Episode 6: When is your last day again?

In what may be the single most inaccurate statement ever used to describe me, my baby gramma (or baby mamma's mamma, if you prefer) said the following on Saturday night.

“That surprises me, because you're so mild mannered.”
Needless to say, she has not had a lot of quality time to get to know me.

She actually said that in response to a story I told her about how I lost my shit on a customer at the bar who had been consistently pressing my buttons for 3-4 straight hours on Saturday afternoon.

Without getting in to the boring details, it essentially ended with him telling me I wasn't worth $10 and me throwing a pile of one dollar bills at him and nearly launching the cash register in to his skinny little dweeb head.

I think my short fuse is probably going to have to get a little bit longer if I am going to be taking care of an infant all day. Then again, most of the people in life who piss me off do so because they are morons, and they have the ability to convey their stupidity through words. My daughter is neither a moron, nor is she able to speak yet. I should be fine.

On that topic, I am now just two and a half short days away from what promises to be the most challenging months of my life, and the Item is doing little to make me regret my decision.

On top of the usual every day annoyances (grumpy co-workers, almost getting involved in a traffic accident at every turn because of all of the unlicensed immigrants whipping around the streets of Lynn etc... ) I am finding that my departure has become the talk of the office, which means I have to address it on a frequent basis.

Nothing irritates me more than people who talk to you because they think they have to, and for some reason that increases when something is going on in my life. It is like they feel like they should speak to me, but have nothing good to say. It is ok, I won't be offended. Move along.

“When is your last day, again?” Wednesday. You know it is fucking Wednesday. You asked me that on Friday. The answer is the same.
“Looking forward to your last day, Dan?”

In fact, the level in which I am anticipating my departure increases every time I am asked that question.

One employee (who is particularly upset that I am leaving, primarily due to her own laziness and unwillingness to take on extra work) today told me she had a dream last night that I was handcuffed to my desk because my boss didn't want me to leave.

I told her that she just described my worst nightmare. She told me that me leaving the paper was her's. Pathetic.

On the other hand, I saw two positive things at the Item today that, if I were not quitting, I would have used to get me through the week.

First, the new intern came in today, and in the place of the usual socially awkward, incompetent, nervous college nerd we usually hire, we have an attractive, slightly older, more confident female intern.

At this point, for legal reasons, I have to add this disclaimer: I am not going to try to sleep with the intern. Like most men, I am just shallow and have a greater willingness to spend time around attractive women than, say, unattractive women. Its good for office morale.

Second, I went to buy a Sprite this morning and saw this note, exactly as it is written below (quotation marks included), on the Coke machine.

“Attention Every body.
Their no regular cocacola in this Machine."
Maintenance Department.


Written, of course, in serial killer handwriting. This means one of two things. Either Johnny ran out of regular Coke (unlikely, given that literally 6 people use that machine and 4 of them only drink Diet Coke) or the machine isn't working quite right, he yelled at it for the better part of his morning, and just gave up (much more likely).

More impressive, despite all of the problems with that sign, Johnny knows how to spell "maintenance."

So, I suppose the lesson to be learned here is to look at the uplifting things in life, like cute interns and burnout janitors with bad grammar, instead of the morons who you have to talk to on a daily basis.

Man, my kid is going to learn a lot this year...

Episode 5- Slush Puppies and all you can carry iced tea

So today is my last Friday at the Item, not really a milestone moment for me, but at the same time it has been cause for some reflection on my part. To be honest, most of the reflection has been along the 'what the hell are you doing with your life' lines rather than the ' man, I'm going to miss this place,' lines, but it is reflection none the less.

For example, during my usual summer afternoon drive down Lynn Shore Drive today I noticed a man about my age excitedly running to meet a friend on the beach. His 6-pack and seemingly leisurely lifestyle (I base this only on the fact that he was at the beach at 2 p.m. on a Friday) made me question the choices I have made and briefly inspired me to start going back to to the gym. Briefly.

On a happier, less insecure note, I think one of the things that I will miss about this job, or at least the time I spend cruising around the city and not working, is the wide variety of convenience stores that I frequent, and the always entertaining antics that take place among the neighborhood clientele.

