The Storm

to recall the stories I have heard and chastise myself for being such a softie!

Did I mention that I love my job? I had just graduated journalism school and was fortunate to snag the job at the “Press” the following week after graduation. Lucky me. Some of my buddies are still busing tables. I had answered a small add in the “Press” itself. I remember the strange, simple ad. It read, “Wanted, rookie writer/reporter for the Brooklyn Free Press. Low salary with a commission base. We like what you write... you get paid. ” All I saw was the word “paid” and that is just what I needed. Paid! I was hired immediately and took every small story and possible lead that I could. I was finally able to rent a cozy apartment and get out of the flophouse that I was staying in. I can still smell the stench of that place, and that always motivates me to carry on when I get into those slow weeks. My boss is Mr. David Fessmyer, an old school journalist, and the owner, editor, and operator of the “Press”. He’s an okay sort of guy with the typical snarl of managers overseeing the operation of a high-pressure environment - deadlines, overages, details, and delays, along with legal complications with the DA and Chief of Police, when trying to hide his sources and protect his people. My boss does a juggling act by keeping 15 hungry reporters on the street for a story, overseeing secretarial staff, pressmen, and technicians, and getting a story to print, along with his personal life. And he does it very well, I’d say. That would wear on anyone even half his age. Maybe that’s his secret, age and experience, along with bulldog tenacity. I always tried to do my best by him and always tried not to create any more headaches for him. I guess he always showed his appreciation

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