The Best Boss Ever

Just because you’re not writing doesn’t mean you’re not still a reporter. When Nick Fradiani won American Idol, his hometown of Guilford, CT., had a parade and was treated to a free concert on the Green. With a budding celebrity in our midst, I couldn’t miss the event.

The pressure’s on.

My former editor is following my blog.

After three months of silence (bliss) on his end, he dropped me an email sharing his thoughts and insights. It doesn’t sound like much, but I value his opinion. A lot. “No need to thank me. Just keep doing the blog. I enjoy reading it,” he wrote. Do you love this guy or what?

Though most reporters have love/hate relationships with editors, J is the kind of boss you want to please. He trusts you. He doesn’t hover, direct or insert his own voice into the story. He’s there if you need him, but likes when you figure things out yourself. He’s got lots of underlings, but makes you feel like you’re the only one.

At one point, The Curmudgeon pronounced J the only person in the universe that could be my boss. I agree with him.

You see, I don’t really do well with bosses. I’m the independent type (attitude problem?) so when a supervisor bosses me around, I want to run. I was fired for the first time in my life last year by a boss who took herself and product way too seriously. She wanted me to write in her voice and tore me to shreds with her vitriol. I took it (and her paltry wage) because I felt lucky to find a job at my age, but I was miserable.

She did me a favor firing me. As a friend advised, “Now you can tell your kids you were fired and it wasn’t the end of the world.”

I’m at an age where I’d rather volunteer or pound rocks than work for someone I don’t respect. I cringe when middle-age workers share horror stories of being jerked around by bosses half their age. I understand their humiliation and sense of defeat. It’s never easy being bossed around, but it gets harder with age. When one of Lyndon B. Johnson’s (yes, I’m watching the Ken Burns’ Vietnam documentary) daughters admonished him for lighting a cigarette after a 14-year break, he said, “I’ve now raised you girls. I’ve now been President. Now it’s my time!”

We all have our breaking points. Back in the Dark Ages, an editor told me she wanted me to wear a beeper. Since I was a conscientious reporter for eight-plus hours every day, I told her I’d prefer not to wear an electronic “leash.”

I balked and eventually won, but she wasn’t happy. I did my best for her, but she wrote in my yearly review that my production could be better. I refused to sign it and complained to the managing editor that I felt “unappreciated.” “Hey, now you know how I feel every day with my wife,” he said. Uh oh. How did we get on this subject?

Another editor reminded me that she was my supervisor, not my friend. I didn’t want to be her friend, but I did expect her to be cordial. She was excessively cold for our tiny newsroom, where we joked and bantered all day. We were a chain of small daily and weekly newspapers (rags?). I made $12,000 per year. One photographer joked that our piddly funeral benefits would cover a wooden casket and a case of beer.

We were there because we wanted to be, not for the money or glory. After her “friends” proclamation, I was halfway out the door. I didn’t want to work for her. There’s more to life than work. If you doubt it, consider that no one from my mother-in-law’s working years came to her funeral. Only a few of my father-in-law’s former colleagues showed up for his, a fraction of the folks I expected.

J is an entirely different animal. Blessed with an incredibly acerbic wit, he’d proffer story ideas in a wry, sarcastic tone that bordered on whining. He’d get mad and frustrated with reporters and bureau chiefs, but I never saw him lose his cool or berate anyone. He was always a gentleman.

Perhaps his best talent was coming up with offbeat story ideas. He’d scour the newspaper, including the classifieds, looking for anything that caught his eye. He’d throw a lot of them my way, pitching with the best possible spin.

Some highlights:

• A story about people paying to light virtual candles instead of going to funerals or wakes. We had no idea that this, online obits, guest books and condolences would become the standard.
• A piece about a parakeet laying eggs after looking at herself in the mirror. Yes, I agreed to write this gem. I think it may have been the last story I wrote for him.
• A story about the Dalai Lama and Richard Gere at Yale University. Gere was my major celebrity crush since “An Officer & A Gentleman.” He wore an impeccably tailored Armani suit. I covered the press conference, but my knees shook for hours.

But most importantly, J was my lifeline to my former life when I was home with my kids and thought I’d lose it. I’d call him up to ask if he had anything for me and he’d deliver. I think he realized that as much as I love my kids, I missed writing, the newsroom chatter and the adrenaline rush that comes with breaking a story.

I emailed him last year when my son went to college and I had a lot of time on my hands. “Please sir, can you spare a story?” He wrote back a few weeks later to tell me he was retired. Yikes. When did we get old enough for that?

Being the kind man he is, we went out to lunch in New Haven, CT., to catch up and plot job hunting strategies for senior citizens. Since he lives on Wooster Street in New Haven, CT., home of world-famous Pepe’s Pizza, I suggested Italian. “Anywhere but Pepe’s,” he said. “There’s no way in hell I’m standing in line for pizza.”

I told The Curmudgeon that J’s now on a blog blast. “You’ve come full circle,” he said. I guess so.