I rushed into the conference room where my colleagues had gathered to discuss potential stories to publish in the next day’s newspaper. As the editor, Oscar sat at the head of the table, gulping down a cup of foul-smelling coffee, he leaned towards Mel, a senior reporter, flipping through a color-tabbed notebook. “What have you got?”
“Fire at the civic building downtown. Fifteen confirmed dead. Cause of fire unknown, but arson is suspected.”
Oscar twirled a pen between his fingers. “Any women?”
Mel’s eyes darkened. “A divorced mother of three, a Sunday school teacher, and a newlywed.”
“Were any of the women having an affair with Tiger
Woods?” Oscar asked.
“What?” Mel fell back in his chair.
“Tiger Woods,” Oscar repeated. “The golfer ensnarled in the salacious trysts with a harem of women.”
“I know who he is,” Mel said. “But I don’t know if any of the dead women had an affair with him. This is a pretty big story, Oscar. Fire. Death. Possible arson.”
“I think I’ll pass.” Oscar turned to Mike. “What about you?”
“Early this morning,” Mike said, “China invaded France. Paris lies in ruins: centuries of great art destroyed, disfigured corpses floating down the Seine, mangled survivors stockpiled in hospitals.”
“Could be a story there,” Oscar said. “Any of the hospitalized victims been to the same hospital where Tiger Woods was taken after his car accident?” Maybe we could go with an angle of how they’d compare the medical services.”
Mike slammed his notebook on the table. “No.”
“Any polls taken about what the survivors think of the Tiger Woods situation?”
With steely eyes, Mike stared back at Oscar. “No.”
“Then, I’ll pass on that story. Fred?”
Cautiously, Fred leaned across the table. “Hurricane in the South Pacific. The Hawaiian islands are under water.”
“Does Tiger Woods know about that?” Oscar asked.
“No, but what has that got to do with…”
“If he hadn’t had those affairs with all those women, maybe more people would have been off the islands, visiting friends and family on the mainland instead of glued to their T.V. sets waiting for the next tidbit of information about him.”
“This is a newsroom,” Fred protested, “not some cheap tabloid press. All of the stories presented today were worthy of headline news.”
“I resent that,” Oscar replied. He got up, strutted to the credenza and poured another cup of coffee. “We have sports, recipes, and horoscopes. Show me a cheap tabloid press that has that!”
“But,” Fred continued, “we’ve been covering the Tiger Woods story for two solid weeks. Everybody knows all about the car accident, the multiple affairs, and the women crawling out of the woodwork itching for their fifteen minutes of fame.”
For the first time, I noticed the dark circles under Oscar’s bloodshot eyes and the slight trembling of his hands. His voice was barely audible over the grumbles of my colleagues. “Gotta get that fix.” He returned to his seat and dropped his cup on the table.
Katherine gestured for her co-workers to lower their voices. In a conciliatory tone, she said, “President Obama accepted the Nobel Peace Prize today.”
Oscar perked up and clenched his fists. “Does he know Tiger?”
On target.
Thing is, getting back to reality, who can even begin to grasp what a 2 trillion dollar deficit actually means, or envision the carnage following that recent homicide bombing in Baghdad (200 or so dead)?
The Tiger business is at least comprehensible to people, and in a prurient way, titillating, fascinating–a mighty figure falls and we, living our common lives, have a front row seat.
I’m not saying it’s right, just human nature.