A Rough Week at C-O Central
They said the newspaper business was a tough one, and they were right.
Whoever said, "When it rains, it pours" really knew what they were talking about. Not the weather, because that's been gorgeous, with broody, foggy mornings and bright blue afternoons. They meant it metaphorically, to describe the kind of week I've had in the Publisher's desk.
First, Bernice, our office manager, asked me for a sit-down meeting, and I had a good idea what she meant to say. I sneaked out on my lunch break and got her a "Congratulations, You're Pregnant!" card. Not so, it turns out. She actually wanted to talk about the C-O's balance sheet. She occasionally, not so patiently, tries to explain to me that we can't keep a dozen writers on the payroll if we don't attempt to generate some revenue. I explained to her, with equal patience, that I already fired the whole staff once, and I'm not going to do it again.
She showed me a stack of bills, including a staggering appearance fee from Dr. Emily Doctor. (I wondered why she was so eager to join our panel, given how busy she is with her book tour.) Bernice said, like she always does, that we should think about charging for subscriptions, but that's a non-starter for me. Why should people have to pay, just to read what happened yesterday? They were alive yesterday. It's ridiculous!
I told her so. She said, okay, then we'll need to expand our business into other, more profitable industries. This, I'm quite sure, will be the way to go. I don't know which industries yet, but I have a few ideas. (I told Bernice I had a few ideas, and she said, "Boss, that frightens me more than you can imagine." I said, "Well, you must be pretty scared, then, because I can imagine anything!")
That was Tuesday. It was Thursday morning when a smug-ass lawyer came and served me with a lawsuit by the Wednesday Casual-Observer.
Some back-history: Back in the seventies, Argus Bird was a titan in the rag trade (and a big inspiration for a budding tycoon!) He owned the Adirondack Stationary Observer, and he engineered the three-way merger with the Gallup County Casualty News and the San Diego Sunday Parfait, forming the unified Sunday C-O. He died a very rich man in 1979, and left his empire to his children, Gert and Bertram. Bertie wasn't keen to run a newspaper, so he left the daily duties to his sister. Or so it was till Gertie went to print with an opinion page in which she called her brother "a skinflint loser and a gigolo, with no taste but for blueberry schnapps." After that, he demanded she buy out his share. He spent the money on a printing press, and rolled out the Wednesday Casual-Observer.
The Wednesday C-O was a worthless tabloid from the start, printing nothing but fabrications. Thankfully, readers demand the truth, and the Sunday soared while the Wednesday withered. I bought the Sunday from Gertie, and didn't give the Wednesday a second thought.
Well, Bertie Bird has noticed the resurgence of the Sunday Casual-Observer. He's suing me for "trademark infringement," seeking every dollar we've made since I bought the paper. Joke's on him. But that's not all he wants. He's demanding all the assets of the Sunday Casual-Observer—the press and the building and everything.
After an hour of pacing in my office, it occurred to me that, actually, this could be a lucky break. One of my problems can solve the other. I cranked up the PEM, and I sent Bertie a postcard as follows:
"Dear Gigolo, Gertie bought you out. I have the contract here on my desk. My counter-suit is forthcoming. Settle now, or lose your shirt!"
His response came by text message, late that afternoon. It contained no words, just a selfie—a photograph of him and Judge Benson together on the golf course.
That's all I can report for now, except that blueberry schnapps is really not so bad. The stuff is starting to grow on me.
