The Storm

his cluttered office of papers and trinkets and trophies of years gone by, and of journalist awards, he spoke up: “Have a seat, Son, ” pointing to an old, cracked, oxblood, high -back chair. “Yes Sir,” I replied. “Zach, you’re going South, Son.” “South, Sir?” I responded. “Yes. Louisiana to be exact. You’ll be flying into New Orleans and then get a rental up into what they call 'The Bayou Country' to cover the storm surge." “What’s going on?” I blurted out. “Haven’t you been watching the news, Son?” he said. “The whole area i s practically underwater, 60 some thousand homes flooded in that area as far inland as Baton Rouge. The county of Livingston Parish is a mess, and the town of Colyell received 31 inches of rain in about 15 hours." "Go down there and get me a human-interest story, Zach. This thing is spreading out faster than a fat lady at a pizza parlor.” “Wow, I had no idea! When do I go?” “Now, Zach. Pack your gear. You’ll have five days to bring me a story and get it to me in print by this weekend. Here are your round-trip tickets and a folder with all the info you’ll need, with contacts, a rental car company, and maps. Get interviews and pictures and a kicker to draw in our readership." "A Major Peterson with emergency services will be meeting you to fill you in on the details. You will also have access to the Chief of Police in New Orleans, Jim Carson. Jim’s an old friend of mine and he’s doing us a favor on this one. Be professional and make me proud. Every bit of info is in the folder. Read it on the plane and familiarize yourself with the details. And again, be a professional. Here’s the company credit card, Zach, and remember, this isn’t an all -expense-paid vacation. Watch your expenses and get back here with

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