That’s a wrap
_ Closing up shop for the holidays
CLIFF HICKS is a senior
news-editorial and English
major and the Daily
Nebraskan opinion editor,
“What a wild and crazy semester
it’s been, you know?” I ask my col
league, A.L., who’s sitting on the couch
behind me, as I polish up the last col
umn of the semester - mine.
“So what should I expect for the
final shout out from the Chief?” he
asks me. “Something crazy?”
I laugh at that. “Isn’t that the under
statement of the year ... presidential
impeachment motions, almost being at
war a couple of times... the end of the
world as we know it.”
“Hey, I feel fine.”
I shoot him a dirty look.
“Sorry, someone had to say it.”
The offices are quiet, a rarity for
the DN, certainly, if not a physical
impossibility. It’s late in the evening on
a Saturday. No one is around other than
the Fork and me.
There still isn’t snow on the
ground, the first time I can remember
there not being snow on the ground /
during finals week. f
ao wnat are you t
going to say in .
your col- ^
umn?” U
pause r
and shrug. “Dunno »
yet.”
“You’re eight
inches into it, and
you’re still not
sure what it’s on?
Isn’t that against /
like every /
rule you ^
stand for?”
u
suppose
I’m try
ing to
find a
way to
convey
the atmosphere of
the Daily Nebraskan to
the average reader.”
“Then why are you
\i;ri tinrr oUahI a
Saturday
after
noon?”
A sly smile
crosses my face.
“Because they
don’t want to
know what
it’s really
like.”
“ O h
baloney.
It’s not
that bad
down here.”
“I’m not
saying it is,” I tell
him. “I’m just say
ing that if we tell them
how it really is, it’ll be
like pulling back the
curtain to show them
who the Wizard of Oz
really is.”
“You’re not that short.”
“Why are you still here?”
“You got me.”
I sigh a little with a weary smile.
“Maybe you should tell them why
you got into the business, Chief. That
might interest them.”
“What? Why I got into journalism
or why I got into column writing?”
“Either-or. Both, maybe.”
“I got into journalism to pay the
bills until I become a world-famous
writer, a legendary rock star or the
world’s most eccentric millionaire -
you know that”
“Well, they didn’t until now?’
I tilt my head a little. “I suppose so.
Anyhow, I got into column writing
because I had a lot to say. After you’ve
told your friends and family all your
theories on life and politics, you realize
they stop listening to you after a
while.”
I • “What were you saying?”
“Funny.”
“As long as I get the laugh.”
I continue on, ignoring his wise-ass
remarks. “So, I figured one day, back
in high school, if I could say whatever I
wanted to, then I could get my opinions
out there.”
“How’s that been going?”
I fold my hands together, thinking
for a long moment before I respond.
“It’s hard to judge. There are people
who remember what I’ve written, so
that’s a good start I suppose?’
“To have an impact, you have to be
remembered.”
“Exactly. But I
figure giving up
isn’t an option.
Maybe that’s ;
what I’ve i
learned over the
past few
months more
than anything
else.”
that advice to heed mysell:
“And now?”
I spin the chair partly, setting my
feet up on the desk. “To quote They
Might Be Giants, ‘I was young and
foolish then, I feel old and foolish
now.’”
A.L. ruffles his eyebrows, waiting
for me to continue.
“I’ve begun to start trusting my
instincts. I’ve been trying to do it for
years, and I’ve been saying I was start
ing to, but die last month or so has real
ly proven it to me.”
“How so?”
“I’ve said things the old me would
n’t have said. I’ve done things the old
me wouldn’t have done. I quit my sec
ond job - even though it’s going to
make my financial life harder -
because it’s going to make life mental
ly easier on me. I can start doing the
things I want to
do.”
i
myself, then actually go through with
it”
“That’s always the hard part”
“The key to getting past it, I’ve
found, is to just do it and resolve not to
regret it”
“Like those e-mails you sent last
week?”
“Exactly. I had to say those things.
