Earlier this morning as I trudged across the wet grass and sifted through the shrubbery in search of the leaflet formerly known as the morning newspaper, thoughts of what once was and might have been sprang to mind. I remembered the time, half a century ago, when I went looking for a job at the Salt Lake Tribune.
In those days, you could smell the newspaper’s offices at 143 South Main Street even before you got there. It was a smell compounded of ink, newsprint and cigar smoke. The editorial floor was dimly lit, like a Coppola movie. There being no receptionist, I just walked in unannounced. I went from desk to desk in search of a familiar name plate until I came to the one occupied by Roy Hudson, editor of the newspaper’s Sunday magazine. Roy knew me as the kid from downstate who’d been killing the competition in the weekly Summertime Snapshot Contest, but this was our first face-to-face encounter. Presently we were joined by veteran cameraman Van Porter, who, upon hearing my name, immediately offered me a job in the photography department.
So, why didn’t I take him up on his offer? For one thing, I had no particular passion for shooting ribbon cuttings, grip-and-grin award presentations and groups. In particular, I’d had it up to here with group shots! That’s pretty much all I had ever done in my previous posting at a portrait and wedding studio. Nothing, in my opinion, is more wearisome than arranging human bodies in such a way that seems natural, however contrived, and then coaxing said human bodies to smile simultaneously while not blinking.
Also, I had this thing about wanting to be a writer. In my high school newspaper I’d penned a column titled “Nothing Humorous”—an homage to the Tribune’s resident humorist Dan Valentine. Valentine’s “Nothing Serious” column had been a fixture on the first page of the second section for as far back as any living human could recall. In addition, collections of his heart-warming essays could be found on diner tabletops throughout the Intermountain West—gravy-stained booklets bearing such titles as “What Is A Truck Driver?” And “What Is A Truck Driver’s Wife?” She is the dutiful helpmate who keeps the home fires burning whilst her seed cap wearin’ hubby keeps them big wheels aturnin.’ Or words to that effect.
I looked over at the dark cubicle where Mr. Valentine sat like a dyspeptic frog, intent on croaking out a joke or two, followed by a treacly tribute to whichever unsuspecting citizen had been targeted to receive a daily “valentine.”
Had I joined the Tribune team, I’m reasonably certain that I would have eventually inherited the mantle of resident humorist. I’m also reasonably certain that the pressure to be funny on a daily basis would have turned me into an alcoholic ink-stained wretch. Still, it’s worth noting that of all the many publications in which my byline has appeared over the years, none survives. Perhaps I took a wrong turn—then again, maybe not.
Yes, the Tribune is still alive, but only barely. Last week, in still another desperate attempt to balance the books, 34 staffers were sent packing. The cuts were ordered by current owner Paul Huntsman, son of the late billionaire philanthropist Jon Huntsman. In other words, journalists today serve at the pleasure of overlords who rose to positions of power by virtue of having been born rich. Jared and Ivanka have no fear; your jobs, at least, are safe.