Memories from the News Room: Cigarettes, Pens, Paste and Presses
As far back as I can remember, my childhood was shaped by the news. Literally. The rhythm of the mighty presses were the substitute for any form of biorhythmic hubbub. My father, the journalistic master of household at the time, was a managing editor at central Jersey's Courier News for what seems to be the majority of my memorable pubescence. Journalism and media, news media specifically, were constantly the turning tides of an otherwise uneventful life. The election of Bill Clinton as our new president, an event which to many my own age would have been far beyond comprehension, meant to me that my father would not be coming home that evening.
The media was a tough business, always has been really. Long hours and dedication to ensure that deadlines were met. The DEADLINE! The DEADLINE could strike terror into the hearts of many-a journalist. The stress surely spelled the end for some. But through all the stresses of being raised in a family which featured the alpha male acting as the bearer of bad news in almost every instance, there were moments when experiencing news and journalism through childhood felt like the only proper way to truly grow up.
On the rare occurrences which I was allowed to accompany my dad to his long night shift of trimming through the fat of the "wire" (which I'll get to), the excitement was almost too much to bear. Throw a kid into a newsroom and watch as his underused senses are thrown into overwhelmed overload. Just the mere thought of staying up ALL NIGHT at the NEWS ROOM was (and sort of still is) tantalizing. If I behaved on the ride, my father would allow me to type in his security pin code which granted him access to the building.
I learned many things about the job of news journalism during those years. For one, I learned that news journalists like smoking... a lot. While by that point smoking wasn't allowed in the general population, a designated "smoking room" had been appointed. One step into the yellowed (to be more honest, browning) walls of the smoking room was to instantly become simultaneously addicted to nicotine and disgusted by the mere thought of a cigarette sliding betwen your fingers. I vividly remember the overflowing ashtray, which had been likely cleaned out only hours before. The cloud of stale smoke lay solid and still in the isolated glass doored room. Cigarettes were a main stay in journalism even at this time, and it remains one of my most vivid and surprisingly cherished memories. There was something oddly comforting knowing that my dad's work was so stressful as to drive men to do such a disgusting deed, such as even thinking about entering the "smoke room."
I remember the layout room. Two men manned the nightly layout crew. Entering in the layout department was sort of like walking into a preschool glass during arts and crafts. The smell of paste is the first and instantly recognizable reference to layout at the time. I remember the exacto razors which lay across the work desks. While the sharper tools were always off limits to me, my eyes rarely left the working spaces of these men. My dad decided what news you'd see on the front page, and these men made sure the stories didn't wind up looking like shit. I was especially fond of the the layout workers. They strangely seemed to always have ice cold apple cider on hand, and they were more than likely apt to offer me a cup or two.
I remember the massive mail room. I suppose news papers, at the time, needed to send and receive a tremendous amount of snail mail. Bags and bags of parcels lined the busy conveyer belts. Incoming or outgoing. It didn't matter. It was all the same to me. Amazing. Functional. Overwhelming.
As the hours ticked on my father would give me a shot on his computer. This is where many (including me) got their first glance at the working internet. Which at the time, also functioned as a working intranet. A massive (and yet so simple when looked at in modern times) communication tool for correspondence with any other journalist in the building. I remember being entranced with the idea of "instant messaging". At the time, there was no such thing as AOL IM. Needless to say, the thought of automatic digital messaging was nothing but science fiction to a kid like me. But on those evenings, fantasies became a reality. I remember watching the "wire," which is what the universal news stream of the time was called. My dad would file through a constant stream of incoming articles and bulletins, delgating the news as it broke. I was too amazed with messaging his fellow co-workers to care about anything else.
And then there were the presses. The massive press room. Walking into the press room was sort of like being enveloped in the biggest newspaper you can imagine. The scent of news ink, paste and metal machinery delivered a punch in the jaw which would rival that of Ali. When the presses began to run, late into the early morning as trucks awaited their first deliveries, the sound... it was deafining. To a young man's ears, there is no other way to explain it. Metal, sliding against metal. Thousands of papers being produced a minute. Stacked. Wrapped. Shipped and done. News was so methodical and structed. "Breaking" news was delivered to you in the early morning hours. Not as it happened. The structure was enough to drive a man insane. And the defeaning drone of the massive news presses sure didn't help.
As a child, I had developed a healthy obsession with pens. Just like any hardworking man in journalism, my father occaisionaly "borrowed" office supplies from the office. No big deal. They would come to good use. After days of nagging, I remember when I was given my very own box of smooth Bic fountain pens (I would later upgrade to Uniball, but I was young and inexperienced.) You could have given me a mountain of gold and it wouldn't have overshadowed the happiness I had gotten from a box of totally ordinarly pens. Writing was genetic. I always had the pens. I always had the paper. I just had to wait to see what they'd be used for.
