On the hunt

This may come as no surprise, but I sort of stumbled into this whole journalism/news thing. OK, so I do technically have a degree in journalism. But if you read the fine print, you’ll notice I majored in advertising, which fell under the scope of journalism for lack of anywhere else to put all 10 of the school’s ad majors. Yes, I know. It’s like admitting to owning roller blades (which I do) or to purchasing Monster Rock Ballads on late night TV (which I have). What can I say? I was brainwashed by “thirtysomething,” which depicted an ad career as sitting around in a cool office, playing Nerf hoops and listening to tunes while hashing out an existential crisis of some sort. Sounded like the schtick for me.

Anyway, as part of the package, I was required to take news writing, which was taught in windowless basement rooms on dusty, old DOS computers that crashed more than Lindsay Lohan on a month-long bender. Combine this with a flunked typing career (my 4-year-old can type faster than me) and it’s easy to see why my career as a hard-edged journalist didn’t exactly flourish.

But it wasn’t for lack of chances. In fact, with the discovery of remains believed to be those of Jason McVean last week, I couldn’t help but be reminded of my brief brush with front-page, headline news.

Alas, I must digress back to the whole school thing. Upon being released into the real world, my high-falutin ad exec dream came crashing down. Seems nobody wanted to pay me to sit around and wait for brilliant ideas to pop into my head. So, in a desperate attempt to salvage at least a thread of the fantasy, I took a job at a small-town newspaper. OK, so it wasn’t exactly writing copy for Nike, but I was copying classified ads, so it was a start. Maybe it was the osmosis of ink, but eventually the writing bug took hold, and I eventually garnered a fluffy feature or two.

However, the ivory tower of actual hard news remained elusive. Every time I began to scale it, I was reminded by higher ups that it was off limits to any but those with “news gathering” degrees. (I guess they really do pay attention to those resumes.)

Fortunately, after a few years, this gig springboarded into another one at an even bigger small-town paper (which shall remain nameless) and my prospects seemed good, as this time, I at least had a desk adjacent to the news room. One particular Friday afternoon (I can’t remember the time, because quite frankly, I was probably slacking, seeing as how it was Friday afternoon) the sound that strikes dread in the heart of 9-to-5 newsroomers about to leave for the weekend everywhere filled the air: the tones of the police scanner. Something big was going down. Bigger than the Halloween bank heist. Bigger than the roof of the concert hall caving in. That’s right – we’re talking Four Corners Manhunt. The type of breaking news that makes reporters salivate and managing editors hot under the collar. With the precision of a well-oiled John Deere (this was, after all, rural Colorado) the news machine clamored to life. Photogs and reporters were dispatched to the scene; archives were scoured; maps were unfurled; and husbands and wives were called and told not to wait up. And then, when every warm body within 100 yards had his or her marching orders, I felt the cold gaze of responsibility fall upon me.

“You, come here,” one of the shirt and ties addressed me.

At last, my shining moment, the assignment that would launch me into bonafide news journalism at last, possibly even Pulizterdom. I tried to carry an air of capability and confidence as I made my way to report for official duty.

Upon arriving, it was explained that three heavily armed men in a stolen truck had shot the Cortez Police officer who had attempted to apprehend them. His name was Dale Claxton, 45, husband and father of two.

“We need you to drive over to Cortez and interview his widow,” came down the matter-of-fact orders.

Suddenly, the theme music to “All the President’s Men,” which had been blaring over my mental loudspeaker, came to a screeching halt. I felt a large lump rise in my throat and thought I was going to lose it right there, all over the assignment desk. But it wasn’t the type of nerves that come as one is about to embark on an exciting, career-launching endeavor. No, this was a sickening, pit-of-my-stomach, gut-wrenching, ain’t-no-way-in-hell kind of reaction that comes when you are so repulsed by the thought of doing something that it makes you physically ill.

OK, as I said, I was not a seasoned news gatherer. But the thought of sticking a microphone into the face of a grieving stranger, someone who had just lost a lifetime partner to a horribly tragic event, seemed objectionable not only from a news standpoint, but a human one as well.

I felt the editorial eyes burn into me as I stalled under pressure.

“I’m supposed to leave town tonight,” I finally stammered, as I looked at the clock, which read 4:30 p.m.

The eyes narrowed as I continued to support my cause, pointing out that I did not own a vehicle, had I even wanted to go there. When it was suggested that I take the company van, I pleaded with the excuse of last resort. “I don’t even have a news-gathering degree.”

No luck – just a heavy stare and eventual lecture on being a team player. Finally, I knew I had to lay my cards on the table. He was right. These were all sorry excuses. But the truth was, I didn’t care if they flew me in a Leer jet and gave me all the money in the OT fund, I just couldn’t help feeling as if I was going to be an added agony in someone else’s tragedy, somewhere I had no business being. I took a deep breath and kissed my opportunity for ever advancing beyond editing the school lunch menu good bye. “I just don’t feel right about it,” I said, standing my ground. “You’re going to have to find someone else to go.”

The brow furrowed in displeasure and exasperation and huffed off. I went back to my desk, clocked out and left, also a bit dismayed. Maybe that was what the world of hard-edged “news gathering” was really about. Maybe I was just a sissy, not cut out for this line of work. Maybe in order to get the “news,” you had to step all over someone in the process. Maybe showcasing the private and profound pain of a few would somehow benefit the greater good beyond a purely voyeuristic standpoint.

These were all big “maybes,” but one thing was for sure. There was no way I was ever going to cross that line, walk up those stairs and knock on that door to find out.

-Missy Votel