A Year of Biblical Manhood

 

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Chapter 1

Its hard to imagine this story is true, I thought, as I sprinted through the bullet-riddled streets in with my boot laces, untied, whipping back and forth, swinging a rifle too heavy for my grip, and holding my Israeli helmet in one hand. At least the loin cloth is holding up, I thought. Gripping my helmet in my left hand and holding my rifle in the right hand, my bare white legs pumping me as fast as possible away from the gun shots and ricocheting bullets.

 

Diving behind a wall, I stopped to catch my breath. Not bad for a boy from Tampa Bay, I said proudly and patted my rifle. Catching my breath I sat there, proud to be a new recruit for the Israeli army. Well, a reject, but more on that later. I was here, defending the Holy Land by choice. I was armed and dangerous.

 

I grinned stupidly. And I say stupidly, because when I think about what happened next, I realize now it was pretty stupid. But, hey, I was chasing a Pulitzer Prize, and this was my ticket. A Year of Biblical Manhood, the title of my award-winning piece, brought me here. I would like to thank the academy…

 

Then a woman walked around a corner carrying food on her head. I was there, squatting around a corner holding a rifle. In the Gaza Strip. With an Isreali flag velcroed to my helmet.

 

Apparently that’s bad mojo, because she started screaming. I ran a few blocks back the way I came and gun shots riddled the dusty ground and walls around me.

 

“Oh, shit!” I yelled and dove down a tight alley that was too tight for a camel’s tit. “I have no idea what that means,” I said to myself, standing and evaluating if the alley was safe. I dusted off my bare white legs, and adjusted my helmet. It was a big large for my head.

 

“’Camel’s tit’ will never be in my article,” I said to myself, editing my article. Then the loud explosion behind me followed by a total deafness throwing me to the ground made me realize that I should not think much about my article and focus on getting out of this alive.

 

Wait. Pause. I think I need to catch you up a little.

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Chapter 2

You know the scenes in movies where the camera dollies through a busy cubicle-ville of papers flying, phones ringing, presses rolling while the main character strides through the center of it all calm and collected, saying things like “Get the front page, Phil! I don’t care WHOSE election it is!”

Yeah, that’s not my experience in the least when it comes to writing for the newspaper. Jump to a quiet desk with a fat desktop computer. The thing was huge. But it sat on the corner of my desk and turned off. I never used. No one ever used it. Like interns. That’s me, the media intern.

I was at the Tampa Tribune, finishing my journalism degree. Yes, a journalism degree, get off my back. I don’t know why, mom. It’s more ambitious than teacher and I have no idea how to be an entrepreneur.

Blogging was something that I did, or said I did in my internship application. The truth is that I had a tumblr account where I ranted about things and people my age (ok, probably younger) listened.

The real reason they hired me is because my Twitter account had more followers than theirs and, as things were downsizing in the markets all around us, they wanted “fresh blood”, someone that understood “Gen-Y-ers”, and the like.

Translation, I was the media intern in a backroom with a fat desktop computer that took up one-third of the desk while I worked on my laptop. I did the typical stuff; make copies, man the phones, do on-the-street polls and interviews.

But, I happened to be nearby getting coffee for one of the top editors at a lunch truck, taking photos of the Pinteresty latte art when a car careened through a red light, struck a bus, and one of the drivers died, and I had photos of it as it happened.

I was hailed for being “on the spot”, “capturing the moment”, and “thinking on my feet.” Truth was that I froze and took the photos by accident, my thumb frozen on the button that snaps photoso continuously.

That got me a real job at the Tribune. I had a desk in cubicle-ville, but still no ringing phones and flying papers. In fact, it was a bit depressing. But I was glad to have a job. And, of all things, I actually turned out liking it.

I really liked writing so I wrote a lot. Its not that I was a great writing. (I had a Journalism degree, for God’s sake, not a English degree!) I just wrote a lot.

 

I had left my home town, all the way across the state, to start a life of my own. I have grown up in a small town, with a small family, that attended a small church, attended by other people with small minds, led by a guy with a big ego. I hated the guy.

