A Dusty Tires Short Story

By Dusty Tires

Tom had gotten his first job at the town’s weekly newspaper, the Rendville Sun, only two years after graduating from high school. The meager portfolio of his high school newspaper work somehow had impressed the editor enough that she was willing to take a chance on the long-haired 20-year-old college student.

Either that, or the woman was incredibly desperate for someone to cover meetings she did not wish to cover herself, he thought to himself. That possibility became even more evident after he actually started attending meetings to cover for the newspaper.

His first assignment was to cover village council meetings, held every other Tuesday at 7 p.m. at the village council offices, a converted farmhouse. The five village council members, including the council president, as well as the mayor and the village attorney, sat behind a long table on one side of a room that had previously been both a living room and parlor. Four rows of folding metal chairs faced the long desk to allow the public to attend meetings.

Tom arrived at meetings a little early to get the agenda and to see if there was anything really important that was going to be discussed that night. Sometimes the meetings were truly boring and he struggled to find a compelling story. Other times it was easy to find topics to write about. Residents who attended to complain and issues surrounding land development always made good copy.

He learned that the local government officials he covered considered him a necessary evil. They patronized him due to his youth and inexperience, or tried to lead him to innocuous topics away from subjects they would rather not talk about. The mayor and council members were all part-time elected officials in their 40s and 50s who ran businesses or held jobs in the community.

About a month into his new job, he attended a meeting that he would always remember for what would not be reported as news.

Tom learned early on that nearly every story he covered had competition. There was always a member of a competing weekly newspaper, the Coreyville Times, at a meeting. Tonight, it was someone he had never seen before, a woman in her late 50s who looked to be in her 70s. With gray hair and deep wrinkles in her face, she looked like she had smoked cigarettes all her life, and she coughed like that was the case as well – a deep, hacking smoker’s cough.

She had coughed and hacked so much tonight that some of the council members had looked up from their business in annoyance and slight disgust. Tom also felt some disgust but sympathy for her as well. Apart from her physical features, she seemed worn, tired and dejected.

Tonight’s meeting consisted of discussions of bids for a bridge replacement project, plans for the village’s holiday parade, citizens’ complaints about speed limits on Main Street and the zoning board’s proposal for new fence height limits.

The council president spoke up after about 45 minutes into the meeting, after all old business had been discussed. “We will now go into executive session,” he said, banging his gavel on his desk.

Audience members, including the two newspaper reporters, dutifully shuffled out of the room and onto the house’s front porch. Most of the people stood chatting briefly, then went for their cars. But after 10 minutes or so, Tom and his competitor were the only ones remaining.

“You’re pretty young,” she said by way of opening a conversation. “I’m Eleanor.”

“I’ll be 21 next year,” he replied. “I’m Tom.”

She smiled and sighed. “Twenty-one. I can barely remember what that feels like.” She took out a cigarette and lit it, blowing out a stream of smoke.

“You’ll probably not appreciate me asking this,” he began. “But why do you smoke when it’s obviously affecting your health?”

She pursed her wrinkled lips before she spoke, drawing on the cigarette. It glowed in the twilight as she blew out smoke.

“You’re right. I don’t appreciate you asking me that,” she said, jabbing a bony finger at him with the hand that held her cigarette. “Now I’ll ask you a question. Is this your first time working for a newspaper?”

“Yes,” he said. “I was the editor of my high school newspaper, and I’m a journalism major at The Ohio State University. I plan to be a member of the newspaper staff there as well.”

She shook her head. “I’ve got 31 years in at five, no, six different papers,” she said. “I started at a little weekly paper near Norfolk, Virginia, back in 1948. Now I’m probably going to end my career here. Did you know that I once worked for the Washington Post as a member of the White House press corps? Of course you wouldn’t recognize my byline now.”

“The Washington Post! What stories did you cover?”

“If you asked me about any particular story I wrote about, I couldn’t tell you that I would remember it. I’ve written so many stories over the years,” she said. “I was in a ravenous pack of reporters who covered the LBJ and Nixon White Houses for about eight years in the ‘60s and ‘70s.

“It wasn’t really about the stories themselves but beating everyone else to whatever the story of the day was. It was all about Vietnam, Cambodia, the Pentagon Papers and Watergate. I thought of myself as a competent reporter who dug for good stories, asked tough questions, and both gave and expected fair treatment from my sources,” she said.

“But because I was a woman, I was rarely called upon in press conferences,” she said with a bitter smile. “Back in those days, women were a distinct minority in the press corps. I had to fight for space every single day. Finally, late in my career there, I asked a question and the White House press officer just smiled and said, ‘Next question.’”

“That must have been very humiliating,” Tom said.

“Not as humiliating as he felt about a week later when I walked up to him in a Georgetown bar, ordered a pitcher of beer, and poured every drop of it over his head,” Eleanor said, cackling. “That was fun, and almost worth it.”

“Almost worth what?”

“Getting fired by the Washington Post,” she said. “I worked for a couple other dailies in Pennsylvania after that and finally landed here. My grandkids live nearby, that’s why I’m here.”

The council president stuck his head out the door. “Oh – both of you are still here? Our executive session is over. You can come back in. All we’re going to do is adjourn,” he said.

The two went back inside and sat down.

“Honestly, I don’t know why the two of you are still here,” the council president said, shuffling papers.

“I believe you have to tell us the reason for the executive session, sir,” Eleanor said.

The man waved off the question with his gavel. “We’re about to adjourn. Do I have a second on the motion?”

Tom stood up. “Mr. Council President, I think you need to answer her question,” he said.

The entire council now glared with their full attention at the two reporters. Tom and Eleanor were both standing up now. The council president cast a glance at the village attorney sitting at the far end of the long table, who nodded and then shrugged at him slightly as he tapped a pen on the table.

“I can tell you only that it was an internal matter involving a village employee,” he said. “And I must say, you two are annoyingly persistent reporters.”

“I prefer to think of it as someone who both gives and expects fair treatment from people,” Eleanor said. “And if you don’t like that, you’d better get used to it.”

Tom grinned.

The meeting adjourned, and the two reporters went up to the council president to ask him some more questions, most of which he wouldn’t answer. Tom finally sighed and flipped his thin reporter’s notebook closed. Eleanor was still doggedly asking questions.

As they walked out the door that evening, she pulled a cigarette pack out of her purse and nodded to Tom.

“That was fun, working with you,” she said. “But it doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you beat me to a story, youngster.”

Tom chuckled and grinned. “I’ll see you at the next meeting,” he said.

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