The newsroom occupies the entire second floor of the former Eckman Saddle and Tannery warehouse. The building shows little of its proletarian past. Interior walls are redone in glass. Freight elevators, also glass-enclosed, cables dangling, float up and down. Twenty work stations with low dividers sit empty. I assumed the occupants were fanned out across the city, pursuing “scoops”.
Suites along walls reveal a few men and women, indifferently tapping computers. Standard furnishings are high-end. Think Herman Miller. Or Thorsten Mid-Century Modern. Not bad for a non-profit.
Lars is walking the floor. But I seldom see him sitting. He is tall, handsome, with a close-cropped, white-blond beard. He carries a cup and worries over a sheet of paper. He barely acknowledges me.
“What is it, Lars?”
“Something’s wrong.” Lars is a reporter, but he also has supervisory duties. Many of the writers are young. Some unpaid. He finds a red pencil and, stooping to a desk, begins crossing out lines.
“Give it to me,” I said. “I’ll make the corrections.” This is a joke. I am a well-known cynic, not to be trusted. The first time I visited the newsroom I was given a stern warning. “Touch nothing.”
“The trouble with young writers,” Lars says. “Is they are young. They have no historical perspective. They don’t realize how dangerous Trump is.”
“I see your point. I imagine they don’t know Trump is to blame for police violence.”
“Exactly.” Lars looks up from his corrections. “I’m proud of you. You’re starting to catch on.” Lars is nothing if not predictable. Once you know the tune, you can play him like a ukulele.
I continued to scan the floor. I am always looking for a chance to bump into the senior editor, Matt Pennock. Freelance work is occasionally handed out, and I want to get in line. For the occasion I wear a khaki shirt and cargo shorts. Also my trout fishing vest, stripped of flies and pliers. Hunter S. Thompson’s got nothin’ on me.
“Where’s Matt?” I ask. “Doesn’t he do the final edits?”
“Actually, no,” Lars says. “As long as we follow AP standards he stays out of it.” I had an idea what that meant. Matt Pennock is even more vociferous than Lars. With any mention of Trump his lips purse, and his eyes become pinpoints of hatred.
“What’s the trouble with the copy?”
Lars is writing something in the margin. “Right now the line reads, ‘Trump has questioned the security of mail-in voting.’ It should read, ‘Trump has FALSELY questioned the security of mail-in voting.’”
“How do you know it’s false?”
“Because Trump said it. Also, there’s no evidence.”
“But didn’t we just see mail-in fraud in North Carolina? And can’t the president speculate?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s asking a question.”
“And a stupid one. Say, I thought you wanted to write.”
“I do.”
“Then you better get with the new journalism. Reporters decide what’s true or false. Not the reader. No more of this two-sides-to-everything crap.”
I spotted Matt Pennock across the room, walking into his office. Small and nervous, he is often photographed at charity galas and progressive events with mayors, athletes, and news anchors. Conformity of opinion is ruthlessly enforced. One false word…
“There’s Matt,” Lars said, dropping the corrected copy into a wire basket. “You want to ask for an assignment?”
I didn’t think so. Not today, at least. Driving up to the city I noted a mayfly hatch on Mill Creek. The trout were biting. Luckily, I was dressed for it.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com