But you don’t live in a small town with lots of small-minded people who attend the same small church led by a guy with a huge ego and live under the radar. At least not when you are as tall as I am and the only possible church stud to mate with your small-minded (and small-, ahem, figured) daughters.

I saw my future in that beach town, and it was time to get out. I needed to follow the adventure I felt. I wanted to know what I was made of and decided to let college help me find out. The usual stuff at college is just as small minded (beer, girls, girl-friend, limited view on future, fooling around, bored, messy break-up, relieved. Rinse. And Loufa. Repeat.)

 

Now I have been at the paper for several years. I made friends in my community. I was comfortable. Being in my mid-twenties, I still longed for adventure, but I was in no hurry and, honestly, years of writing journalistically had really stiffled my creativity. I didn’t know what to write.

And, though I have read ‘On Writin’ by Stephen King and ‘Zen and the Art of Writing’ by Bradbury, and though I watch a shit-ton of RedBox and Netflix,..I can’t think of anything to write.

I don’t know what to write.

‘I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to write.’

 

This had become my habit. When I would have breaks or had down moments, I would try to write, but I didn’t know what to write.

 

“Alexander, get in here!” my Editor yelled from across the office floor. I closed my laptop. The thrill of writing empty sentences of me wracking my brain would have to wait.

 

“Listen,” he said, tearing into me the moment I entered his office. “Close the door.”

 

I turned to close the door. Editor sat in his wooden throne at the head of the conference room table with the grace of a retarded elephant. He brushed his moustache for no particular reason and leaned back in his chair.

 

“Listen, Tom, I want you to know something before the staff meeting this morning,” he said, rocking so far back in his chair I couldn’t help but think he was about to fall over. He continued, “There is going to be some changes around here, big changes. And I like you. I really do, so I wanted to give you the heads up that,..”

 

The door swung open and an 11 year-old kid walked in. Black hoodie. Slung black side bag with fraying edges everywhere. Eyes glued on the smart phone with ear phones which snaked up under the hoodie.

 

“Marty,” shouted Editor. Realizing he had not been heard, he shouted, “Marty!” He would be Jonah Jameson if it weren’t for being obese and having disheveled hair. So nothing like Jonah Jameson except in the way he yelled. But I was no Peter Parker, either, and this kid wasn’t past puberty.

 

The kid looked up and noticed that the men in the room were having a conversation. He threw his hoodie back, noticed Editor, and pulled out his ear phones.

 

“Sorry, Jameson,” the kid joked, smiling broadly toward the end of the conference table. Editor laughed. Hey, that’s my joke. I just didn’t say it yet. I didn’t say it because perhaps it was a bit stupid.

 

“He calls me that because of Spider Man, Tom,” chuckled Editor. Shocked.

 

“Hey, kid, we’re having a meeting,” I said like a Junior High school teacher.

 

“I know. I’m a bit early. I’m sorry. My name is Marty,” said the kid who stuck out his hand to shake. He had a great smile and had kind, friendly eyes. I wanted to punch him.

 

“Editor, what is going on…?” I asked. I really wanted to ask, ‘What the hell is this? Bring your teen to school day’, but second-guessed myself.

 

“Kid? Tom, this is our new intern, Marty! This is what I wanted to update you on. Marty will be taking over all of our blogging and social media,” he boomed with a grin, still high on his bromance with the 11-year old. Ok, he could have been 21, but its the same damn thing right?

 

“Editor, I do all the blogging and social media,” I stammered. “That’s what I do.” I was getting panicky. If I didn’t do these things, was I out of a job. I know Marty here isn’t old enough to remember the market crash of 2008, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

 

When I first lost my hopeful job at that coffee shop, it took me three months living on my friend’s couch before I found my only job opening; selling greeting cards in a card shop for $7 an hour. How’s that for stinging memory, MARTY?

 

“Listen, Editor,” I protested.