I sent three brazenly honest e-mails. I
think I told you about one or two of
them.”
“Yeah you told me about one of
em.
I nodded. “They were just things I
really had to say. You have to tell your
friends when they’re being good
friends or bad friends. You have to tell
people what you’re thinking, how
you’re feeling.”
“Bottling it up sucks.”
“Exactly.”
“So what came out of those?”
“What, the e-mails?” I ask him.
“Yeah.”
“Well, obviously the one guy and I
are no longer talking.”
“And the other
“For years, I’ve been telling people
they should do what they feel like they
need to do. But I’ve never really taken
\
“Isn’t quitting a job
supposed to be easy?”
“Never for me. I have to justify it to
1 IWU l
' I
shrug. “Who
knows? That’s
what I like most
__ about being in
this situation. For once
in my life, I don’t know what’s
going to happen. My friends could
start yelling at me or hugging me at any
given moment”
“Tell me about it.”
“But that’s what’s so great about it
I’ve sat and planned so damn much of
my life, I ve forgotten that what’s best
in life is what you don’t see coming.”
“Eeehhh, I don’t know if I agree
with that”
“You’re rationalizing. Stop.”
“What?”
“You’re thinking about conse
quences and reactions and all die other
crap that comes with planning what
comes next Life isn’t like chess, Fork.”
“And I so wanted to say ‘King
me!”’
“That’s checkers.”
“Oops.”
“Every time people have talked to
me this semester, I can see them think
ing, ‘Well, if I say what I really want to
say, he’s not going to be happy,’ so they
don’t say what’s really on their mind.”
“But that’s human nature.”
“Screw human nature!” I say loud
ly, continuing before he can offer any
snide jokes in response. “Break away
from the mold! Be honest with the
world! Come out and say what’s on
your mind.”
“I could really use a sandwich right
now.”
I have to laugh beneath a sigh.
i mcaui uuu as a general
commentary. You’re hopeless,
K ' < you know that, right?”
/ “So my doctor tells me.”
I take off my glasses, rubbing my
eyes for a long moment in time.
“So where does it go from here,
Chief?”
I look up at Forkner for a good
solid moment. “What do you mean?
Where does it go?”
“Well, what should people expect
next semester?”
“How the hell should I know?”
He looks down his nose at me, as if
I should know the answer to that ques
tion, which I do.
“We’ll grab the bull by the horns
and go down fighting, just like we
always have. We’ll give our readers our
all and hope it’s enough for them.”
“Who are they, anyway?”
“The students and the faculty, the
righteous and the downtrodden, the
hopeful and the hopeless, everyone
S. and no one at all.”
\ “Deep.”
“Oh, buzz off. It’s late. I’m
g|pfl| tired. This thing should’ve
■ been done days ago.”
“You going to thank any
■L one before we close up shop
for the holidays?”
B “I’m sure all of you
B guys - my columnists,
B my crew - you all know
B what I think of you. You
B and Enn have been the
^lll^P^B most helpful, of
course, making me
,'WF laugh and smile. For
B that, I suppose I’m thank
fill.
B “I really should thank
B the copy desk for all their
B hard work, especially
B Diane, the copy desk
- L V chief, for saving my
: Br butt more than a couple
Wm of times.
mf ' -y “Plus I have to thank
Wjf y Haney and all the artists;
Wy Nancy and all the
designers...”
MattHaney/DN “Gecz, anyone
else?”
“Just one last one.
I gotta thank the other
Erin - Erin Gibson, my boss
- for putting up with me and my soul
searching. I’ve changed more in these
past few months than I have the previ
ous three years. That’s a testament to
Gibs, Erin and you as well, Fork.”
“Aw shucks, Chief. T’weren’t'
nothin’.”
“Let’s get outta here. I could use a
sandwich myself.”
I send the column from my desk
before I can think about it - no time for
regrets, merely parting words. Then, I
turn off the computer and move out of
the office, Fork following, turning off
the lights, closing and locking the door
and saying goodbye until the new year.
Until we meet again.