Herb Benham: There it is again ... the look
BENHAM: Journalists not the only dead men walking
| Friday, Oct 16 2009 04:47 PM
Last Updated Friday, Oct 16 2009 04:47 PM
I was at a party recently and it happened again. The host, after filling and refilling my wine glass with a purple zin from the Central Coast, sat on the couch next to me. He put his head down, lowered his voice, and then asked, "How are things at the paper?'
The tone of voice was one people use when they know there has been a death in the family or a fatal illness.
Then he looked at me like I had chocolate on my face.
He could have substituted "I heard your cat died." "I was sorry to hear your house burned down." "I understand you have
AIDS, valley fever and shingles."
It is an odd position in which to be. Both for the interrogator and interrogated. No one is quite sure how to act.
I know what it is to offer sympathy. For more than 25 years, I have been writing about coaches who have lost championships, parents who have lost children and people who have lost their sense of humor. No one can speak in hushed tones better than I can. I can make an undertaker sound like a circus barker.
Now, I have turned into the patient, the widower or maybe the prisoner on his final walk to the electric chair.
"Would you like mashed potatoes with your last meal? Is there anybody you'd like to call?
"I've been reading newspapers all my life," he said. "I don't know what it would be like not to read one."
Holy moly. This project is shovel ready. He's about to sprinkle holy water on me and release the white doves.
"The paper has gotten so thin," he said. "It's as light as a feather."
Even before the downturn, I advocated placing a rock in the paper so it would sail farther when thrown by the paper carriers. It's not like we don't have rocks. Just ask someone who lives in east Bakersfield who wants to put in a fence.
I wondered what I should say as I was being administered the last rites. It's like the nurse who tells you you have a brain tumor the size of a Halloween pumpkin and she bursts into tears. You feel as if you should console her.
"Please, don't cry. Everything is going to be OK. Only two reporters jumped off the roof last week. That's down from six the week before when three jumped and three were tossed."
The host leaned forward, refilled my glass which I was now swigging furiously and gave me the look.
It's the "what will you do if you couldn't do what you were doing" look.
What skills do you possibly have?
Skills? There are plenty of things I am good at.
I can't tell you all of them because I don't want my phone ringing off the hook with offers.
People in the newspaper business are not the only ones getting the dead-man-walking look. I've been giving it to my friends who are in equally precarious professions.
Banks, TV stations, radio, magazines, car dealerships -- you name it, most of us have friends who are in the career ICU.
I visited the post office recently. I still like mailing letters, buying stamps, watching the old guys with their small keys pulling checks from their P.O. boxes. It's as comforting to me as reading a newspaper is to other people.
The clerks at the post office have that scared, distant look in their eyes. They are trying to figure out how they can turn themselves into an e-mail and get paid for it.
"What will you possibly do?" I think.
"You'll probably never get another job," they think.
Meanwhile, good news is everywhere. The economy is coming back. If it stalls, the cabbage in my winter garden is starting to grow.
These are Herb Benham's opinions and not necessarily those of The Californian. You can contact Herb at hbenham@ bakersfield.com or at 395-7279.
