A DETERMINED WRITER
NO TALKING BETWEEN CUBICLES!
It was a sign that greeted Alex Conley as he approached his workstation. The same sign had welcomed him every morning on the fifth floor at the Baltimore Sunpapers office for the last two weeks.
It was also a warning every employee, working on that floor, routinely ignored. Even now, as Alex walked past it, the cubicles were alive with chatter and music from transistor radios.
He headed straight to his designated slot, a depressingly tiny area barely large enough to accommodate a desk and typewriter. He did not honor his workspace with cubicle status. It was simply a hole with four flimsy half-built walls.
There were no greetings as he plowed his way through the neon and plastic maze. He was a part-timer, the lowest of the low. Nobody in the building acknowledged the existence of part-time employees except other part-time employees, of which he was the only one on this floor.
He began his employment on the first day of June and his goal was to save enough money to get him in the door of the cheapest college he could find, hopefully by Labor Day.
Alex’s father had landed him the job because of his friendship with the paper’s editor, Maxwell Bestwick. That was okay by Alex. He enjoyed writing and it was certainly better than working at the moving and storage company close to his home, who had gladly accepted his application.
Things looked promising at first. Bestwick called Alex into his office his first day on the job and promised him several writing assignments covering local events. As it turned out however, the bulk of the tasks concerned writing about neighborhood happenings relegated to the last page of the paper’s style section.
After spending considerable time at community association meeting halls, flea markets, and flower marts, Alex was becoming bored and restless. His latest endeavor, the crowning of Miss Genova Pizza 1967, was the final straw. The following day he requested a sit down with the editor.
Max Bestwick was a gruff and frequently surly individual who never tolerated laziness or insubordination. In fact, a sign on his office door read, IF YOU ARE THIN-SKINNED, DO NOT ENTER THIS OFFICE!
Alex did not think himself to be thin-skinned, but was still apprehensive when he knocked on the glass office door. Bestwick, who was plowing through what appeared to be a two-foot stack of paperwork, looked up, grunted, and then waved him in.
He entered, shutting the door behind him, and immediately noticed a strong smell of stale cigar smoke. Without looking up from his stack of papers, Bestwick motioned for Alex to sit on the lone chair facing the desk.
For a considerable time, the editor ignored his visitor as he shuffled papers back and forth. After several minutes had passed, he raised his head, seemingly acknowledging his part-time employee for the first time. After thoroughly studying the body in front of him, Bestwick pulled the stub of a previously smoked cigar from a well-used ashtray. He leaned back in his chair and put the flame of a cigarette lighter to the stub. After assuring it lit by exhaling more cigar smoke into the already rancid air, he addressed Alex with the word “well.”
Alex took a deep breath, suppressed a strong urge to cough, then for the next minute pointed out why he should be covering stories not featuring flowers and the crowning of pizza queens.
When Alex finished his say, Bestwick laid his cigar butt in the ashtray and once again occupied himself by staring at his young employee. Then, just as Alex thought that his boss could possibly be trying to hypnotize him, the editor spoke.
“I want you to go out toSan Franciscofor a couple of months to do a story on the hippies out there. You have some decent writing skills and you’re the right age. Mix it up with them and write down what you see. Nothing fancy, just send back weekly stories about what the hell is happening in the city.”
Bestwick began checking his pockets, looking for another cigar. “Hell, the other papers have people out there. The Times, the Chronicle, they are all covering it. Personally I don’t give a damn about those draft dodging freaks, but I will not be left out of the running.”
His eyes were on Alex while his hands scurried about his shirt and pants in a desperate search for that elusive cigar. “Well?” he asked.
Alex did not give any pause to his reply. “Sure, I’ll be happy to do it.” He kept a straight face, thinking that a grin might cause the anxious editor to change his mind and put him back on theBaltimorestreets, but he was overjoyed at securing this plum assignment. To be far away from home, far away from this office with its cramped cubicles and easily annoyed employees, sounded too good to be true.
“I have a nephew that has taken to that lifestyle and currently resides in theHaight-Ashburypart of the city. I don’t think the poor bastard is all there but I will try to track him down and have him meet you when you arrive.Alicewill fill you in on all the details. You leave the day after tomorrow.”
Alex quickly rose. He wanted out of there before his boss reconsidered.
“You don’t happen to smoke cigars by any chance do you?” Bestwick asked.
He shook his head no, wishing he had at least one stogie he could throw the editor’s way.
“Well go on then,” the editor said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Get out of here, and Conley, do not screw this one up or I’ll have you back at the flower marts before you knew what hit you.”
