Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
druthers (n.): free choice; the power or opportunity to choose
“Have a seat,” Sam says the following morning.
I hold out one of the small pumpkins I bought yesterday. “May I?”
He cocks a brow. “Long as I don’t have to water it.”
I give it a home on the only clutter-free patch of his desk.
“You know, Montgomery,” Sam says, lacing his fingers and resting them on the desk, “when you showed up here five years ago, you were fairly green. And rather a deer in headlights.”
My jaw tightens. It feels a little early in the day for Sam to splay me open like a trout.
“But you know what else I saw? Spunk. The fact that you struck out on your own with that boy of yours. Most people would call that courage.” He narrows his gaze at me.
“But I’m guessing you might call it something else.
” He rubs the back of his neck. “Something I could probably stand to take stock of myself.”
I think I see where Sam is heading. With my job going away, he figures I’ll have to rely on faith again. Here’s what’s odd. I already am. There isn’t an anxious bone in my body. I’m sitting here, about to get handed my pink slip, with no vision for what comes next, and I’m exponentially at peace.
I offer Sam a reassuring smile. No need to make this more difficult for him than it already is.
“You’re a scrappy young woman, Lucy, and I’m not sure you know that about yourself.
In fact, you remind me a little of myself.
I won’t bore you with the unsavory details.
Suffice it to say, I was given little reason to believe in myself.
But push came to shove, ya know? Anyway, now I know it hasn’t exactly made me into a soft fellow.
” He chuckles, and I smile. “Still working on that. But what I am is a pretty decent judge of character.”
And . . . ?
“What I’m trying to say is that I see something in you. Something hard to come by these days. Something genuine. I appreciate the way you look at the world. The way you look at people. And I don’t have to tell you community journalism is all about people.”
Maybe Sam feels the need to lay it on thick before lowering the hammer. Even so, beneath my ribs, a tender bouquet of warmth blooms. His generous words skirt my practiced resistance and hit their marks.
“That means a lot to me, Sam. Thank you.”
He reclines, and his chair groans. “I liked the way you handled yourself the other day when I was out of commish. You got things done. And you got them done in the Mountain Messenger way. Chasing that last-minute story about the protest over at city hall—you didn’t have to do that.
But you did. Ha! Word has it you even put our Mr. Vickery in his place. ” Sam winks. “Bravo.”
Peace, don’t fail me now.
“So. What’s the old guy getting at, you must be wondering.”
I smile, and Sam leans in. “To tell it square, Lucy, we’ve come to a pivotal moment in the life of this paper.
I met with the McPhersons, as you well know.
Managed to pull off a stay of execution.
But our days are likely numbered. I’ve been tasked with drawing up a proposal—some way to make this paper pencil out. ”
Sam rubs his brow as if warding off a headache. “I sense there’s an idea out there, a way forward. But doggone it if I’ve got the mental bandwidth to arrive at it. Frankly, with everything going on with Noleen, this couldn’t come at a worse time.”
He takes a swig from his if-the-health-department-ever-knew coffee mug. “Anyhoo, we have got ourselves an uphill battle. And I need a team of folks willing to go down fighting.” Sam explains his battle plan, highlights of which include transitioning to a four-day workweek and reshuffling personnel.
“Brad is out.”
“Oh?” I may not be a huge fan of Brad as a coworker, but I’m not one for celebrating somebody else’s downfall. “Brad wasn’t open to the changes?”
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “With all due respect to that soft heart of yours, Montgomery, I think we can both agree that marketing to the local business community requires the human touch. And Brad Vickery is, well . . . let’s be honest. Vickery is crown prince of the noodledom.”
I stifle a laugh.
Sam says, “Lorelai is willing to come aboard part-time and work for a song, to get experience. Our accounts are going to love her.”
I can’t argue that. Sam’s granddaughter is finishing up her marketing degree, and she’s got amazing people skills.
“But here’s what I need from you, Lucy, and you can give this some thought and get back to me, and by that I mean by Monday.
I need to know how you feel about what it is we do here, the value of it.
If we expect to remain indispensable to this community, we have to provide content that benefits them right where they are.
Features that connect them to this town and each other.
In short, we need them to not be able to imagine our town without the Messenger.
” Another swig. “I plan to go down swinging.”
For a minute, I assume he means “swigging.”
“Because, doggone it, I still believe community journalism means something few other things do. More than ever, folks need to think for themselves. And, I ask you, how’re they going to do that without news they can trust?
Everybody’s ears gettin’ tickled by everybody about everything.
What we have, Lucy, is an information problem.
You know, it’s possible to have so much information, we have no information.
That’s the reality of our current social experiment.
We’ve got a truth problem. But you know what? ”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you what. It’s still possible to sniff out what’s happening in our own backyard.
Folks want truth, and they want to know their life counts for something.
There’s one place it always will. Close to home.
And that’s where we come in. A voice of reason and resolution.
Stating the facts with fresh, unjaded voices. And, yes, voices of hope.”
“Hope sounds good to me.”
“But I need help. Lucy, I’d like to grow you into my editorial assistant.
Not all at once, so don’t panic. Alls I’m suggesting for now is that you challenge yourself to the next stage in the process.
Bottom line—I’d love to have you on our team for this foolhardy undertaking.
Because it’s going to require a whole lotta faith. ”
He leans back and nods as if silently saying “That’s about all I’ve got to say.”
I feel dismissed, but in a good way. I guess.
I have to force Sam’s sticky door open before I can leave.
“Hey, Montgomery,” he says.
I turn back.
“Whatever you decide, just . . . don’t ever sell yourself short.”
I exit Sam’s office with plenty to process. But for some reason, only one word echoes through the halls of my mind. Spunk.
Take that, Wordle.