Between my addiction to Slush Puppies, love of drinks and propensity for snacks I find myself in some sort of shady neighborhood convenience store at least two or three times a day. I have a few favorites, for different reasons. For example, I go to Nina's Market when I want a Red Bull or something out of a can, because they don't charge a bottle deposit. I go tho the White Hen when I want food, because it is the cleanest and most friendly.

The place I probably frequent the most, however, is Tedechi's on Lewis Street for one reason, and one reason only. Their Slush Puppy machine is in the best condition, and that is important.

Tedechi's is centrally located on the fringe of the ghetto and Lynn's Diamond District, creating an entertaining variety of customers that range from the thuggish to the high class. As you can imagine, this makes for some wonderful confrontations.

Aside from the time I saw a 6'8 black man purchase a pack of Newports, a blunt wrap and a box of Magnums and then tell the short, fat, female Indian cashier that “that was how I roll, baby” I think the single greatest convenience store confrontation I have ever seen happened about two weeks ago, right in the heart of an August heat wave.

I arrived at Tedeschi in the afternoon just like I always do, walked in the door and took a left toward the Slush Puppy machine. Before I could grab my cup I heard the mean, grouchy Indian man who owns the store yelling at someone.

Now, whenever this happens in a place like this I get nervous because, lets face it, I'm not doing shit to defend myself or anyone else in the event of a robbery. Unless the robber's one weakness is seeing someone curl up in the fetal position.

Luckily, the store was not being held up, the Indian man was simply arguing with a customer over the price of the Lipton BRISK Iced Tea that was on sale. Perfectly normal, except the customer happened to be an adult Down Syndrome patient.

At the risk of being offensive and stereotypical, I think we have all seen a person with Down Syndrome lose their shit at one point in our lives. They yell. They get angry. They hit things. This was taking place inside the store. Now, I don't know if the Indian man understood that the gentleman had a mental retardation issue, but if he did he didn't care.

From what I could deduct from the conversation, the retarded man was under the impression that the BRISK Iced Tea was “All you can carry for 79 cents” or something like that. Because he had an armful and he only had a dollar.

Instead of maybe calmly explaining this to him, Tedeschi man is instead screaming at him and trying to kick him out of the store. The now angry customer is yelling back, like a retarded person does- loud, nonsensical, very angry and, surprisingly, very vulgar.

“Your a fucking crook!' he kept yelling, eventually slamming all the bottles of iced tea on to the floor in a kind of crazy mental explosion. This act was made more humorous by the fact that the bottles were plastic, causing them to bounce up in to one another and bounce back at the retarded man, who was then flailing his arms in a futile effort to get out of the way.

The insinuation that the Indian man was a crook also seemed particularly offensive to him, as he continued to yell louder that the accusation was inacurate.

"I am no crook! You are the crook! you try to steal!"

At a certain point, as insensitive as it was, not laughing at this incident was no longer an option, and as I paid my 95 cents for my cherry slush, I did so with a giant smile on my face.

There is no grand ending to the story. Nothing crazy happened after. In fact, I think the retarded guy eventually just left without and iced tea.

The point is that I learned two things from this story. I am going to miss something when I leave Lynn, and no matter how hard I try, I can't not laugh at angry retarded people.

Episode 4: The one where I almost expose myself to the newsroom

Ah, summer time. Hot dogs, cold beer, women in short shorts and tank tops. What's not to love? If you are a 200 lb man with a sweat problem like me, the answer to that question would be... scorching heat.

I actually like summer and I enjoy the heat as long as I have relief (Popsicles, swimming pools, window fans etc...) readily available. It is also important for me to dress appropriately in the summer time, that is, as close to naked as possible. Typically I need to wear loose fitting clothing, button down shirts or football jerseys (which are typically the cause of great ridicule) and, of course, no underwear.

Without getting too in to the gory details, underwear and hot weather do not exactly get along in my world. So, from about June to October it is a safe bet that if you see me there isn't more than one layer on me at any point. It is important to note that in no way is this part of any sort of kinky sexual desire to let the junk swing. It is just too damn hot to have a ball of cotton between your legs.

