Recently I came across an ad in my university’s newspaper that read, “WRITER WANTED.”
I was determined to get the job. Since a very young age I’ve dreamt of becoming a world-class journalist, and I saw this opportunity as the perfect springboard to launch my journalistic career.
All I needed was my first scoop.
First, I figured I should dress for the part. How does that old adage go? “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.”
I stopped in nearly every store in the mall, but none of them carried those hats with the press card in the front. When I asked the young woman at Old Navy if she knew of a place that might sell those hats, she suggested I try the costume store.
“Costume store!?”
Angrily, I threw the remaining contents of my Cherry-Berry Slushee I purchased from the food court into her face. “I’m a journalist, not some kid playing dress-up!” I shouted as I ran out of the store, narrowly dodging security guards trying to apprehend me as I fled.
Unable to find proper journalistic attire at the mall from which I am now banned, I was forced to improvise. I rummaged through a local thrift store and found an old fedora that I retrofitted with my own homemade press card. They also had a rather fetching tan trench coat that fit me perfectly!
I slipped them both on. Now I was ready.
First up – Sports.
I didn’t feel like driving all the way to my college campus to cover a baseball game, especially when there’s a perfectly good Little League field around the corner from my house. I arrived at the field and marched right into the dugout to interview some players, and was immediately told to “get the hell out now” by their coach.
Watching from the stands, I took copious notes, occasionally running up to the chain-link fence with my notebook to interview the players taking practice swings in the on-deck circle.
“Billy! Billy! Is there any truth to the rumors that you were taken out of last week’s game in the second inning because you had diarrhea and accidentally pooped your pants?” (I had a pretty good source on this – Billy’s 8-year-old brother Joshua, who also made allegations that Billy was a “fart licker.”)
Billy declined to comment, and began to cry. Billy’s father called the police.
“Aren’t you too big to be playing detective?” asked the officer when he arrived.
“I’m not a detective,” I answered snidely. “I’m a journalist.”
“Whatever. Just stay away from the baseball fields.”
Next up – Politics. Unable to schedule an interview with the Student Body President, I decided to hide behind a bush outside his last class and follow him home.
“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked me when he answered his front door.
“I’m a journalist.”
“You look like a detective.”
“I’m not a detective!” I shouted, growing very impatient of this whole journalist/detective confusion. “Now come on! Tell me what kind of scandals you’re involved in!”
“Look man, I don’t know how you found my house, but you need to leave right now or I’m calling the cops.”
He slammed the door in my face. I decided to stay and pound on his door until he admitted to being involved in at least one scandal. The cops arrived a few moments later to escort me away.
Last stop – Film Criticism.
I purchased my ticket online for the 7:30 showing of that week’s hot new release. Unfortunately, I was late arriving to the theater and the young man behind the counter refused to do an exchange because tickets purchased online were “non-refundable.”
Naturally I was enraged, and after that things got a little hazy, so I can’t tell you exactly who threw the first punch, but a fight certainly did ensue. I vaguely recall being pulled off the young man by a security guard and screaming “It’s OK! I’m with the press!” at the top of my lungs.
Again, I was driven away by police.
Finally, a few days later, after all these tribulations, my big day came… The first time I got to see my name in print!
Unfortunately, the article was not written by me and the headline read “Man dressed as detective assaults movie theater employee.”
But that still counts though, right?