The Traveler

The Traveler

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Joe was a dying breed. He knew it; his friends at the clubhouse knew it, and to drive his ego and masculinity further into the gutter, his wife would remind him of it after he received the divorce papers. He was a writer for a newspaper, The New York Times, to be exact. It was a beautiful Monday, but Joe didn't know it. At age forty-five, he was too young to appreciate the warmth that had finally arrived and too old to ignore his need to outperform and keep his job. Joe looked up at his five-story glass office building looming before him. This was his destination, and he found himself among many in the images. He was part of the workers marching onward, all reflected in the side of the building. They all have stern, weary looks, hoping to stand out someday and be known. Not as one of those they see here that eventually blend into nothing.

Each Monday, he enters the cubicle, his work station they like to call it, and, just like today, grabs his cup of coffee, scans the office, observes the heads bobbing in their habitat, like a minnow in a puddle, and finds the one or two that break the cycle. He sees the bald, the slick-backed, the corn-rolled, and the buzz cut. And then a den without a head, another casualty of the newspaper industry, the one who once found a job they were praying for, not one they fell into. Once again, Joe made it for another week; the weeding out is always on a Friday. His expertise is travel writing, an area considered non-essential for the deep and elitist news addicts, who consume the day's events like ice cream at a child's party. The other writers were always jealous of him, his paid travels, which they called vacations, and the lack of importance attached to his work, so he got zero negative feedback from the readers. He is the managing editor, and with a staff of two, he must get his story out for the travel section on Sunday. For Joe, it is work, and zero time is spent surfing or fishing to enjoy beating someone's record fish size or backpacking in extreme conditions. Tom, the writer in the next cubicle, finds time to find ways to make Joe feel guilty. One time, telling him," While everyone was working on stories surrounding the wildfires in California, you'll be soaking up some sun in Thailand. Just another case where he will never get the respect he thought he deserved.

As Joe approached the room where the call for order was shouted out, the voices sang out from down the hall, getting louder and louder. However, it took several of these to get any results. It was a rambunctious start to the week and their Monday briefing. When Joe walked in, all eyes fell on him, and he kept his head down like a refugee in a line-up. Joe found his seat around the round table. The knights were assembled. The Monday morning ritual has begun. Seated around him were all the reporters, writers, and editors. Nobody was smiling. Joe knew that what he was expecting would soon be borne out.

The publisher, John Snider, told everyone that the printing operation was shutting down. There was no audible gasp, screaming for explanations, or crying. It was rumored for a couple of weeks. One writer for the business section took a phone call; another appeared to be cleaning out her purse, pulling out wadded Kleenex and gum wrappers; panic was nonexistent except for Joe. His life in the newspaper industry was endangered. John soon worked the table, going around to each and explaining how their work would be impacted, as many of the changes would be related to operations. Fred, a sports writer, was told that he would find that his work interviewing coaches and players would be cut. Next, John was looking at Joe for his final impact target. Joe and John locked eyes as John was told that the travel section was going away—no real explanation. But he will get the last article about spring break travel destinations. The ones that attract the most interest. John wanted an exposé on Miami Beach. The meeting ended, and he slowly strolled back to his cubicle amid many sad condolences. He could read many faces and see the relief and the "thank god it wasn't me" expression on some. Julie occupied his desk, working away, unencumbered by the changes. She was also going to be affected.

One of his assistants, Julie, smiles while handing him his tickets. She is blonde, middle-aged, and married. Something that Joe has to remind himself of each day. Joe is divorced, in his forties, and a little overweight. His travel allows some walking, so he leads a life that is not just sitting in a chair and in front of a computer. He gets to go to places that interest him, including restaurants and bars. Many of these late-night scenarios for Joe include thoughts of Julie sitting with him at a bar, looking out on the streets of some exotic city, while people of all sizes and colors walk down narrow stone streets or sandy beaches. Their faces never convey the richness and beauty of where they live; most are just trying to survive the next day. Most are lonely and wish the loud, obnoxious tourists would disappear. He was paid to write about the excitement of scenes worldwide, but this is what he sees the most.

"Well, your new assignment will keep you on your toes with all those young people on spring break. Remember what you are there for," Julie said as she skimmed the letter he had pulled from the envelope. Julie then trekked back to her cubicle.

Joe soon received a text from Julie: "Let's meet after work at the pub. It looks like some changes are in store for me soon."

Joe knew she would also be let go, but would find something else soon. "Okay, see you there at 5:00."

When they met for a drink, she had already sent the "I quit letter" to the editor-in-chief's desk. They knew it was their last time together in this dingy bar. Joe thought about how Julie always knew how to make his column stand out, and she was free to rewrite; she could add, remove, and edit anything he sent in from his work on the road. Without her, nothing would have been on time or had any consequences. Julie was Joe's only way to keep his stories alive and motivating for the readers. He thinks of her when the day's pictures, notes, and observations are relayed to her, and she sits and looks it over on the large desk that divides their work areas. She somehow puts it all together with Joe's writing in a format the readers can understand.