This problem is especially prevalent at work where I am required to wear at least business casual attire, which means no shorts. In the winter time I have no problem tossing on a shirt and tie, but when it is 90 degrees I once again have to take measures to prevent overheating.

Fast forward to yesterday when, as I have countless times this summer, I woke up to a ray of hot sun on my face and put on my loose-fitting, short sleeve button down shirt and my favorite pair of baggy, loose cargo pants. And nothing else.

These cargo pants are probably the most useful pants you could wear in the summer. Light and breathable, they are loose enough where I don't have to worry about the oven effect, and they occasionally provide for some ventilation if you catch a breeze in the right pocket.

I have had this particular pair of pants for several years now, and they are, admittedly, a little worn down in some areas. One of these areas, I found out, is the crotch.

I found this out rather abruptly yesterday as I was in the newsroom bathroom. Now, I knew that there was a small area on the lower crease of the zipper that was beginning to separate from the pants, but by no means could it be considered a hole, and by no means was it noticeable to anyone, so I thought I was in the clear.

I went to the bathroom and was washing my hands when I realized that, as is almost always the case, Johnny had cleaned the bathroom, but failed to replace any of the toilet paper or paper towels.

With hands still wet I located the paper towels on top of a small shelf in the corner of the former storage closet-turned bathroom. Apparently, as I reached over to grab the roll of towels, the small separation in the seam of my zipper caught the end of the shelf, or perhaps some sort of screw.

Needless to say, the hole went from a small separation to a full out rip, all the way up the side of the crease to the top of the pants. At risk of being too graphic, my balls were hanging out. I am being paid back for my no underwear cockiness. My worst fears have been realized.

One of the things I would like to teach my daughter is that in times of crisis it is important not to panic. So, I took my own advice and started looking around for resourceful tools that I could use to repair the pants.

I found paper towels, soap, two dusty neck ties and a nickel. I am not Macguiver but I had to make it work. I took a long piece of the brown, industrial strength paper towels and stuffed them inside the pants, lining the hole in an attempt to at least shield my balls. Luckily, the shirt I was wearing was long enough to cover the top of the hole. A good temporary fix, but I needed a new pair of pants. Stat.

My first thought was to drive home, but in the afternoon, knowing I had to leave by 4 to get to my other job, I didn't have time to go and come back, so I decided to go to Target and see if I could replace the pants.

I slipped out of the bathroom and hustled through the advertising department, making eye contact with no one and slouching over so no one could see the front of my pants. I slipped out the back door, avoided Johnny and got in the car.

Now, I knew exposing myself at work was one thing, but exposing myself in Target is even worse, so I started to look around the car for a solution. A quick survey turned up an apron from waiting tables, two paper clips, and more neck ties.

I can't imagine what people thought when I walked in to Target wearing a dirty, black waiter apron over a pair of cargo pants and partially covered by a striped button down shirt, but whatever they were thinking wasn't as bad as them seeing my balls.

With apron on I found and purchased a brown pair of Wrangler cargo pants, broke the “no merchandise in the bathroom rule” and put them on. No one ever saw my balls. Success!

Did I learn a lesson from this experience? Not really. But at least I know my new cargo pants won't wear out until at least next summer.

Episode 3- The Ballad of Johnny Bessom

Ever since “The Office” took off in popularity just about anyone who has a job in a somewhat corporate environment thinks that there should be a camera crew and a confession room in their business, because “everyone here is crazy,” or “no one would believe this shit.”

The Item is no different, and I would challenge anyone to come up with a more fucked up place than this.

Without ever making it in to the building you can see zombies and crack heads and freaks wandering through Central Square. Once a week someone who has been arrested will start screaming at our building, yes, just at the building, for putting them in the paper's arrest log. Other times, you get to see people having sex on the elevated train platform.

Once in the office there are a wide variety of crazy characters, from the guy in Ad's named Fred who makes his own neck ties to a man named Ralph who has worked in our graphics department for about 130 years and whose house I would liken to one of those featured on A & E's “Hoarders.”

