The Hot-Cop (Part 2)

Articles

Chris Falcon

The Hot-Cop (Part 2)
Sept 29, 2003

It's dark in the newsroom and I am alone.

I am listening to the radio and eating ziti from a nearby Italian place with killer food.

I look at the desks around me and can't help but laugh at the personalities you can surmise. The extremely messy desks..which are in the majority here...can be such give aways. My desk is clean..but there's a hidden twist..it is only clean because my editor so likes neatness. In my heart, I am a messy desk person too.

But oh, wait...there is the buzzer. A woman in a blue sweat suit and pony tale and a young child in jeans and a gray hooded sweat shirt...with a sideways baseball cap... wishing to come into the building. Policy is not to let them into the newsroom. But no one else is in..all the other departments are closed...But I don't have the heart to leave them out there in the driving rain.

Buzz. Click. The elevator's polite ding lets me know they are on their way in to see me on my floor.

Only thing is...I am a reporter. Just sitting in the newsroom eating popcorn and drinking Pepsi and trying to catch up with articles soon due.

The mother and son want something to do with ads....or what is it? A memorium? Oh...they would like to place something nice in the paper...about a man...Oh..for her husband..who died a year ago...the little boy's father.

I see.

I tell her the news gently. Very.

Writers have nothing to do with memoriums, adds...paid death notices...

There is a purposely kept figurative wall between the areas of a newspaper that earn money..and the writers.

It's best we know nothing about each other. We'r taught in school not to wonder where the money comes from..to keep us neutral.

For if we, writers, knew where the money came from..it would perhaps influence us.

But shoot..this is not what she would like to hear right now. I see that.

I allow her to tell me about her husband. The man who she says is a hero because he did dishes. Who said 'I love you' often. The man who dared to kiss his 6 year old right on top ofthe boy's head smack in public. The man who openly cried when their three year old niece almost died from pneumonia years before.

Artie, was his name, she said.

The little boy, Todd..told me no daddy was ever better. He said it smiling right into my eyes.

As I sat in the newsroom, listening to Todd tell me more and more about his dad..his last words...the things they did together...the games, the jokes, the good days, the bad days...I am so glad I had mercy on a woman and little boy I could see shivering in the rain through the company's closed circuit camera.

I am glad I took time away from my writing to hear what they had to say.

I am amazed at the innocence with which they tell me these things..assuming I will care.

And ya know what?

I am so glad I do care.

Can't explain it exactly.

But it warms me that they think Artie worthy to be talked of to a stranger at a city newspaper.

They feel sure I will see how wonderful he was.

And I do.

But I see how wonderful they are too.

And I go back to my writing...after they leave...warmed by a little boy's smile. Warmed by a woman who continues to want to tell the story of her love....the story of a man who was a good dad.

It's not a problem, a complaint, an uncovering, a story exposed....But it's the real stuff of life.

And honestly, it's news because it is so rare.

A family lost a dad, reamining forever boasting how wonderful it was.

Some people never have a big love, or a great dad, for ten minutes...never mind for years, they said.

I find myself mulling this over throughout the day.

The negative part of their story was completely missing.

And I think they are all the better for it.

I am glad they came on this particular day at this particular time..when no one else was around...so I can continue mulling over the difference in the attitude they have and the attitude the rest of us have.

Well...I need to get back to work in the newsroom...talk to you tomorrow.

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About the author: Chrissa Falcon is a newspaper reporter in the New York Metropolitan Area. Chrissa may be reached at ChrisFalconColumn@hotmail.com

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