< Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
Locket # 5
Straight from secondary school, August holidays, I joined the staff of one of
our newspapers; my dream was to become a correspondent. Mr. Mulch, an
editor there, told me first off the newspaper didn't have money to hire and
send people anywhere as "correspondents". I had to lower my ceiling beams.
My school teacher uncle had sent me to him ̶ he called him "Mulchie", like
they were old school friends ̶ with the recommendation 'the boy is good at
English Composition'.
Usually they didn't take on people with no qualifications, Mr. Mulch said,
but that was alright; look how far he'd reach and he didn't have paper
qualifications either. He laughed as if that was supposed to be a joke just
between us.
He assured me if I worked hard, build up some experience, show good news
writing skills, who knows, "things" could work out.
Later I could go to a college, get newspaper word training; then I could start
thinking of travel to "far flung" places; investigating and reporting back to his
readers who lived mostly in the city; and who these days can't seem to find
time (or some outhouse use, like back in the days?) for newspaper.
I didn't last long. I gave up after three weeks. Mr. Mulch was a fellow who
sat at his desk with a view of the street and goodmorning sunlight presiding
over columns; the only man I know with suspenders holding up his trousers.
He was difficult to please.
For instance, after one report I wrote about a woman found strangled and
possibly assaulted in a bushy area, he accused me of being a skinny fellow
writing a skinny report. he wanted more "fat" in the writing. With the strangler
still at large in the country and the police in some form of pursuit, I should
fix up reports so readers get "the play by play". And don't mention race, the
victim's name is sufficient.
Where was the strangled woman going when she left the house? how she meet
the man? were they strangers or lovers? her clothes in disarray like she put
up a struggle? This could be the crime of the year! Get "proactive" with the
reader; build up, build up to the dastardly act.
I have to say this: I don't know in which Oxford or Cambridge drawer he does
keep "dastardly" and "far-flung"'; also "cognisant of". Some words and phrases
show up like regular workers in the columns, acting all sophisticated; doing
dress-up sentence service, along with adjectives that halt you at every turn
wanting admiration or salute. Is true what they say: some folk have self worth
bells to ring; a little knowledge is a fool's big thing.
I told him I arrived at the strangle scene too late; the police had already covered
up the body. Did you talk to relatives and friends about the victim? (A statement
from a neighbour, "Everybody did warn she about he", eventually found its way in
the article; he didn't get that off my report.)
He wanted blood, "fat" and spoken fears. And he wanted a photo of the man who
found the body, standing at the spot of the "dastardly" act; looking out at the
reader with blank face, his finger pointing down at the spot in the bush where
the victim was strangled.
I told him the man might not cooperate (he probably wondering if now he in real
trouble for "pointing"); and besides, where the body was found might not be
where the actual assault took place.
He leaned back from his computer screen and caressed the nave of his neck, as if
already I was a disappointment on the job. "Readers have hot and soft spots," he
spoke slowly. "You have to reach in, rub the spot."
Next I wrote a report about a house fire. He changed it up and added this: "A
large crowd also gathered to get a glimpse of the burning building". I have
noticed this line appearing in every fire report. According to him people always
seem to "also gather to get a glimpse".
I told him that's not what I saw happening. People didn't step out their yard or
pull over on the road, gathering "to get a glimpse". If anything, they appear out
of nowhere; they prefer to "stand and stare" like they waiting for more excite-
ment, spreading flames. Always one eyewitness who know how the whole thing
started; always the children who should be in school, hanging round, just
waiting for the fire hose to spring a leak.
He laughed. "Aw man, you have a lot to learn in this business!"
As far as he was concerned, to say people "stand and stare" would give readers,
especially "morning coffee" visitors to the country, the wrong impression; as if
the general population had nothing better to do with their time. (It just so
happen a trade delegation from China was visiting that week.)
I left him right there in his stuffy, glassed-off cubicle; always reminding people
what some "far-flung" holy man said about serving with humility; or quoting
Thucydides like he was the local reincarnation of the man.
Right there ̶ with or without his cricket stump!
My uncle had advised me that at the job interview I should ask "Mulchie" about
the cricket stump. It was grabbed by a cricketer at the conclusion of some
famous cricket match vs. England. It somehow found its way into Mr. Mulch
office; he kept it there like a conversation piece, an object of historical
importance he preferred instead of a wall painting.
Every time I went in his office I would sneak a peek, looking for this cricket
stump. Couldn't locate it anywhere; couldn't even locate a cricket stump bail
which might have worked better, come to think of it; like a paperweight on
the desk? so you couldn't help noticing?
I asked him if he'd read "A House For Mr. Biswas". V.S. Naipaul? He said he'd
heard the name but the man was not from our country; and in any case
reading fiction was "outside his remit".
Since I had failed miserably as reporter of fires and death by strangulation, he
said maybe I should try something "less complicated", like covering sports.
I would observe young men in flashy whites with fancy bowling action and Test
Match travel dreams; hoping like flash in pan to catch a selector's eye. I was also
to collect end of day scores; identify and separate rising talent from fellows
considered still "not ready"; and disgruntled for the rest of their young lives.
So let him stay right there! (he probably know how his bread is plaited.)
I am happy to report that a really really fat lady has set up a vendor spot under
the tree shade across the road from his window view; selling cooked food, cane
juice and pastries to company employees at lunch time. Wait till that enterprise,
and the supporting music box, start build up, build up.
Sounds like I ungrateful? like I need real ambition? you think I care?
The times will pass; hair does grow, hairs will fall out. Mr. Mulch will remain
there gathering the years to get a glimpse. Right down to his last breath, on his
death bed; his thick neck stiffening when he realize (only God knows what).
You watch.
D. Camoud,
Georgetown, Guyana
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 