But without a doubt the single craziest, most unstable person I have ever met in my life is our maintenance man, Johnny Bessom.

Just a few weeks removed from his 58th birthday, theories on Johnny range from “he is just a little slow” to “he did waaaay too much acid in the 70's.” My theory? A little bit of both.

A loud talker with slurred speech and a stutter, understanding Johnny is a difficult task made even more difficult by the fact that most of the shit that spews from his mouth makes zero sense. For example, this is an actual conversation I had with Johnny this morning.

Me: Whats up Johnny.

J: Whats up? I'll tell you whats up, the temperature. Chew on that!

Me: Alright, yeah, its a nice one out there.

J: Yeah, well pretty ssss—oossss--ooon itttttllllll be snow.

Me: Aw, why are you so pessimistic, Johnny?

J: Not bad, D-D-D-D-an, Its only Thursday though.

WHAT????

Perhaps my favorite Johnny Bessom moments are the ones where I actually get to witness him do his job, because it is incredible. Keep in mind that Johnny is actually so incompetent that they hired a real maintenance man named George to do most of the real work, but for some reason they keep Johnny around to empty the trash and clean the bathrooms. Probably because George won't do it.

From the paper towel dispenser to the recycle bin, you can routinely hear Johnny fighting with inanimate objects throughout the day, but perhaps his fiercest rival is the Coke machine. He has been battling with this evil dispenser for at least a decade, and he gets his ass handed to him every time.

Johnny's only responsibility with the machine is to re-fill it with back-stock if we run out of something before the Coke guy comes back. Apparently, this is a difficult assignment.

Again, an actual conversation with Johnny.

J: Ahhhh fuck you you big dummy.

Me: Whats up Johnny, fighting with the Coke machine again?

J: Ahhhh! yeah, you just keep goin, pal, you'll be all right

Me: But I wanted to get a Sprite, is it broken?

J: Yeah its br-br-br-oke! You t-th-th-ink I llllike yelling at this for nothing?

Me: Well, I hope it listens, I'm thirsty.

J: You'll be alright, just get out of here!

Another entertaining time is when Johnny changes light bulbs. Afraid of heights, it used to be difficult to get him on a ladder at all, but lately he has gotten brave. Probably since the newsroom was entirely dark for like 3 months.

Now that he will climb up on the 3 foot step ladder, we have the pleasure of seeing and hearing him yell at the fluorescent lights. Johnny's success rate with the lights is less than average, I would say about six of the 22 bulbs he has changed actually work, but I am pretty sure that is because he isn't sure which bulbs he has changed already and keeps replacing old bulbs with ones that he just took out of another non-working fixture.

Because the lights don't actually work, about once every two weeks Johnny will come back out in to the newsroom and try again. It is a vicious cycle. He can't figure out whey the lights keep burning out, never realizing that they weren't actually on in the first place. It would be frustrating if it weren't so entertaining.

For all of Johnny's flaws, he is beloved here at the Item. At least that's what I found out a few weeks ago when the entire company decided to celebrate his birthday. As is the case in most offices, birthdays warrant, at best, cupcakes and maybe a pizza party. Not Johnny.

On the day of Johnny's birthday I was asked to sign the obligatory office Happy Birthday card, filled with a lot of “Happy Birthday John!” and “Have fun, old man.” I wrote, “Stay crazy, Johnny.”

This comes from another conversation Mr. Bessom and I had a few months ago before his vacation.

Me: What are you doing with your week off?

J: Ahhhh I aint goin no where. 'Cept maybe crazy!!!!

Me: Yeah, I heard you bought a condo in Crazy Town

J: Yah, you come visit.

Me: Couldn't pay me.

Anyway, after I signed the card, Make My Own Ties Fred came in and told us there was a small surprise for Johnny waiting downstairs. We filled in the first floor conference room to witness in horror and surprise as Johnny was presented with a brand new Fender guitar, valued at $500. (Which we were later all asked to pitch in for).