The next day, Joe sat on the plane, ready for takeoff. He looked over the smoky city skyline through his window. He thought of the many years working on the paper, the deadlines, and the editors forcing the stories to be rewritten, usually obtaining the opposite effect of what he wanted. In doing what was asked, he suffered the most. Giving up what he considered his ability to keep the writing of some sensitive cultures accurate, he sometimes had to appease the editors and still maintain his peers' respect as an expert in this field. A tough tightrope to balance. Soon, his thoughts became focused on a different scenario. Soon, he found his thoughts on getting this last story out less urgent, and soon, Joe began having ideas about going on a real vacation. The next and final travel story be damned. Give the readers his story instead.

After he landed in Miami, he texted and told Julie to enjoy the next week without the stress of preparing for the final column; there won't be one coming. He found his hotel room, changed into his swimming trunks, and soon hit the beach. His white skin would soon darken, and he would find his towel and drinks nearby. Julie was right; just observing all the people, the spring breakers, the retirees, and the fun in the sun crowd was perfect for a person trained to observe. He can now watch and forget. He relished scrutinizing the young people enjoying themselves and enjoying the sun's warmth, falling asleep without the pain of knowing that his job was waiting in his hotel room. When the week ended, Joe experienced what he had always observed others doing and never really understood the occasion's significance; now he does.

Joe boarded the plane to go back feeling different. He was now a new man, rested and well-fed. He planned to find a new job and probably move, finding a more serene lifestyle; he texted Julie about everything he did in Miami, including meeting many friendly people. He would see her first before telling John there would be no story to follow and that he would be leaving that day.

The best part about finally getting out of the paper business was not feeling like his work was meaningless; he had everything he could use for the book he would soon write. Wonderful memories, along with written notes and photos, were still in his possession. He was putting this in the text to Julie. What he wanted to put in his final story was not something about a country he had visited, but a column that was just his story. The story lets the reader know who was behind that tale of an ancient religious temple in the middle of a jungle or the ruins of an ancient Indian tribe hidden in caves on the side of a Mesa. The person who forced you out of the office and into an adventure. A column about him. Then, while typing this, an elderly woman quickly maneuvered around the man sitting in the aisle seat, breathing heavily, and sat beside him, the dreaded middle seat.

She was gray and wrinkled, but had a real spirit and high energy based on her work getting to that seat. Soon, she started talking, and, as expected, her life's story was being told to me, and I was a captive audience. This was Joe's Achilles heel. People saw him as a listener, which was correct. You had to be a superb listener to write stories for a paper.

Her name was Betty, and Joe could tell she needed someone to talk to. He was happy that he had gotten plenty of sleep last night. Their conversation was paused as the flight attendant went through the pre-take-off routine, but Betty began anew once the Jet leveled off and the cruising altitude was met.

Her husband had cancer, so they decided to live it up by experiencing all forms of travel. They had the money and didn't want to leave it for the kids, so they spent it. She said this without emotion, Betty and Joe sitting together, tightly fitted in their economy seats, with little wiggle room for face-to-face conversations. But sometimes that is best. Joe felt a strain in her voice when she said this; her face would probably say more.

She then discussed the children and her disappointment with the two boys, who seemed to avoid them, hardly ever visited, and were never around when Bill, her husband, 's health declined. However, Betty found it hard to blame them for anything, as their lives were so busy.

" Well, we just couldn't stay in our apartment and not do anything. My husband would have died much earlier if we hadn't," She said in a raspy voice.

"What was one of your favorite destinations?"

"We loved them all," she said.

"I've talked a lot already. What do you do for a living?" She asked.

" I travel and write stories based on this travel for a newspaper," he said

"Oh, wow, that sounds like you are living an exciting life. I can imagine, however, that it would get a little old after all that work dealing with all of us tourists," she said.

"You get used to it after a while, find ways to avoid all the pitfalls ahead of you, and experience helps make everything work. You know if a problem is ahead of you before you come upon it. You know because you know and respect the culture of the country you are in."

"Bill and I know what you mean; we never traveled anywhere before we read the travel section of the New York Times. Bill could hardly wait until he read the article from Joe Madison. He loved the pictures and the in-depth writing because he taught us what to expect when we arrived. We ended up going to every location that he found to write on. I believe he inspired Bill to travel and added years to his life.

Joe sat face forward, revealing his shocked look and an overwhelming sense of joy, something he hadn't felt in many years—a sense that his work on this paper had made a mark and touched somebody's life.

Betty said," You should check out his work. You might find something you can use. And, with all the financial troubles in newspapers you read about, losing money and people, it would be crazy for the paper to let him go to another paper. That was why we bought it in the first place."