Ensemble of Shards

{21} The reporter's jacket

Day 21: Write a scene involving a newspaper.

"Jean-Pierre! Where are you?" I spoke into my phone. Jean-Pierre was my reporter. Wow, it feels so cool saying that. Every time I reported to my higher-ups in the Editorial Board, I got amazed saying, "My reporter has done this" and "I've already contacted my reporter for that!" I was about to meet him face-to-face after we had worked together remotely to launch our student newspaper online. We set up a meeting just to walk around and chat before heading to a cafe where our Intro to Journalism class section would celebrate the completion of our big group project. It was called the News Room, where everyone simulated the jobs of actual journalists in a newsroom.

Back then, I had almost given up the hope of managing a single beat reporter after I was appointed the editor for the Sports section of our class newspaper for the News Room. I applied for this position because no one else had put their name under the role. I'd counted on the only boy in our section, Jean-Pierre, to do so, but he signed up to be one of the reporters. I still had no one under me until we pitched our story ideas to our senior and managing editors. Because the article Jean-Pierre pitched was about an athlete, he was assigned under me. No one else was interested with writing about sports, so it was just him and I.

Still, it gave me a sense of pride to have a reporter as an editor, not so much because I was in control of somebody, but because I could support him as a writer and work together as a mini-team as part of a bigger group. 

Jean-Pierre was a joy to work with. He was always enthusiastic about telling me about his article, updating me on the developments with the athlete he'd interviewed and how he was writing it. He had many questions about content, the organization and grammar of his article - he wasn't shy to let me in on his little confusions about writing the article. We'd had several calls that ended up not just about work, but about books, ponchiks - Armenian donuts, his dog, a Wire Fox Terrier named Snowy, and my adventures in Nepal that interested him so much, since he was a trekking enthusiast.

On the street where I waited for him, I concluded our phone call. "Uh-huh, I'll wait for you. See you," I said, and ended the call. I looked around at the busy street. A couple of minutes later, I spotted him across the zebra crossing. First I recognized his face and then his red hair, which came up to a quiff, which I always thought a little funny. I waited till he approached me. He also recognized me, and his eyes lit up as he walked faster.

"My dear editor!" he exclaimed, and then opened his arms for a hug. I did not expect this kind of greeting, but I accepted it anyway, thankful that I had my mask on. He hugged me tightly, and I was again surprised.

We overlapped each other with Heys, I'm-so-glad-to-see-yous and finally-we-meets until we smiled each other into silence. Then he checked himself and reached into his pocket. "Oh, I should be wearing a mask," he said apologetically. 

"Yeah, yeah," I said timidly. I wanted to hit him on the shoulder but seeing him in the flesh again after the first time our university switched to online classes made me awkward. 

"Look, I got you something," I said, reaching into my bag and taking out my notebook. I opened it to get a newspaper clipping I had kept inside in order for it not to be crumpled. I gave it to him, and his eyes widened.

"Whoa, a real newspaper!" he exclaimed. 

"Well, just a part of it," I corrected him, but remained smiling. 

"And it's in English! Thank you!" he said. It was an article about a chess player's life and habits that interested me years ago, and since I knew Jean-Pierre was into chess, I decided to give it to him.

"It's one of the few clippings I saved after my family moved out of Nepal," I explained. "We had a newspaper subscription and I collected so many of them, the clippings."

"Ah, I don't remember my own family having a subscription in Lebanon, but here we also don't have one," he said, wistfully. "This must be precious to you. Thanks for giving it to me."

I grinned, and said, "You're welcome. You deserve it. You've been a great and dedicated reporter."

"I couldn't have made it without your help, all the feedback and proofreading!" he replied. 

People then passed us by, and we remembered we had to start walking toward the cafe. We eventually reached it, but not before discussing a gazillion of topics. Despite my social anxiety at meeting my reporter for the first time since the pandemic, I was pleased to find that we could hit it off.

--

At the cafe, I put my jacket on the back of my seat because I didn't want it to be contaminated by hanging it in the coatrack with other people's winter jackets.

Later on, I was enthused with listening to my journalist professor's war zone stories when my seat mate, a fellow editor and good friend, tapped my shoulder and said, "Excuse me-"

Before I could hear what she said, I noticed someone come up behind me. I glanced back and it was Jean-Pierre stooping down. At the same time I realized my jacket wasn't on the back of my seat, and he was picking it up. He set it again on the back of my seat and I whispered a "thank you" to him, and he smiled and walked back to his seat as if it was nothing. It was as if he had put the jacket on my shoulders, and I felt my cheeks burn red. 

Maybe he was just polite like that. Ah, Jean-Pierre, my star reporter.