Once the dust settled, the confusion as to why Johnny got a GUITAR from the company set in. This is the confusion you could see on my face in the picture of him pretending to play the guitar that ended up in the newspaper the next day. That was my mistake standing next to him at the party.

So, I haven't seen every episode, but I am pretty sure Michael Scott never bought a $500 guitar for his half-retarded custodian, but then again, he probably never had anyone like Johnny on his hands.

More JB stories to follow...

Episode 2- Beet soup

Over the past two and a half years here at the newspaper I have covered just about everything you can imagine, from corpses and fires to School Committee meetings, rat infestations and science fairs. Since I have been working as education reporter, the general excitement of the stories I cover has been scaled back- drastically.
Along with the eternally boring tasks of trying to follow education industry trends, combing through city and state budgets and following the movement of administrators, much of my job is devoted to essentially glorifying everyday things that children do.

Since the particular paper I work for is in Lynn, many of the students I deal with are "underprivileged" Which is PC for poor, immigrant or misbehaved. Because this is the case, people in this city appear to be especially excited when these children do every day things in school like, say, have a science fair, or put on a play. I routinely receive messages from parents bragging that their kid did this or did that, and I would say 95 percent of the time it is pure, unadulterated crap.

Now, if I get a message or a request I can typically ignore it, but sometimes you are tricked. Sometimes you get suckered in y a hook you can't avoid and then BAM! Immigrant kids showing you their art work and you can't escape.

Welcome to my Thursday.

Since it is August, when the news is typically slow, and I am usually fairly lazy and unmotivated as it is, I am always looking for what we call in the business "easy hits." That is stories that write themselves, or press releases you can re-write and add a quote to. Not exactly investigative journalism.

Today I thought I had the perfect hit. Congressman John Tierney was in town to visit one of the schools in the city that has managed to put together a viable, rather impressive working farm on top of some concrete abutting the school.

I have been to these things a million times. Politician shows up, gets a tour, talks to a kid, snaps a photo, says something nice and bounces. Easy hit.

Not today.

I arrived at the Robert L. Ford Elementary School, which would be in the heart of the ghetto if, in fact, the ghetto had a heart, to find a multicultural band of children doing some farm work and a few onlookers. Pretty standard stuff.

Until I turned the corner and realized that it was going to be a long afternoon.

Set up in front of about two-dozen folding chairs, already half-filled with parents from the neighborhood, was a stand, where an old woman was cooking food from the garden in a cooking-show type style. Now, if this were the only addition to the program, I could have handled it. But it wasn't.

After greeting a few people I knew in attendance a small Hispanic boy ran up to me and handed me a program. Yes. A program. Never a good sign.

Before I had a chance to glance down at the agenda for the afternoon, I saw the Congressman arrive. Dressed like the president on vacation. Almost a suit, but no jacket and no tie. Also not a good sign, because that means he doesn't have anywhere important to be and will not be doing the 15-minute baby kissing appearance.

Still without looking at my program the event began as I stood, unshaven, dressed in cargo pants and sneakers, next to the unimpressed Congressman.

First up, the after school program will put on its new dance routine. Fuck.

As Michael Jackson's "Bad" started blaring from a boom box and the multi-cultural band of children began erratically dancing like they were standing on hot coals I took my first glance at the program and my worst fears were realized. This dance performance is far from the only mediocre childhood act I would have to witness today.

The next 90 minutes of mine, and the increasingly less interested Congressman's life were filled with nonsensical skits, awful singing and dancing performances and the ever-popular slam poetry. Which is bad enough coming from adults, let alone fourth graders.

Finally, after a solo Stevie Wonder performance by some kid who looked like he was waaaaaay to old to be in elementary school, the Congressman was able to make his speech. He was gracious. He said he loved the art. He said he loved Lynn. I know he was lying. And if he wasn't, he is a better man than I.

As every good reporter does, I waited until he uttered his last word, scribbled his comments down in my notebook and tried to take off before anything else happened. But my plan was thwarted. Thwarted by the very man I had just heard speak.

"Hey Dan, can I just add something to the story? I want to thank so and so and so and so."

"Sure." I said. I took his comments down and was ready to go when, for the first time ever, having met and interviewed this man probably 80 times, John Tierney decided he wanted to shoot the shit. Really?

