I'm sketching this note
on a stray computer
, in the corner of the newspaper
office. It's a late night.
It's a campus paper, and the late-breaking story, full of cover-ups and inconsistencies, deals with the upcoming student body president elections next week, so all in all, it's not a big deal in global terms but still... I find my body full of electricity. Margie makes another connection, and we all, the four or five of us still here, we smile, we urge her on, we laugh at the poor, pitiful fools that are going to be nailed down by the unerring eye of journalism at its best. But it's late.
Another forged signature. Another admission of guilt. The candidate almost conceded tonight, just after midnight. I was there.
I'm not a journalist by trade. I happened onto this job rather haphazardly. I was, well, I still am, a music major, playing oboe, but that past seems so far behind me now. I wrote columns and then I was promoted, not unwillingly, to an editor position. So all this news-making -- all this "this just in!" -- it strikes me as novel, I'm still not used to it. But the electricity is wearing out.
We're a weary band of galley-slaves, the six of us. Krysia waits for the final pieces of the design; Margie is writing the last news story; Brad is writing the editorial, which I will then edit and send to Jeff, who will do a final check and send it to Krysia, who has left a big, gaping whole on the opinion page. Then I'll make sure the editorial fits, and print it off for April, who will make sure the page is just...perfect.
A silent camaraderie grows between us. We are the final watch. We are the eyes of the student. I didn't come into this job expecting to love journalism, but I find that I do.