of thought, Scratchet, putting his years of deadline experience to work, made his decision.