The conversation we had was cordial, and centered, surprisingly, around a mutual hatred of beets. In fact, the usually drab politician humored me so much I was about to leave my own personal hell with a smile on my face when the little Hispanic kid who gave me the programs came back. This time he had a tray of food.

"Mr. Congressman, would you and your friend (me) like some beet soup?"

Fuck. How the hell do you say no to an underprivileged Hispanic 8-year-old? Damn kid probably spent all day making that beet soup.

I let the Congressman take the first sip, but quickly realized he was waiting for me to do the same.

"I'm going to treat this like I did when I was in China and they made me eat the 700-year-old egg," he said, Taking a sip.

Well. I've never been to China, but I figured, what the hell. My face could not hide the disgust as I struggled to get down the first sip. All I could do was smile, turn away and throw my bowl in the trash. Sorry, Kid.

Episode 1. How I know it is time to quit.

We are T-minus two weeks away from the inglorious end of the Dan Baer era at the Daily Item of Lynn, or the Lynn Item, or the Lynn Daily Evening Item, or whatever the hell this place is called. I have been here two and a half years and I still don't know.
Over the previous two weeks since I initially put in my notice I have been battling with the magnitude of what I am actually doing. At 25-years-old, in the worst economy I have ever been aware enough to experience, I am quitting a fairly secure, full-time day job that I had to spend four years in a college classroom to obtain. All so I can save $280 a week on day care and give my 6-month-old daughter the pleasure of spending the next nine months being raised by the parenting equivalent of a mediocre back up quarterback.

Trial by fire will not even begin to describe it.

I have run over the reasons in my head a million times. “It will be cheaper than paying for daycare.” “You don't want a stranger to watch your kid.” “This could be a life-changing experience.” All true. But when it really comes down to it, the one thing that always convinced me it was the right thing to do had nothing to do with my daughter at all. It all just simply comes back to the fact that I simply and very honestly hate this fucking job. I don't hate it in the way I would think a garbage man hates picking up trash or a 14-year-old bus boy hates being covered in dish water. No, it is more like a villainous house wife hatred. Like the kind that has been married to the same man for 27 years, but wants nothing more than to brutally murder him and fuck the pool boy silly. I hate every second I spend here and resent it for so many reasons, but I have never had the balls to kill it for the insurance money. And there is no pool boy.

Alright. I could have come up with something better than that. Give me a break. Its post number one, folks.

Anyway, as I realized this morning that I have little more than a few hundred dollars (probably already spent) to my name and the reality that I will have to actually support myself and my family on money I make bar tending and waiting tables at a family-oriented, tourist infested brewery set in, I sat in the parking lot of Nina's Market in Lynn, staring at my Mega Millions Quick Pick and asking whatever higher power has an open line for some sign that I am doing the right thing.
Thoroughly expecting nothing from the available deity who took my request I had been going about my un fulfilling day as usual when I came across the following sentence.

“This is life at the city's charter school, where discipline, character development and motivation take a front seat in the learning process.”

This sentence is part of a lede I wrote just over a year ago, when I was a slightly less cynical, somewhat enthusiastic reporter entering my second school year covering education for Lynn.
There is nothing special about this sentence on the surface, but if you look deeper you will see the sign.
I found this sentence while looking back through old articles I have written about the city charter school, in an effort to write this year's “the charter school is so much more disciplined than public schools because they start 3-weeks early” story without having to leave my desk.
I re-read the lede, specifically this sentence and my legitimate first reaction was to look at the byline and see who wrote it, because not only do I not remember writing that line, I couldn't even picture myself using the phrase “take a front seat to” in any circumstance.
I clicked over to the next tab and read my lede for this year's story- “The KIPP Academy Lynn Charter School welcomed its 310-student populous back to campus Tuesday, officially kicking off the school's sixth year..."- and I knew it was time to hang it up.

Over the next two weeks we will experience the end of my Daily Item era, and over the next nine months we can all watch as I hopefully don't screw up my child for the rest of her life. Enjoy kids.