The End, Part 1

It happened August 24, 2007.

I spend the morning in Uniontown, Ky., talking with a laid-off coal miner who is opening a one-man barbershop. The jobless rate is high in this corner of Western Kentucky, so it’s definitely an underdog operation. I like writing about folks like that.

Driving back to the office, I engage in what my psychiatrist calls catastrophic thinking. For several years now, the newspaper business has been dive-bombing into the Dumpster. No catastrophic thinking here. Fact. Salaries have been frozen. Benefits have been cut. Advertising revenue has dropped. Ditto readership. Staffers who quit or retired have not been replaced.

I am paranoid about my job. Every time I see higher-ups behind closed doors, I just know they are talking about me. I check my email dozens of times a day, convinced I will find a “See me soonest” missive from the boss.

Relax, the doc says. Don’t worry about what you can’t control.

So I think back to my junior year at Virginia Tech when my first humor column appeared in the student newspaper. I was way too shy (and, as I understand now, way too Aspie) to bring my stuff to the office during regular hours where I would have to interact with strangers. I waited outside in the dark until the last light had been turned off and slipped my latest masterpiece under the door.

Holding that issue of the Collegiate Times, I felt pure joy. I had made something from nothing. I’ve since had tons of bylines to include newspapers in Chicago, Atlanta and Pittsburgh on freelance pieces, but the feeling is undiminished.

I think back to April of 1984 when I told the publisher of the West Virginia newspaper I wanted to write five columns a week and not just two. I said I would continue to be news editor and do the additional columns on my own time. Mr. Wesley gave his blessing. I knew I couldn’t do both jobs indefinitely, but hoped I could amass enough clips to interest a larger newspaper into hiring me as a full-time columnist.

My plan worked. The day after Labor Day in 1987, the Evansville, Ind., Courier turns the left side of page A-3 over to moi. And I’ve been happy ever after.

Walking up the steps to the newspaper office, I think about how the column is my drug. I have never missed a deadline in 20 years. Never called in sick. Never said I needed to take a “me” day.

If one of our boys has a situation that requires more than an hour of my time, they know to go to their mother. I can’t be bothered. I have a column to write.

MaryAnne is the go-to person on household affairs, school functions and getting the cars serviced. I have the perfect trump card and use it like a master bridge player. I have a column to write.

I think about how lucky I am to have a job that meshes perfectly with my personality, or lack thereof.

The editor sees me filling out my mileage form and calls me into his office.

“I don’t want you to do your column any more,” he says. “It’s over.”

“Over? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he says. “You are now one of our reporters.”

Head down, I dash to the bathroom.

And cry.