 

He waved me down dismissively. DISMISSIVELY. I should get up, walk down this table, and throat punch the guy. Or, as I do in our feminine world, protest and cajole until I guilt him to give me my job back. Oh my god! I just said it; I need to get my job back.

 

A bead of sweat started as I remember the unemployment line in 2008.

 

The conference room door swung open. Cool air blew in. The staff poured into the room in preparation for the staff meeting. ‘Hi, I’m Marty’ about sent me into a shooting rampage before the meeting got under way.

 

The only respite from my building anxiety was Cheryl. She was gorgeous. She came on staff as an intern right after me. The only that that should bother me but didn’t was the fact that she went right from intern to a Section A writer (that’s being a journalist for the first section of the newspaper.)

 

I had sat in the intern chair and then held the blogging desk (second-rate in the eyes of Journalism, trust me) for my entire time at the Tribube. Cheryl was an actual journalist. She loved it. And she had really great, big sentences.

 

She was always nice in the breakroom. We always talked in passing. I was the only guy in her age range that could speak her language. I always thought of asking her out, but she always had some local guy or another picking her up and taking her out.

 

I observed over the years how good her writing had become. It actually drove my writing to higher levels. In fact, you could say that my infatuation with Cheryl had made me a better writer.

 

Whether writing to impress her, win a date with her, or show her up, I will never know. I just know that I wasn’t man enough to ask her out in spite of Local Guy A or Local Guy B, and I wasn’t man enough to go big and write something I was really proud of.

 

Many people don’t know how courageous you have to be to write something you are really proud of. Especially in journalism. In most writing, you have to pull your manhood out of the bottom drawer, dust it off, and place it on the table to really write any bold pieces.

 

Think Stephen Pressfield. Think Ernest Hemingway. Think JRR Tolkein. Think Emily Dickinson. (Seriously, you have to have balls to write like that in a man’s world! Her manhood is even in her last name!)

 

The point is that in journalism you need even more boldness and courage. The reason is that you have to go out and actually live the thing you are writing about. Cheryl (and any good journalist worth their salt) was courageous enough to do the street interviews, dive into sketchy neighborhoods, and come off dripping with words, and verbs, and sentences that fell to the presses as a decent article.

 

I sat at the blogger’s desk and waxed philosophical about local issues and called it journalism. The truth is, I often felt that it was a free pass. A pass at doing anything bold or courageous.

 

As if to say, ‘Here, kid. You did…myeh…alright. You have a respectable job. Yeah, I guess that’s pretty decent.’ It wasn’t manly. It wasn’t impressing Cheryl or getting me dates or conquering life. And, back to the retarded elephant at hand, it wasn’t keeping my job.

 

Editor began immediately to introduce Marty. Smiles. Grins. Boyish acceptance. The fawning of newness. A small effeminate clap from everyone at the table. I wanted to tear that 11 year-old’s eyes out. ‘Here’s your asshole, Beiber.’

 

“That brings us to our very own, Thomas.”

 

“Huh?” I turned. Editor was looking at me. The table was looking at me. Cheryl was looking at me. Man, her smile!

 

“Thomas,” Editor said again, leaning forward, fiddling with his fountain pen. Does anyone actually use those mini-phallus's anymore? Don’t we just text and email. I bet Marty is texting right now. My eyes darted over and he was (annoyingly) listening intently to Editor with his hands folded in his lap.

 

“Yes, sir,” I said, a bit too soldierly.

 

“There is an opening in Section A coming soon. I want you to apply for the job,” he said. The room gasped. They were just as surprised as I was. Someone in the back of the room gasped.

 

I looked over at Cheryl. She tossed me the smile she uses when we had made a joke in the breakroom and something in staff meeting made the joke even funnier. Except that we had not talked in the break room about anything yet today.

 

“Uh, yes, sir?” I said/asked.

