it was one of those weeks

IN A DIVE BAR on Tenth Street, between shots of Wild Turkey and bouts of uncontrollable sobbing, Lester Simpson and the Amarillo Globe-Republican Ghostly Voice^TM stared increasingly desperately into one another’s eyes. The Ghost thought that Lester was whining a bit much, but he put up with it. He knew on which side his spectral bread was buttered.

Simpson was fretting and fuming and more than occasionally fulminating about his bosses, the Morrises, down in Georgia. Ma Morris and Pa Morris and especially little James Earl Morris were giving poor Lester a difficult time. They didn’t understand how difficult it was to run a newspaper that maintained the lofty journalistic standards of the Globe-Republican, while simultaneously propagandizing in favor of the farthest reaches of the right wing. Fox News does it, no problem, Lee Harvey Morris kept saying, but Lee Harvey just didn’t understand the pressures Simpson was under. There were, for example, those damned bloggers.

And that muckraker, George Schwarz! Lester had heard that the Amarillo Independent was going to report that the “anonymous donor” who had paid for the new Clock Tower at West Texas A&M was actually 7,000 students who were anonymous even to themselves; unbeknownst to any of them, the $62.57 “Advising and Activity Fee” they had paid last semester had built the timekeeping behemoth. How could the Globe-Republican compete with such journalism? No one would like Lester if he went around reporting stuff like that. Besides, how could he fit it on the page? There were stories about two-headed cats to print.

The Newsroom Ghost patted Lester on the hand sycophantically. He knew on which side his chip was hot-sauced and he would kiss whatever he had to. He tried to cheer Lester up. “It’s not so bad,” he simpered. “We’ve had some good times. Remember the time we gave Kanelis that old TG&Y four-banger calculator and told him it was his new cell phone?”

Lester smiled at that. “He still doesn’t know why he hasn’t gotten any calls.” Suddenly, behind a table in the corner two barstools fell to the ground. Jon Mark Beilue, Former Sportswriter, and Michael Schumacher had leapt to their feet. Beilue was babbling excitedly into his phone. Then scribe and photog raced out of the bar. As they passed Lester and the Ghost they shouted something about a chupacabra sighting. And early enough in the day to meet deadline!

“There,” said the Ghost to Lester, “are two men who know on which side their quesadillas are cheesed. John Wilkes Morris will love that story.” Lester was gazing longingly after them. He wanted to chase chupacabras, but he had loaned his machete to a friend.

It was one of those weeks.

spacedark