All-Hands Meeting

As you know, it's been a harried few weeks at C-O Central. We found out that the C-O's finances are shaky as a bodybuilder's breakfast. Then Gertie Bird's brother filed suit against me, claiming he's the paper's rightful owner. As a cherry on top, the Fire Marshal is threatening to shut us down. It's all had me doubting my mettle as a publisher.

"Bernice," I said, hanging my wet trenchcoat on the office hook, "what are we gonna do?"

"Let me spell it out," said Bernice. "You're a bonehead, and you're being a bonehead."

"Don't sugar coat it," I said.

"No," she said, "you still don't get it. You're an awful publisher. That's just a fact. But you're the luckiest awful publisher."

"How so?" I said.

"When you bought the paper, did you form some kind of corporation? A holding company? A trust? Or did you pay with cash from your wallet, and shout 'start the presses?'"

"The wallet thing," I said.

"Right," said Bernice. "And that means all these loans, the building that'll cost more to demolish than the land's worth—it's all personal debt. The newspaper isn't bankrupt, you are."

"Oh," I said. "I should have thought of that."

"Yes, you should," said Bernice. "Then along comes the greatest stroke of luck any dummy ever had, and you act like someone left your cake out in the rain."

"You're saying I should sign Bertie's offer?" I said.

"Of course you should!" she shouted at me. "You found an even bigger bonehead than you are. He'll own the debt, the disaster building, everything. You'll walk away scot-free. Like, really, grab a pen before he comes to his senses."

"But if I did that," I said, "I wouldn't be a tycoon anymore."

"And the world would go on turning."

— - —

"Thank you for coming, everyone," I said to the staff assembled at the Rectangletable. "I'll get right to the point. An hour ago I met with Bertram Bird, and I signed his settlement offer. Effective at midnight, he'll be the owner of the Sunday Casual-Observer. Tomorrow's edition will be the last with my name on it. Bertie's an experienced publisher. I'm sure the paper is in good hands. All the same, I'll be sad to go. It's been an honor to helm this institution, and a pleasure working with each of you. You'll have questions, naturally, so now's the time to ask them."

A shocked silence hung over the room, held by all but Ken Bad-Mittens, who was the first with a question. "We're still getting paid, right?"

"Yes," I told the group. "Bertie's on the hook for all the obligations of the business. You can expect to be paid as usual, and you're all still employed, unless someone tells you otherwise."

"Has he guaranteed our jobs?" asked Stockyard Paul.

"I made it clear that you're all essential," I said.

"So that's a no."

"It's his newspaper," I admitted. "He's free to do what he wants."

"Couldn't you fight this?" asked Dr. Jane. "There has to be a way to stop it."

"I could try," I told her, "but the paper would be in trouble, even if I won. This is the Casual-Observer's best chance at a future."

"But, Tom," said Arnie Tackleman, "What about your dream? Being a tycoon—it's your identity. You aren't just—quitting. Are you?"

"At midnight tonight," I said the words out loud, "I will no longer be a newspaper tycoon."

"And that's that?" said Arnie.

"And that's that."

"So why are you smiling?" he asked.

"Because," I said with a wink, "I know something you don't know."

"You're not left-handed?" said Vera. "Read the room. Nobody gives a shit."

"I'm not left-handed," I said, "but that's not why I'm smiling. I got an unexpected email today, in the midst of my brooding. Max Colander's throwing in the towel. The Daily Ostrich is up for sale."

"The Daily Ostrich?" coughed Vera. "THE Daily Ostrich?"

"The paper that owned the Pulitzer for half a century?" said Stockyard Paul.

"The paper that broke the Nicklenote Scandal?" said Dr. Jane. "The 'talon that clawed down the Iron Curtain?' The Daily Ostrich—is for sale?"

"They're making inquiries," I said. "It's not the outfit it used to be. They're a once-a-week, now, and they don't have a staff to speak of. They're selling the presses and the name, and that's about it."

"Do you think—" said Vera, "—is it possible—that you might be needing a writer or two in the future?"

"If they take my offer," I said, "I might very well be looking for writers. I'd have to run a tighter ship. Do most of the writing myself. But there's a chance I'll need a byline or four. A good chance, I'd have to say."

"You're aware," said the genie, "that I can't help you out this time? You'll be on your own."

"I know," I said. "That's fine. No worries. I could use an advice columnist, though."

"You wouldn't mind?" he said. "I have a few ideas..."

"I'll beg, if I need to," I told him.

"Holy crap," said Arnie. "The Daily Ostrich!"

"Boss," said Vera, "is this happening? Are we goin' national?"