 

“We have all watched your blogs for a long time. Marty will be taking that over.” Yes, I know! “But everyone here believes you have what it takes to deliver high-end content for the front page. We want to give you a shot at it. By the end of this week, I want a proposal from you about a piece that we could really feature. Put your best foot forward. Give it your all. I am sure that the position is yours,” he wrapped up.

 

“Alright, sir,” I stammered. “Thank you, sir.”

 

I looked over at Cheryl, who looked at me with wide surprised eyes, then a wink to let me know that she approved. I am totally going to ask her out this afternoon after work.

 

“Dismissed,” the Editor said. The staff rose to begin walking out any instructions they had been given.

 

“Hey, Cheryl,” I began my pitch to grab lunch. The lunch has been what I call a “soft date”. I ask her to lunch at the local Tropical Smoothie. We talk shop. I earn brownie points for buying her lunch. I also earn up the courage to ask her on an actual date. My friends say it just solidifies my place in the friend zone. I flick my friends off.

 

She raises her finger to me, stands up, and starts in on a conversation with Editor.

 

“You boys mind shutting that door behind you. Cheryl and I need to speak for a second,” he said. Door rattles shut. And I am standing there with the other “boy”. Editor called me boy. I wore tweed sometimes; what does he mean boy?

 

“So,” interrupted Marty. His smile was perfect. His skin-fade haircut and earring, though very fasionable, pissed me off. “Can you show me the backend of the blog and set me up with a login?” he asked.

 

I will show you the back end of my foot, Glee, I thought. That was his new nickname. And, at some point, I would use it to his face.

 

“Come on, Marty,” I said and set off toward the side closet called the intern room. After introducing Marty to the desktop computer from a century ago, I went out to find a new desk. There we were a ton of empty ones, so I found one within line-of-sight of Cheryl’s desk, like a dear hide-out.

 

Marty wasn’t that bad. He listened when I showed him around the back end of the website. He started to irritate me again when he knew things about the website I didn’t. Then, when he didn’t share in my spite of the massive desktop computer but actually found it interesting, I had to exit and leave him to it.

 

I was sitting at my desk with a yellow pad and paper, laptop open. Now I was starting to feel like a real journalist, a news man, a man on the edge, when I received a notice that a new post on the website popped up. It was quick and too short. It was not up to par, and I would tell Glee about it later. However, once comments started pouring in from the staff, welcoming Glee to the team, and then the public piped in with their commentary, I let it go.

 

“Listen,” Editor said, scaring the daylight out of my reverie. “Thomas, I wanted to say something to you earlier.” He sat on the desk and folded his hands. His girth blocked my view of Cheryl and the desk moaned a bit.

 

“I like you a lot, Thomas. You have been here for a while. Look, they wanted to bring in Marty for the role to keep it fresh and connect with the younger generation. The upper management wants to do a head hunt for a top-line journalist for the front page,” he said, fiddling with the dge of my yellow pad. Invasion of space there, Editor.

 

“I told them that we have a top-tier journalist with you. I convinced them to hold off for a season to see if you get your legs underneath you. You have to take more risks in your writing, Thomas. You have to step out. Get in touch with the inner lion. Let it rip on the page.” He noticed the line of books that now decorated my desk.

 

All the greats had written about writing at some time or other. These were those pieces they wrote and authority time capsules to future, green, writers like me. I read them and lined my desk with them. Funny thing, Cheryl had none of these books, but lived them more than I did.

 

Editor continued. “I want you to really make a great piece, Thomas. I want you to stay around after season. I want you on this staff. If they hire from outside,” with that exhaled and looked off across the room. He seemed defeated a bit. “Well, let’s not go there. You need to write a great piece and make this job stick, Thomas,” he said finally and patted me.

 

“Hey, Jameson!” shouted Glee from across the room. “I want to show you a few things,” he said and dove back into the intern room

 

“Listen, Thomas, I gotta go see Marty. Have something on my desk by next week,” he said patting my shoulder, then using it to balance as he lifted his heavy weight from the creaking table. And, as he departed, he said almost to himself, “I’ve never been into the intern room.”

