Thursday, January 12, 2006
Pay it forward
So tonight I got to return a favor. To another person, yes, and in a different city. I still owe a lot of favors in this world, more than I can possibly repay. But I repaid one.
Where to start? A co-worker of mine got the same conversation from the metro editor today that the editor gave me about two months ago. She told my coworker that his production wasn't what the newspaper was needing out of a full-time reporter and that he had a review coming up in a few weeks where she would again look at his production and see if he was getting any better. This is the guy who broke a huge story before the competition in his second week on the job and has another big breaking story coming out Sunday. And this kid got the talk after three weeks.
Odd, it took the editor six weeks before she got fed up enough with me to give me that talk. And I wasn't doing nearly as well as my coworker. I don't know whether this is regular policy at the Globe, but it's enough to scare the piss out of any reporter, particularly a young reporter (my coworker is also 23). I responded to my conversation with screaming, crying and talking ad nauseum with my family and friends to bitch and moan about the situation (that would be to their nauseum, not mine, i was feeling mine in spades).
My coworker responded to his by calling me up tonight and asking if I wanted to get a drink (something we've done before). This was before I knew he had received that conversation, though I knew he had been talking with the editor with the door closed earlier.
My coworker got very drunk, drunk enough to try to deal with this situation and pick a fight with a 20-year old female coworker from the newsroom in the process over one of our editor's methods (the argument was in a bar, not in the newsroom).
I walked him home and listened to him and told him many times that I had been in the same place not too long before. I couldn't offer him much consolation (i've still got most of the piss scared out of me and i have trouble looking some of my editors in the eye while passing them in the halls because i think that they're ready to fire me tomorrow, after all i really haven't much improved myself, though i've worked at it).
This reminded me of a similar tale last summer. After a particularly begrudged topic of conversation came up at the table with me and my two roomates I got the impression that somehow the world would seem a little bit brighter if I had a lot more whiskey in my system.
Yadda yadda yadda by the end of the tonight my roomates were hastily helping me out the door to save me from getting into a fight with a much stronger, taller, older and male opponent than my 20-year old female coworker.
Now I am not half so easy to watch, speak with or listen to as half of one of my two young female roomates were but I was more than happy to hear out his woes. I just hope nobody asks me to save anyone from a fight.
Or that I get myself into one.
Where to start? A co-worker of mine got the same conversation from the metro editor today that the editor gave me about two months ago. She told my coworker that his production wasn't what the newspaper was needing out of a full-time reporter and that he had a review coming up in a few weeks where she would again look at his production and see if he was getting any better. This is the guy who broke a huge story before the competition in his second week on the job and has another big breaking story coming out Sunday. And this kid got the talk after three weeks.
Odd, it took the editor six weeks before she got fed up enough with me to give me that talk. And I wasn't doing nearly as well as my coworker. I don't know whether this is regular policy at the Globe, but it's enough to scare the piss out of any reporter, particularly a young reporter (my coworker is also 23). I responded to my conversation with screaming, crying and talking ad nauseum with my family and friends to bitch and moan about the situation (that would be to their nauseum, not mine, i was feeling mine in spades).
My coworker responded to his by calling me up tonight and asking if I wanted to get a drink (something we've done before). This was before I knew he had received that conversation, though I knew he had been talking with the editor with the door closed earlier.
My coworker got very drunk, drunk enough to try to deal with this situation and pick a fight with a 20-year old female coworker from the newsroom in the process over one of our editor's methods (the argument was in a bar, not in the newsroom).
I walked him home and listened to him and told him many times that I had been in the same place not too long before. I couldn't offer him much consolation (i've still got most of the piss scared out of me and i have trouble looking some of my editors in the eye while passing them in the halls because i think that they're ready to fire me tomorrow, after all i really haven't much improved myself, though i've worked at it).
This reminded me of a similar tale last summer. After a particularly begrudged topic of conversation came up at the table with me and my two roomates I got the impression that somehow the world would seem a little bit brighter if I had a lot more whiskey in my system.
Yadda yadda yadda by the end of the tonight my roomates were hastily helping me out the door to save me from getting into a fight with a much stronger, taller, older and male opponent than my 20-year old female coworker.
Now I am not half so easy to watch, speak with or listen to as half of one of my two young female roomates were but I was more than happy to hear out his woes. I just hope nobody asks me to save anyone from a fight.
Or that I get myself into one.
# posted by Solon : 1:35 AM
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