The Best Job I Ever Had
by Thaddeus Rutkowski
When I applied for a desk spot on a newspaper, the interviewer asked, "What is your concept of fairness?" I thought he meant my idea of justice in general, whether I believed there was equal access to opportunity and reward in our society. So I replied, "I don't think that everybody gets what they deserve."
"No, no," he said. "We're taking about journalistic fairness, presenting both sides of a controversy, giving more than one opinion on an issue, not about ethical balance.
"Have you ever worked on a newspaper in your life?" he asked. "A high-school broadsheet? A college daily?"
"I worked for the Rainy Day literary journal in college," I said. "I made a drawing for the cover that showed raindrops falling. I used a Rapidograph pen to fill the space with fine, parallel lines. I drew a line for every raindrop. The sky was full of lines and drops."
"I see you have native intelligence," the interviewer said. "But you haven't used it for anything. Maybe you can fill in for someone on maternity leave."
Even as a substitute, I had to wear a jacket and tie. I bought my neckwear at subway-level shops. The ties were all shiny and wide. In my neighborhood, shopkeepers called me Boss, while people I knew called me Dork.
I had one jacket, which I wore every day. At one point, a co-worker told me there was something on the back of the jacket. I looked and saw a swath of white latex, made from contact with a newly painted wall.
I joined the newspaper union and started paying dues. Some of the deductions, I understood, would go toward a retirement pension. I wanted to be financially secure in my later years.
When I tried to speak in office meetings, I learned that my opinion wasn't welcomed. My role was to listen. When I tried to get a sentence in, all I could manage to say was, "What about … ? What about … ?" in a high-pitched voice. As I chirped, the people around me kept talking.
During working hours, I read text on a computer screen that had green-lit type on a black background. The cursor was a tiny green rectangle that blinked.
Once, I overheard a conversation between colleagues.
"I lost my cursor," said one. She pointed at her screen. "I have no blinking cursor!"
"Here you go," said the other. He winked at her and said, "Fuck you."
As I read text on my screen, I looked for nouns and verbs that didn't agree, introductory clauses that dangled, and words that might offend a family audience. When I came across "bullshit," I changed it to "hogwash." I looked for the misuse of "who," "which" and "that." I scanned for misplaced adjectives and adverbs. I questioned exclamations, made points about periods, proselytized about apostrophes, and commented on commas. I didn't rest until I'd modified every dangler, hyphenated every compound, and scoped out every colon.
In time, I advanced to sorting through press releases to determine which ones were worth retyping for publication. An editor I worked for showed me how to select topics by labeling some with the letters NGAS and others with the letters NGAFF. NGAS stood for Nobody Gives a Shit, and NGAFF stood for Nobody Gives a Flying Fuck.
"How do you deal with most of the press releases?" I asked.
"GAS them!"
"What do you do with the really old ones?"
"NGAFF!"
"How do you indicate the good ones?"
"Those are Red Meat!"
I pulled out a press release that described beauty products that had been originally formulated for horses. The line included Hoof and Nail Builder and Flowing Mane Secret Shampoo, both now available for human use. The company was rolling out its horse products to women nationwide.
"Is this Red Meat?" I asked.
"The reddest, babe."
A bright spot in my day came when I rode the elevator with a young woman from another floor. We didn't speak; we just looked at each other. The encounters occurred more than once a week.
One evening, a colleague took me to visit his apartment. His living-room floor was covered with newspapers, and his bedroom floor was covered with wadded tissues. He lived with a large, monochrome dog named Spot.
He shared a huge joint of marijuana with me. "I bought this from a poet," he said. "He's one of the best, and he sells the best."
My colleague had failed his company drug test once but had been given another chance. He'd gotten the break because he dated the company nurse. Unfortunately, the nurse couldn't live up to his sexual expectations. "I wanted to introduce her to these," he said as he brought out some hardware. "Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson."
I made a resolution that I would not smoke—I would not, in effect, live—until I had passed the company drug test.
One evening, I stayed late at the office. Everyone around me left the newsroom, except for my boss. He didn't speak to me; he just sat at his desk. I read a book, and he did, too. When I stood up to leave, he got up and put on his coat. He followed me out of the building. He didn't stop following me until I turned a corner on the street.
I sent money to a college I'd attended and indicated that my employer would match my gift. The college wrote back to say that my company refused to contribute. When I asked why, an office manager told me I was not permanent, I was filling in for a pregnant employee. My stint would be over when she returned. My boss asked me out to lunch. When we were seated, he said, "Listen, an editor in another department is retiring. He'll take your place. I'm sending you downstairs. You'll have a one-week trial. After that, you'll either be kept or released.
"So what's new in your life?" he asked.
"Well," I said, "I got mugged recently. The muggers used scissors to steal my wallet."
Shortly, I had lunch with the editor who was replacing me. He seemed nice. He seemed so nice that I doubted I would ever achieve his level of serenity.
Of course, I wasn't hired after my one-week trial. The reason wasn't that I'd done poorly in the tryout, but that I had no newspaper experience. Working on the Rainy Day literary journal in college and drawing every raindrop with a Rapidograph pen didn't count.
From home, I filed a grievance with the newspaper union. A shop steward wrote a letter on my behalf, saying that the person I replaced hadn't returned from maternity leave.
Company management replied to say no way.
The good news, the shop steward told me, was that I wouldn't have to take the company drug test. I made plans to hook up with the poet dealer.
Not long afterward, I received a payout from my union retirement plan. It came to $50.
I began freelancing at home. At one point, my apartment was robbed and I lost my word processor. I had crime insurance, but the adjustor told me it wouldn't cover the word processor because I'd used the machine for freelancing.
I knew I'd never get a job as good as the one I'd lost.
Later, I heard that the editor who'd replaced me had been involved in a car accident on the West Side Highway. He didn't survive the crash. I remembered him as a very nice guy. I hoped that one day I'd achieve his level of serenity.
* * *
Maintained or neglected, familiar or foreign, well-worn or wild, roadways inform our decisions and identities. Their geographies direct the movement
of our lives and sketch the cartography of our stories. In this spirit, 322 Review publishes provocative emerging and established artists whose fiction,
creative nonfiction, poetry, and mixed media artwork wander the paths of human experience. A nonprofit literary journal conceived
and operated by former Rowan University graduate students, 322 Review is based in Southern New Jersey.
© 322Review.org