 

The room that I occupied for years, he had never been in. I had never asked him over. I had never invited my ideas to be shared. I had never written anything grand. Could this day have any more backhanded compliments and commentary? Oh yeah, I had never asked Cheryl out.

 

Suddenly my manhood felt as if it had shrunk and disappeared. I sat over my yellow pad for hours. Nothing. Talk about writers’ block. I was beginning to suspect it was a far more philosophical form of cock block.

 

Everyone had gone home. Cheryl had left hours ago. There was no one there. Just me and my yellow pad.

 

Dark night how displayed in the floor-to-ceiling windows. Only lights from the bay streamed in.

 

I needed an article. Something powerful. Something strong. My job depended on it. My reputation depended on it. My masculinity depended on it.

 

That’s it, I rolled up my sleeves. I returned to my desk. I invoked the muses, kissed my hand and touched the line of my saints, the authors who beckoned me to craft excellent writing.

 

I started in with ideas on note cards.

 

Ideas on recipes. (I could call my mom and get some ideas for that. The church was always having her cook something.)

 

Ideas on local politics. (I knew some of the local commissioners and could probable bird dog a real story. Something with drama.)

 

Ideas on the polls for this year’s election season. (I had some real way with the philosophical words.)

 

Ideas on working with Gen-Y. (I glanced over at the intern office, Glee’s new office, and knew that I had some choice words for that topic.)

 

Ideas on manhood and dating.(Wait, I had no idea about that.)

 

I looked over the stack of dozens of note cards. Recipes were too…feminine. Though I loved to cook, I didn’t want my first Section A article to be a recipe. Editor would shoot me. Cheryl would go out with Local Guy C.

 

Politics was something, but it felt, well, weak. It didn’t feel strong. It felt weaselly to go drum up some dirt in the political field. Would it sell to the staff and readers? Oh, you bet it would! The stats would light up. Sales would increase. But, I didn’t want to be that sort of journalist. I wanted to be the type of journalist that strode through the office with 5-day scruff from a journalist journey through…well anywhere. I wanted to be the type of manly journalist that local politics hovered somewhere around my ankles.

 

Same with elections and polls. There may be something to the Gen-Y thing. Perhaps I could mentor Marty a little bit. Perhaps I could learn a bit about him and cut him some slack. I even felt better thinking like that, thinking like an older brother, or father.

 

Writing on dating, manhood. No and no. I could expose myself for the fraud that I really was. I didn’t know anything about dating. I certainly didn’t know anything about manhood.

 

What was manhood today? What really made one a man?

 

If I had dominance over Glee, would that make me a man? If Editor kowed when I walked into the roo, would that mean I was a man? If I wrote a masterpiece article, and Cheryl wooed, and I had a secure job, would these things help me feel more like a man?

 

I wrote these questions on my yellow pad. It was how I processed my thoughts. I will admit, the idea intrigued me. The concept that my skills could craft a piece that dealt with such themes, relayed a conclusion, bore the stories and on-the-street research it would take…I didn’t feel up to the task.

 

In frustration I flipped the pages of the pad over and slammed it down on my desk.

 

A door unlocking behind me made me jump.

 

“Sorry, Thomas. I didn’t mean to surprise you.” came Glee’s voice from the shadow. He stepped toward the desk and held his messenger bag strap. He looked smaller, meeker. He looked tired.

 

“No,” I stammered. “You didn’t surprise me,” I lied. I wanted to console the kid. He looked exhausted. I didn’t realize he was still at it. “ What are you still doing here?” I asked.

 

“I just wanted to get some articles set up in the queue. I want to get to know the system. You know,” he said with a low voice, the charming smile now gone. He had the charming young man thing going. “I’m just nervous I guess,” he said, gesturing to the office.

 

I will admit, I felt justified for a moment. But only a moment. Here was a kid who really needed some encouragement. I split the difference.

 

“You’ll do fine,” I said to him. I tried to give him the most reassuring look I could. Truth was I didn’t know what to say. Does manhood mean you are always confronting someone?

