Over, and Over

Did you hear the news?
I’ve been fired.
They’re not saying that of course, because that would open up a real can of worms, maybe even a lawsuit or two (Is there such a thing, by the way, as a ‘fake’ can of worms?).
But I want you – my fanatical readers and occasional stalkers, to know the truth.
The cover story is that the newspaper business is going through tough times and they need to shut down the entire paper (yeah, right!) by the end of the month.
Can you imagine that: just to get rid of me, to shut me up, they’re going to shut down the whole paper, lay off thousands.
In the last two issues I’m going to reveal the real story, the cover-up, the uugly truth (hint, hint), so stay tuned. But for now, in this the first of my last three columns, I’m just going to gloat.
Of course you’re wondering how can I gloat when I know that - in just two weeks, I will be losing my last connection to reality, my reason for being, my outlet, my vent, my last shot at local fame and fortune.
Easy. You see I know something that they don’t…
First, a little background:
Three years ago when I was hired to write a weekly column for what was then an important new addition to the Gatehouse news empire (they were actually going to call the new paper The New Edition, but I told them there was already a boy band by that name) I was promised the moon: syndication, a weekly radio show, the profits of sales of mugs with my mug on them, a barge trip on the Seine, a gold-capped tooth.
The list went on and on.
Very early on though, they began to renege on their promises, one by one.
Instead of an expense account, they issued me a Dunkin Donuts gift card.
Instead of my own radio show I got a transistor radio.
Instead of a gold-capped tooth and discount dental plan, I got a coupon good for a nipple piercing at the Pin Cushion on Court Street.
What could I do though? Their promises had all been verbal, sealed with a wink and a handshake. They knew I desperately wanted to maintain my cult status in town and they were right.
But I fought back, in my own subtle, passive-aggressive, wimpy way.
First of all there were the coded messages to my old girlfriend in Chicago that I slipped into each column: provocative, off-color remarks and double-entendre printed right alongside stories of all the good things that the Plymouth Rock studio people are doing for local residents.
Then there was my secret agreement with certain despised town officials, consignment store owners, and the local plumber’s union to subvert the cause of democracy and make Mark Lord the next Mayor of Plymouth.
Our efforts failed, but we definitely sowed the seeds of dissent.
And then there was The Five.
Though my column has appeared in this paper over 150 times, in reality it was always the same five columns, over and over.
Sometimes I changed the names. Sometimes I changed the names of places. Sometimes I changed the critters seen in those same well-known places. But every one of the columns I wrote, and they paid for (including this one) was based on five basic columns.
Check it out.
Remember the column about the caterpillars leaving their pajamas hanging from threads while they ran around the neighborhood naked? That was the same column as the one about my pet Penguin, Duke.
Remember the column about George Bush on the aircraft carrier, and George Bush on the Mayflower, and George Bush and the emotion party? Yep, just one column.
Then there was the column about the Billington Brothers, and the one about the Doobie Brothers, and the one about the Brothers Karamazov.
I actually wrote 23 columns about the ponds of Plymouth and no one – not my readers or the editors ever noticed.
The Bulletin Boys thought they were pulling a fast one by paying me only $1.79 per column. It was supposed to be $100 a week but, after they deducted for home delivery (do they still do that?), dark blue ink (it’s hard to tell the difference but I’m told the blue is more reassuring), press charges, the dental plan, piercing insurance, and the monthly conferences in Taunton on the future of newspapers, my weekly check never came to more than $2.
As I see it, since I really only wrote five columns, I was actually paid over $50 per column.
So who’s laughing now? Huh?
Well, actually, I’m not laughing. Being a ‘columnist’ was always good for a free appetizer at Unos on Free Appetizer Wednesdays, and got me a good seat at the back of Memorial Hall during Town Meetings, and – if anyone asked me what I ‘did’ I could puff up my chest and say that I was a writer.
And now – if I’m honest, I’ll have to admit that I am in fact, a balloon animal squeaker. Not that I am embarrassed by making balloon animals for a living. I actually make more in tips on a good day of balloon twisting than I make in a year of columnizing. But I don’t have to wear the striped socks, funny hat and oversized sunglasses when I am writing my column. And if someone asks me for ID lots of little orange and blue and red and green rubber snakes don’t fall out of my pocket. And writing is much easier on the ears than balloon squeaking (as those in the trade refer to it).
The truth is – though I think I have been ridiculously underpaid, totally unappreciated, and largely ignored by those I sought to communicate with, I am going to miss writing these five columns, over and over.