 

“Look, kid,” I followed up. We began walking toward the door. “You’ll do fine because I did fine. I didn’t know my way around a paper bag, let alone managing the blog and the social media. You were made for it,” I said, as we walked out into the night air.

 

“I really appreciate it, Thomas,” said Marty. “You’re great. You know, at the college, I always seem to know what to say and do. This job stuff is, well, its for men like you. I don’t feel up to the challenge,” he said.

 

Those words hit me. ‘Men like me.’ The tough thing is that I had no idea what he meant by that.

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Chapter 3

So, I opened the Bible and flipped pages. Man, it had been ages since I opened this thing. I jumped through the different books, wondering where to start my journey.

 

Then I turned to Leviticus. I knew enough to know that this was where all the laws were. I landed on the verse that said, “ blah blahb lahb.”

 

Well, if anything, that’s a great place to start. I circled it, made a note in the article file and went to bed. I had this article licked!

 

The next morning was a typical Saturday morning. Cheryl slept in while I began my morning. I wrote a few outlines for blog posts and wrapped up with a jog around the lake nearby. I got back and she was up, already dressed for her day, making eggs.

 

“So, you are already headed out,” I stated, wondering what she was up to.

 

With a piece of toast in her mouth, she bundled her hair, and mumbled, “uh-huh. I have to pound on a few doors to get some answers for my next piece.” She walked brusquely around the kitchen counter. Keeping distance from my sweat from the run, she kissed me on the cheek and was out the door.

 

We used to linger with each other and play and dote on one another. Now she was a career woman and out the door. These days, once she left the house, I felt relieved. However, at that point, I had not admitted it to myself. I just got down to work.

 

Before I showered I checked my phone for messages.

 

AMIR: Hey, man! What are you going to do first for the article? Keep me updated! You got this.

 

EDITOR: Show me something by the end of next week.

 

HADRIAN: Eat me, Foster. You should just stay in bed. This job is for big boys, men. You wouldn’t understand. It’s mine.

 

‘God, I hate that guy,’ I thought. After my shower, I stood in front of the mirror about to shave. Then it came to me.

 

‘I’ll grow out those long, curly, Jewish sideburns,’ I thought, nodding in approval. And that’s what I did. I shaved as normal, eying my sideburns, willing them grow so I could show Editor all the progress I made.

 

Over the next few weeks, I kept reading the Bible, jotting down different things I could do to attempt to live out a literal, Biblical manhood. Really I was waiting for my sideburns to truly grow in.

 

“Thomas!” boomed Editor one morning. “What do you have for me to see? Upper management wants something,” he said, rapping his pen on the table.

 

“Yeah, Foster,” shouted Ramirez from his desk across the room, grinning his asshole grin. “What do you have? ‘Cause I just scored a solid interview with Josh Greenville [ADD HIM]. My roommate from Yale scored me the interview. Remind me again, where did you go to school?” He was being far too obvious. His jabs were that of a simpleton, yet they worked for him. He tossed his award winning soccer (ahem, sorry, ‘futbol’) in the air, leering at me.

 

“I’ll have something to show you soon, Editor,” I said with all the confidence I could fake, which probably coudn’t fill a donut wrapper. “In fact,” I added with enough assurance to surprise myself, “I have a lead I need to follow up with right now.”

 

Heading out, Amir appeared at my side. Despite the fact that he annoyed me with his appearances and disappearances, he more than made up for it with encouragement.

 

“What do you have?” he asked in a whisper, matching my strutting pace out of the office.

 

“Nada, Amir. Nothing,” I whispered back with a deadpan. He stopped mid stride. Then he caught up with me.

 

“You got this, Thomas,” he said, holding a fist. “I believe in you,” he said, holding a fist in solidarity. It was over the top, but I appreciated the gesture.

 

Heading out to my car, I racked my brain.I needed something quickly. Something big. These damn sideburns weren’t going to grow as fast as I needed them, too, so something else, something quick had to happen.

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